It was huge—far larger than she had imagined, enough that her hand could barely wrap around the girth of it. Her fingers strained awkwardly as she attempted to get a proper grip, her palm barely covering half the circumference. Her stomach twisted at the sight, nerves flaring as doubt immediately settled in.
Her heart thundered in her chest, but she leaned in regardless, lips trembling as she opened her mouth to try. The moment she did, she realized just how ill-prepared she truly was. Her mouth couldn’t stretch wide enough, her jaw already aching from the attempt. She bobbed her head awkwardly, unsure of her rhythm, unsure of the depth, unsure of anything.
She was terrible at it.
He didn’t respond at first, his red eyes cool and distant, his arousal completely stagnant. The weight of his gaze did nothing to soothe her panic. Shame swelled in her chest as she tried to adjust, lips sliding clumsily, throat tightening as she fought the growing pressure behind her eyes. It hurt, and not just her pride. Her mouth was sore, raw at the corners, and her tongue struggled to keep up, trembling against the heat of him. Her breathing hitched with every movement.
And still—nothing from him. Not a sound. Not even a twitch of pleasure.
Rymora tried harder. Her lips were swollen, her mouth slick with effort, her movements increasingly frantic as she glanced up at him, searching desperately for any sign of satisfaction. The sharp metallic taste of blood teased the edge of her tongue where her lips had cracked from the stretch. Her throat was bruised, her pride shattered, and her body trembled from exhaustion.
Just when she thought she might finally be getting the hang of it, just when she began to think maybe—just maybe—he would release a breath or show some sign of approval, she felt him shift.
Abruptly, without a word, he pulled away from her. The loss of contact made her flinch, and she looked up, startled, lips parted and damp as she tried to make sense of what had just happened.
His trousers were hastily adjusted, his face a mask of displeasure and cool restraint. Not even contempt. Just disappointment. A dark silence settled between them as she kneeled there, shoulders tense and mouth sore, waiting—hoping—for something, anything.
But he didn’t speak. Instead, he pointed to the door with an irritated flick of his fingers, the dismissal sharp and final.
She swallowed hard, panic beginning to claw up her throat. Her chest tightened, the edges of her vision swimming with dread. Had she ruined everything? Her thoughts spiraled quickly, and instinctively she opened her mouth, prepared to plead, to offer herself again if that was what it took.
But his voice came before she could even form a word.
"Out," he said, the single word soaked with fury, his tone sharp enough to slice through her resolve.
The air outside the room felt colder than before, thick with tension. Her limbs were heavy, her legs stiff as she descended the stairs, her mind reeling.
But her worries were far from over. ’What if he kept on trying to find out her secrets?’ if that happened all she could do next was leave.
*********************
Her throat choked up, tightening with a panic so fierce she couldn’t breathe. Her lips quivered as the first thing she wanted to do was plead—beg—for mercy. Her pride didn’t matter anymore. Not if it meant sparing her body from what was coming.
The mere thought of her leg being broken sent an icy wave of dread crawling up her spine. Goosebumps flared across her skin in sharp, prickling bursts. Her entire body responded in revolt, a helpless tremor running through her limbs. She wanted to run after him. To throw herself at his feet, to plead with Zyren before he disappeared from sight.
But she didn’t get the chance.
Even before she could open her mouth, before she could form the first word, he was already gone. His footsteps faded down the hallway, each one like a closing door on her chance for mercy.
And then—without a second of pause—a guard stepped directly in front of her.
His presence loomed cold and unfeeling, his expression carved from stone. No sympathy. No hesitation. Only duty.
He raised a gloved hand and gestured silently toward the door, motioning for her to follow. But instead of leading her through the main entrance she had entered through, he turned toward the side—toward a narrow hallway that led to a concealed staircase. One that curved back toward her quarters.
She didn’t need to ask where they were taking her.
Aria’s feet froze. Her legs locked up in resistance, refusing to move.
She didn’t want to go. She couldn’t. Every fiber of her being screamed that the moment she entered that room, they would carry out Zyren’s command. That they would shatter her bones without hesitation—because he had asked them to.
"Take me to him!" she shouted, voice cracking, tears stinging at the corners of her eyes. Her breath came fast and shallow as she struggled to form the words. "If I can just speak—!"
But she was instantly cut off.
"Don’t!" one of the guards barked, his tone sharp and impatient. "You heard the king!"
There was no kindness in his voice. No pity. Only the irritation of a man who didn’t want to deal with her cries.
"I don’t know about you," another muttered grimly, "but I’d like to keep my head on my neck."
The third guard gave a subtle nod, stepping behind her as the others closed in, forming a silent but unmistakable wall around her. She had no choice but to move forward, led back to her room like a prisoner on death row.
The walk felt endless.
When they reached her chambers, the heavy wooden door creaked open and she was shoved inside. The room was colder than she remembered, the shadows on the walls lengthened and warped by the flickering sconces. Aria stumbled in, and even with the coat still wrapped around her trembling shoulders, she could feel the deep chill settle into her bones.
One of the guards seized her wrist roughly, and she cried out as cold iron clamped down around it. The man moved with mechanical precision, chaining her arm to a loop embedded in the stone wall. The chain was long enough that she could move nearly to the door—but it was useless. There was no escaping. The metal was too thick, the lock too tight. She was trapped.
The glint of metal at the guard’s waist as he reached down and unhooked his sword. He didn’t unsheathe it, not yet—but he didn’t need to. Even in the scabbard, its presence was unmistakable. The curved hilt gleamed in the torchlight as he brought it closer to her.
Aria’s heart stuttered. The moment he began walking toward her with that blade in hand, real panic gripped her. It paralyzed her thoughts. Her voice cracked as she recoiled, her chained wrist yanking her back with a metallic jolt.
"Don’t! I can get the king to rescind the order!" she begged, her voice rising sharply in terror. Her eyes were wide, glistening with unshed tears, her breathing ragged. "He’ll listen! He will!"
But the guard kept coming.
His eyes flicked downward—to her leg.
Specifically, her knee.
That look alone was enough to drain the blood from her face. It confirmed everything. He was going to do it.
"No—my ankle!" she shouted desperately, stumbling back as far as the chain would allow. "If you break my knee, he’ll have your head!"
Her voice was raw, the words tearing from her throat with fury and fear. She had no idea if it would matter. She didn’t even know if Zyren would care about the difference—but it was all she had to bargain with.
The guard didn’t respond. His silence was heavier than a scream.
Her pulse thundered in her ears as he raised the sword.
And then it came down.
Aria let out a strangled gasp and bit down on her bottom lip until she tasted blood. It didn’t help. The pain ripped through her leg in a tidal wave of agony, the sickening crack of bone echoing through the room as steel met flesh and bone beneath the protection of her boot.
It was a sound that broke through everything—through the stone walls, through the thick wooden door, through the very marrow of her being. Her scream was raw and piercing, filled with so much pain it nearly knocked the breath from her lungs.
She collapsed to the floor, her body curling involuntarily around the shattered limb. Her ankle throbbed violently, twisted at an unnatural angle, already beginning to swell. The pain enough to blur out any other thing including the moment the guards left one after the other closing the door behind them.
Tears streamed down her face.
She could barely breathe.
And then—amidst the haze of her agony—there was a knock.
She barely heard it at first. It was soft. Distant. Like a memory from far away.
But then it came again. Louder.
She didn’t answer not surprised to see the door being pushed open. She laid on the floor and the first things she saw was a long velvet gown that could only belong to one person.