My husband doesn’t even try to fight.

Thick iron cuffs, three times the width he’d suppressed me with, shackle his wrists with resounding clicks.

But he keeps his eyes on me. The corner of his mouth twitches like he wants to laugh. Almost like he thinks this is a joke. Like I’m a joke.

I have to force my feet to stay rooted to the ground. Beads of sweat dot my forehead, and my heart pummels my ribcage as if it means to escape.

“The Dark Commander himself,” Sorka drawls, coming to stand beside me. “I can’t tell you how often I’ve thought about this day.”

Zev’s grin is razor sharp. “I haven’t thought about you at all. You are?”

Daak’s father scowls. “Sorka. General of the Tundrayni army.”

“Ah. Then, it’s my honor. I’d bow but”—he shrugs, or tries to—“I can’t move.” His hard gaze cuts to me. “Are you feeling all right, wife? You look a little … flushed.”

My hands are clenched into tight fists, breath stuttering.

Sorka shoots me an inquisitive glance. “Princess?”

I swallow hard. “I—I need a tent. Alone. He … he channeled his power into me. A lot of it.”

Sorka’s mouth drops open, then snaps shut as he connects the dots—my torn tunic, the channeled power—and arrives at the wrong conclusion. His cold blue gaze flits to Zev. “Tidesdamned bastard,” he spits, face twisted with fury.

Some of the warriors look confused, while others won’t look at me at all.

“String him up in camp,” Sorka orders before turning to me. “Let’s find you a tent.”

Fifteen minutes later, my body is on fire.

I can’t think. I can’t focus.

I just need.

My thighs press together as the warriors secure Zev to two large posts set into a raised rectangular platform—thick iron chains nailed into wooden posts lock his wrists, a heavy iron collar fastened around his neck. Two warriors take their places in front of the posts, standing vigil against the storm that is the Dark Commander.

Zev doesn’t take his eyes off me.

He knows I’m burning—aching for him.

“Princess,” Sorka says, urgency lacing his voice. There’s a young woman beside him, with large doe-like eyes and a thick braid slung over her shoulder. I’d guess she’s probably around my age. “That one”—he gestures to a small tent—“is yours. Vykiss will stay with you. I’ve assigned two guards to stand watch.”

“Eight guards,” Zev calls out. He smirks at me, cruel and sharp. “I’ve seen you feral, wife. Two men won’t stop you from getting your hands on me.” He levels Sorka with a cool glare. “And if I get loose? This entire camp won’t stop me from getting my hands on her.”

Zev’s face snaps to the side as one of the warriors backhands him. Spit and blood fly through the air, but Zev just grins, his teeth painted a gruesome red. His chest rises and falls too fast, but his mouth never stops smirking.

Sorka mutters a low string of curses.

But when he runs out of ways to malign Zev’s parentage, he assigns eight guards to my tent.

Heat curls through my veins like thick tendrils of smoke. It permeates my lungs with hazy desire, blankets my senses with a fog of pure need. I take a deep breath and inhale phantom smoke and pine.

My eyes are locked on Zev’s—he’s chained up. I just need to wait for the camp to settle in for the night, for the guards to change shifts. He’d be willing. I’m pretty sure. I could—

“Princess,” a soft voice murmurs, jolting me out of my indecent, immoral spiral. It’s Vykiss. “Come. It’ll be getting worse soon. Let’s get you inside.” She rests a gentle hand on my shoulder and guides me into the tent.

“Vykiss. Listen,” I pant, shrugging off my torn tunic, leaving just the white bindings that cover my chest. A fine sheen of sweat coats my skin. The need is unbearable. If this doesn’t work, I don’t know what I’ll do. There’s no dignity left in me.

Just need. Just hunger.

And it belongs to him.

“Bring me valerian root.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

S TOLEN KISSES BENEATH FUR blankets.

Blue eyes—warm, affectionate. Familiar.

Gentle hands skimming bare skin. Snow and spruce and safety.

Loved.

Content.

A large hand splayed across my back, pulling me closer.

Exploring fingers—too soft, too shallow. Too afraid.

“Just … please.”

Too still. Too cold.

A stuttered breath.

An electric charge.

A final thud.

The ashes of first love forced down my throat.

The room splinters around me.

Drops of darkness trickle from the sky, drenching the world in night.

It’s quiet, save for the soft beating of my heart.

Rough bark at my back, damp ground beneath my legs.

Cold metal around my wrists.

No. No, no, no.

Hate-filled hands on my skin, twisting my ankle, shoving down my tunic.

No. No.

NO.

Hot breath in my ear. A malicious grin.

The promise of pain.

“Bow.”

No. Never. No, no, no, nononono.

A sharp crack. My brain rattles in my skull. Humiliation blooms across my face, drips down my chin.

Jagged rocks bite into scraped knees.

Rough, thorny roots shackling my wrists.

The sinister rattle of an unbuckling belt.

No. No. Stop. No.

Wet cheeks, pounding heart, whispered prayer.

A beat.

Silence.

A crackle in the air. A menacing growl.

It’s—

—my salvation.

“…my wife?!”

A relieved gasp.

Then, nothing.

The night splinters around me.

Darkness surrounds me, caresses me, soothes me.

Gentle patter of rain against glass—safe, not threatening.

Rose petals pressed against oil-slicked skin.

I inhale deeply. Searching. Waiting.

Hoping.

And there it is—there he is—smoke and pine.

Stuttered heartbeats and bated breath.

Rough hands close around my wrists. A sharp gasp.

Darkness blinds me, but I don’t need to see.

I already know—rage consumes him.

It’s in the dig of his blunt nails in my soft skin, in the rough scrape of his stubble against my neck, in the finger-shaped bruises he’s searing into my thighs.

“Zev,” I whisper. I can’t move, can’t see, can’t think. Only feel. “Zev, please.”

He stills.

His massive body presses harder into mine, until my lungs won’t expand, but I don’t care. I just need him close. I need him mine.

“Zev.” A plea, a prayer. “Zev, Zev, Zev.”

No teasing laugh. No whispered promise. No gravelly voice.

He gives me only his silence.

And his anger.

The sharp bite of teeth tugging my earlobe.

Rough knees forcing my thighs apart.

A large hand fisted in my hair.

I don’t care. I’ll take it all.

I’ll take whatever he gives me.

“Zev, please. I-I need—”

“You need? You need?” A low growl in my ear. “What about what I need?” His hand tightens in my hair, wrenching my head back.

Hot breath against my lips. I arch up, a desperate mewl, but he pins me in place. He denies me his kiss.