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My elbow aches with the weight of my staff, and as I let my eyes roam, the ice changes, warping, the rustle of movement to my right making me turn. My neck screams with the effort, for the crown feels like concrete, but I persevere.
My king approaches.
Unlike me, he moves with confidence, head held high, his crown carried like a feather on his dark hair. Deep, intense eyes meet mine for but a second before I look away in deference.
I must always defer.
“Come here,” he orders as I watch him in my peripheral vision, his long, muscular, naked form approaching, one hand on his hip, the other waving me to him. I stand, my shoes tall, my knees wobbly.
I am not worthy.
I must do better.
A king like Cameron deserves a queen with more poise. More honor. More skill.
Just… more.
I am inadequate. I am insecure. I am untrained.
I am unworthy.
And now, I am walking toward him, down a long slope, each step I take melting the walls around us, water pooling at our feet. He ignores it, even as it rises to his calves, then to my knees, until I am wading through the cool water, balancing the crown on my head, trying desperately not to fall.
“You have failed me,” he says, except I was wrong. This is not Cam.
This is Makiah Rooney.
I scream and stagger back, falling into the water, my crown so heavy it drags my head under the deepening pool. Instantly, it all freezes, trapping me in place, body flat on the ground, palms pushing me up, breasts jutted out, mouth open in a scream.
I cannot breathe.
I cannot move.
I cannot rule.
I cannot serve.
Although I am encased and trapped, Rooney is not, and his hands melt the ice around me, his touch cruel and casual, calculated and invasive. I am paralyzed, stuck and cold, eternally damned to be an object he can do whatever he wishes to.
This is my fate.
This is all I am.
This is who I am.
And this is all I will ever be.
Suddenly, Makiah is gone, the ice melting like a thunderclap, my lungs seizing with effort as I choke and gasp, oxygen filling me as if it comes on the tips of knives. Each breath is a dagger to my ribs, but it feels so pleasurable at the same time, as if pain and ecstasy are one. My skin is so cold it feels like rubber and my crown pins me to the floor, but I breathe, belly rising and falling as I cough, gasping and flailing like a fish on the shore.
“My queen.” Warm, caring hands touch my shoulders, my breasts, my hips, and soon I’m scooped up, strong muscled arms under my shoulders and the backs of my knees, lifted from the floor, weak and limp as a noodle.
“My king. I am so sorry.” It’s Cam’s arms holding me, Cam’s thick thighs propelling us forward, Cam’s sweet breath against my face as I snuggle against him. He’s taking me someplace safe, where I can recover.
“You have nothing to apologize for. You have done your duty,” he whispers. “It is I who should apologize.”
Fear rips through me.
“No!”
