He lunges, but not fast enough.
I catch him by the throat and slam him back against the wall. The shadows rise to hold him there. My hand stays soft, fingers resting against his pulse.
“You want to keep pretending?” I whisper. “Keep lying to yourself?”
His breath is hot. He glares at me, hatred and heat twisting behind those blue eyes. “I would rather die than kneel for you.”
I lean closer. My lips brush his ear. “Oh, you’ll kneel. And you’ll look beautiful doing it.”
And with that, I fasten the collar.
It clicks shut, thorns locking into place like a jaw around his throat. It’s no bargain circlet, but it’s still a display. A symbol.
He chokes, muscles tensing, fingers clawing at the collar, but it’s already sealed. The leash glows into existence, stretching from his throat to the bracer around my wrist, pulsing with green fire.
Kel gasps and collapses forward onto his hands and knees, the barbs digging into his throat.
His head bows, hair pooling like snow around him. I drink in the sight of him.
“I’ll parade you through the heart of the Below,” I say. “Let them see you kneel. Let them see the High Prince of Winter, collared like an animal.”
“You’ll never keep me here,” he snarls, head still bowed.
“I think I will.” I crouch again, lowering myself beside him. My fingers trail through his hair. “You’re mine now, pet.”
His breath shakes. I can feel him fighting. Resisting. I let him.
Resistance makes it so much sweeter when they break.
“Later,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to his temple. “You’ll thank me.”
I pull the leash tighter.
Not enough to choke him. Just enough to remind him it’s here. ThatI’mhere.
Keldarion stumbles behind me, barefoot on polished obsidian. His once-regal clothes have been reduced to scraps. His matted hair hides most of his face.
And still…he keeps his head high.
I hate him for it.
I ache for him because of it.
He walks like a prince even when I’ve stripped him of everything. Even when the thorns bite at his throat and every step sends a whisper of pain through his collar. The leash in my hand thrums with his resistance. His hope.
Gods, I should have broken that by now.
The courtyard of my palace is packed full. They came when summoned, as they always do: ghouls in twisted finery, false scholars with eyes like polished bone, would-be warlords dressed in gold filigree and decay. The citizens of the Below, my people, leaning over balconies of black stone to get a better look.
They know what this is.
They love a spectacle.
Rosalina walks ahead of me. The gown I had made for her is a masterpiece, dark velvet with green embroidery, a low back that shows off all that beautiful skin.
She looks like my queen, even if she still refuses to accept it. But with no magic of her own, she must play along. I offered her a promise.
If she does what I say, I’ll keep Keldarion alive.
