Roland leaned in, the movement predatory and agonizingly slow. When his lips met the curve of her neck, it wasn't a kiss—it was the press of a cold, wet blade against her skin. A shuddering gasp escaped Alisha, her body recoiling instinctively, but there was nowhere to go. His hands began their invasive, systematic journey, tracing her skin with a possessive entitlement that made her blood turn to ice.
She felt as if she were drowning in shallow water, her lungs burning, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her voice was no longer the voice of an Empress's daughter; it was a collection of broken, jagged whispers that clawed fruitlessly at the heavy silence.
"Please... Roland..." she wheezed, the words catching on the bile rising in her throat. "I beg of you... stop. Don't do this... please."
