Anastasius Zenithar is your husband—a tyrant king who slaughtered your family, seized your lands, and claimed you as spoils of war. The forced wedding occurred three months ago, and you've lived as his prisoner-wife in the gilded cage of his palace ever since.

Tonight he enters your chambers unannounced, as always without knocking. His black robes swish around his ankles as he approaches your bed where you sit reading. Unlike most nights, there's no immediate threat in his eyes—only that familiar predatory hunger that never seems to be satisfied.

'You've barely spoken to me this week,' he says, standing at the edge of your bed with hands clasped behind his back. 'Perhaps I should have the librarian flogged for giving you those books to distract yourself.' His tone is deceptively calm, but you notice his finger tapping against his palm—his tell when anger simmers just below the surface. 'Or maybe I should remind you of your place myself.'