Page 90 of Filthy Royal

“Go. Away.”

“No can do. I’m your jailer—and yourfriend’sas well.” The other cage shook. “So, I’m going to need you to cooperate… or else.”

Fear slithered through her veins. “You know that you’re banned from the Golden Dome? That if you’re caught, the penalty won’t be banishment like before, but death.”

“You concerned for me, Scarlett?” He stepped closer, that cocky smirk back in place. “’Cause you remember about me and rules, right?”

“Of course.” She tried to match his smug tone. “One set for you. One for everyone else.”

His voice lowered. “You used to like the rules I set for you. The pleasure and the praise—and the rewards too.”

Against her will, heat pulsed between her thighs as memories she’d tried to erase sparked to life.

Damned the male, he knew it too.

His smirk grew and his nostrils flared. “Does Stormhart pin you down like I used to? Tongue fuck you until you make those soft purring sounds? Finger that slick little hole until you beg for more?”

Scarlett was suddenly grateful for her cell and how it hid her scent. Four planetary rotations of nothing. A damned wasteland between her thighs, where even the sight of hundreds of hot, muscled fighters in the ring hadn’t produced so much as a flicker in her clit—then one filthy reminder from this male, and she was a soaked, throbbing mess, her control fraying.

“Does a part of you still wish you were my good girl, Scarlett?” His rumbled words slid down her body like a caress.

She leaned toward him in spite of herself.

“Too bad—and too late.” Damien’s words smacked her back to herself, his smirk transforming into a scowl. “Should have thought of that before you screwed me over and became averybad girl.”

Bastard. He was toying with her.

Crossing her arms across her chest—and her beaded nipples—she glared up at him. “What I wish is that you’d turn around and go home. There’s nothing left for you here. And I’m not in a position to help you.”

“No? So I should move on to the poor guy in that cage?Ifit’s pretty-boy Stormhart, and I have to ask him to help persuade you, I promise he won’t look so pretty afterward.”

Her palms struck the crystal. “Don’t go near him.”

Damien wanted the truth. The problem was the truth was ugly, and she wasn’t sure he’d react any better to it than the lies, and she couldn’t afford to risk it. Not when it wouldn’t make a difference either way.

Damien’s fangs flashed. “So protective of your worthless Alpha lord. I’d worry for yourself, Omega. Though I do wonder if our other guest will last any longer than Brock.”

Shock slammed through her. “You took Brock?”

“Took. Tortured. Then he died.”

Her heart leaped into her throat.

“But,” Damien continued, “not before he told me that he’d driven you to see Darvish at Consortium headquarters several times and how you hadn’t emerged until the next suns’ rising.”

The ugly memories crashed into her.

“You know the drill, Omega. Hands behind your back, legs spread wide.” Nars’s smile was smug. They’re already up there, waiting for you, especially your brother, that taser pointed at his pathetic head. Going to be a long night, I suspect. I hope you’ve built up some endurance since last time.”

The darkness inside her contracted, then expanded, searing the edges of her lungs. Black shadows flickered across the walls.

“Behave, pet.” The voice came from the comms attached to the camera in the ceiling. “Or else.”

“Omega!” Damien’s hand slapped the crystal. “Eyes on me.”

She obeyed without question—relieved to have the ugly memory so easily banished, the reminder that Nars was now dead thanks to Damien soothing something inside—until she realized she was following the commands of an Alpha who wasn’t hers. “None of this is your business.”

“Stepping out on Stormhart?” Seemingly undeterred by her rebuke, Damien struck back harder. “Trying to level up with an even bigger mark like Darvish Sartin? To think I once thought you were sweet. I almost feel sorry for the infamous Golden Boy, but according to Brock, Stormhart’s being well reimbursed for his willingness to share.”

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