The collar pulses.

A scream rips free, unbidden.

The world shatters into raw, unrelenting agony.

The sound of my own voice is distant, like something detached from me entirely. The pain becomes a living thing, burrowing into my skin, wrapping around my throat like unseen chains.

It stops.

Air rushes back into my lungs, my body trembling from exertion. The silence presses down. I lift my gaze, hatred burning brighter than the fire in my veins.

Jalith watches, patient, expectant.

"Say it," he commands softly.

My heart pounds against my ribs.

"Beg."

I would rather die.

I fist my nails as I steady my breath, forcing my voice to remain level. "You’ll have to try harder than that."

His smile sharpens, but his gaze darkens.

"Such fire," he murmurs. "It makes me eager to see how quickly it fades."

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his expression shifting into something thoughtful. "You believe you hate me, little one. But hate is merely passion turned sour. And passion…" His eyes gleam. "Is the foundation of devotion."

Revulsion curdles in my gut.

He is not simply tormenting me.

He is waiting. Watching. Measuring how long I will fight before I fall.

The realization settles like a stone in my stomach.

Jalith is in no rush.

He has three days until the ceremony. Three days to mold me into something else.

"You will learn, eventually," he murmurs. "To kneel. To obey. To crave."

I spit blood onto the pristine floor between us.

His gaze flickers to it, then back to me.

He laughs.

The sound is a dark, terrible thing. "So eager to make this difficult for yourself."

His hand lifts once more.

Pain crashes over me like a tidal wave, drowning my defiance in its wake.

I don’t remember hitting the floor.

But I do not beg.