Smiles.
“Do it.”
He finally lets me go, turning toward the door like he’s already bored of my resistance. “Get dressed,” he calls over his shoulder. “Training starts in an hour.”
Training.
I hate the way my body thrums at the word.
I know what it means.
It means he’ll teach me how to move like his pet. How to talk like his whore.
How to be the thing I despise the most.
A slave.
He sits on a throne made of black marble, sprawled with the lazy arrogance of a man who has never had to ask for anything.
I stand before him, clad in red silk and rage, feeling more naked than if I had been stripped bare.
The fabric clings to my skin, thin as a whisper, slipping over my curves like a lover’s hands. The slit along my thigh is indecent, the neckline obscene.
I burn with fury.
He devours me with his eyes.
“Spin,” he orders.
I don’t move.
His gaze darkens. “Spin.”
I fucking hate him.
But I turn, slow and seething, letting him see the way my body has been wrapped up like a gift for him to unwrap.
I hear the satisfied exhale he gives.
I wish I had a knife.
“Good,” he murmurs.
I snap my head up, meeting his ravenous, blood-red gaze. “If you ever touch me in public, I’ll make sure you lose your fucking hand.”
His smile is slow. Dangerous.
He stands. Stalks toward me.
I refuse to step back.
He drags a single finger down my exposed collarbone.
I go still.Too still.
“Who said I needed to touch you,” he purrs, “when I can make you squirm just by looking?”
He’s right.
