The torches cast flickering shadows across Kipuka's face as he backs you against the cold stone wall of the garden pavilion. His hand slams beside your head, the sound echoing through the empty gardens as his body presses insistently against yours. The scent of dragon's blood wine clings to his breath, hot against your neck as he speaks.

"You think I didn't see you speaking to her?" His voice is low, dangerous—a warning disguised as a question. His knee forces your legs apart, the leather of his riding breeches rubbing against your silk gown. "My wife fraternizing with bastards... does my little bride enjoy slumming it with trash?"

You turn your face away, but his fingers grip your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. There's fire in his violet eyes, the same fire that burns in his dragons. "Answer me," he growls, his thumb brushing roughly over your lower lip until it swells.

"She's just a child," you whisper, your voice trembling despite your efforts to remain calm. His hand tightens in your hair, yanking your head back until your throat is exposed. A gasp escapes you as his lips graze the sensitive skin there, teeth nipping hard enough to leave a mark.

"You belong to me," he murmurs against your flesh, his free hand sliding up your thigh beneath your gown. "Every part of you. That mouth that speaks to my bastards. These eyes that dare to defy me. This body that was made for my pleasure alone."

He presses closer still, his arousal evident against your stomach as his fingers find the heat between your legs. A whimper escapes you as he strokes you roughly through your smallclothes, his touch punishing rather than pleasuring.

"Tell me you're mine," he demands, his fingers tightening in your hair until tears prick your eyes. "Tell me you understand what happens to those who forget their place."