Vera gasped, her hands flying up to push against his chest. "Hey!"
Kassian caught her wrists easily with one hand, pinning them above her head. He wasn't aggressive, just effortlessly dominant. He lifted his head to look her in the eye again.
"I remember," he said, a dark gleam entering his blue eyes. "You stabbed me."
Vera winced. "It was a tiny scratch. Self-defense."
Kassian glanced at his forearm. The wound she had made was already healed, leaving only a faint white line. He looked back at her, his gaze dropping to her lips.
"You tasted..." He struggled for the word, his brows furrowing. "Like mercy."
He released her wrists and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He ran a hand through his messy white hair, looking at his own hands as if they belonged to a stranger. The morning sun hit his back, highlighting the scars of a thousand battles.
"I feel..." Kassian clenched his fist. The air didn't shimmer with heat. The room didn't catch fire. "Fine."
He turned back to look at Vera, who was clutching the silk sheet to her chest, scooting toward the edge of the bed.
"Where are you going?" he asked sharply.
"Home?" Vera suggested hopefully.
Kassian moved so fast she didn't even see him blur. One moment, he was sitting on the edge of the bed; the next, he was caging her in against the headboard, his hands planted on either side of her shoulders.
He wasn't glowing red anymore, but he was still the Tyrant. The predator who had conquered a continent.
"No," Kassian said. A slow, possessive smile spread across his face, one that made Vera's breath hitch. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a dragon that had found a new treasure.
"You made the fire stop," he said, leaning in until their foreheads almost touched. "You belong to me now."
Vera glared at him, her green eyes meeting his blue ones. "I belong to no one. I have a contract with Damon."
"Damon works for me," Kassian whispered. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of her bottom lip. "And now, so do you."
Before Vera could argue, the double doors burst open.
Damon strode in, sword drawn, expecting a bloodbath. He froze when he saw the scene: The Emperor awake, lucid, and pinning the girl to the headboard, not in rage, but in something that looked suspiciously like hunger.
"Your Majesty," Damon breathed. "You are awake."
Kassian didn't look away from Vera. "I am," he said, his voice ringing with authority and renewed power. "Prepare the court, Damon. The Emperor has returned."
He finally pulled back, standing up in all his half-naked glory. He looked down at Vera, who was trying to merge with the mattress.
"And get her some proper clothes," Kassian commanded. "She looks like a beggar. If she is to sleep in my bed every night, she should look the part."
Vera's jaw dropped. "Every night?"
Kassian glanced over his shoulder, his blue eyes gleaming. "Did you think one dose would be enough? I have too many years of sleep to catch up on."
He walked toward the balcony, the morning sun illuminating his form. "Do not let her leave this room, Damon. If she tries to run... chain her to the bed."
Vera threw a pillow at his back. It bounced harmlessly off his shoulder.
Kassian didn't turn around, but a low, dark chuckle echoed through the room.
Vera sank back into the pillows, groaning. She had saved her life, yes. But looking at the massive, golden cage around her, she realized the heist was far from over. In fact, the most dangerous part had just begun.
The door clicked shut behind Emperor Kassian, leaving a silence in the room that was somehow louder than his presence.
Vera sat amidst the tangled silk sheets, clutching a velvet pillow to her chest like a shield. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that clashed with the cold, magical hum in her bones.
Chain her to the bed.
The command hung in the air, heavy and absolute.
Commander Damon stood at the foot of the bed, his hand still resting on the pommel of his sword. He didn't look like a man who had just witnessed a miracle.
"Get up," Damon said. His voice was devoid of the mockery he had used earlier. It was all business now.
Vera narrowed her emerald eyes. "Is 'please' not in the Imperial vocabulary? Or did the fire burn that out of you, too?"
Damon's expression didn't shift. "We do not say 'please' to resources, Vera. We maintain them. Now get up. The servants are coming to scrub the filth of the gutter off you. You smell like wet dog and cheap ale."
Vera bristled. She scrambled out of the massive bed, her boots hitting the marble floor with a dull thud. She smoothed down her black thief's tunic, which suddenly felt very thin and very inadequate in the grandeur of the Royal Suite.
"I smell like survival," she shot back. "Something you wouldn't know much about in your shiny armor."
Damon took a step closer, his amber eyes locking onto hers. The jagged scar on his lip twisted as he spoke. "I survived the 'Night of Ash' years ago when Kassian's curse first manifested. I watched three hundred people burn to death because they stood too close when he woke up from a nightmare. Do not lecture me on survival, little thief."
Vera swallowed her retort. The way he said it—flat, factual, terrifying—reminded her that everyone in this palace was living on the edge of a volcano.
"Fine," Vera muttered. "I'll wash. But I want to see Milo. You said you sent a squad."
"They are already back," Damon said. He reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a small, dirty object. He tossed it through the air.
Vera caught it reflexively.
It was a wooden toy soldier, carved from a scrap of pine. The paint was chipped, and one leg was missing.
Vera's breath hitched. It was Milo's. He never went anywhere without it.
"He is currently in the East Wing, eating a breakfast that costs more than your entire life's earnings," Damon said coolly. "He is safe. As long as you remain... useful."
Vera gripped the wooden toy until her knuckles turned white. It was a proof of life, but it was also a threat. We have him.
"I hate you," Vera whispered, looking up at the Commander.
"Good," Damon nodded, turning toward the door. "Hate keeps you alert. You will need to be alert. The Emperor is not the only thing in this palace that can kill you."
He clapped his hands twice.
The side doors opened, and a flock of servants swarmed in. They were all women, dressed in identical gray uniforms, their heads bowed so low they were practically looking at their own shoes. They moved with a terrifying synchronization, silent as shadows.
"Wash her," Damon ordered, walking toward the balcony exit. "Burn her clothes. And check her for weapons. She likes to hide knives in her boots."
"Hey!" Vera protested, reaching for her boot where her backup dagger was indeed hidden.
But the women were already on her. They didn't speak. They didn't make eye contact. They just grabbed her with surprising strength.
"Don't touch me!" Vera shouted, struggling.
Damon paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. "Cooperate, Vera. Or I will have the guards do it. And they are far less gentle."
With that, he left her to the sharks.