Page 13 of Claimed In Darkness

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.

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