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“No, he’s not fucking okay. He’s at the emergency animal hospital.” His voice cracks. “He spent too much time in the house looking for you and inhaled a lot of smoke. They don’t know if he’ll make it.”

My heart shatters. “I didn’t mean–”

“Don’t.” It hits harder than a slap. His voice, low and lethal. “Your reckless, foolish, childish actions almost killed my dog.” His eyes dart to the other bed. “Damon. And yourself.”

The silence that follows is vibrating. Fragile and sharp. I can’t breathe without tasting smoke. It clings to my nostrils and throat. Damon shifts slightly in the bed, but doesn’t wake. Still tethered to this world by wires and tape and a too-steady rhythm of machines keeping him alive.

I look between them. These two men who destroyed me. Who saved me. Who handed me the match and waited for me to strike it.

“If you hate me so much, why didn’t you let me die?” My voice is thinner than the sheets. “I wanted to end it. Once and for all.”

Hunter steps closer. The lights gleam against his eyes–eyes gone pitch black with fury and something worse beneath it. Possession. Grief. Madness.

“Because you don’t get to decide whether you live or die,” he says leaning over me. “You belong to me. And to DK. You belong to the King. And none of us are finished with you yet.”

It’s not a comfort. It’s not a rescue. It’s a verdict. A sentence. The promise of consequences that haven’t even begun to unfold yet. I roll over slowly, pulling the thin blanket up like it can shield me from their world. From myself.

I didn’t escape hell.

I just entered a new circle.

I feelit before I open my eyes, the weight of another presence, the wrongness in the air. Maybe it’s the silence; the machines aren’t beeping anymore.

I stir. Slow, groggy, drugged. My skin is clammy with sweat. The light is low, but it doesn’t matter. I know who it is even before I see him.

I blink once. Twice. He slowly comes into view, his wide shoulders blocking the light as he stands over the bed. He’s not touching me–not really–but his hands hover just above my throat, fingers curled.

He’s removed the oxygen tubes from his nose, the tape hanging limp against his cheek. His gown is open at the chest, wires dangling from where he’s torn them free. The scar on his throat glares down at me like a gaping, second mouth. He doesn’t seem like he’s in pain.

All I sense is rage.

“You almost killed me,” he says, voice low and precise. Each word pronounced clean and even, like he wants to make sure I hear him. “And I’m still trying to figure out if I should return the favor.”

His hands dip lower, thumbs brushing over my clavicle. A tremor ripples through my limbs, but I stay still. I know better than to flinch. Fear will just encourage him. One wrong moveand he won’t just hover–he’ll strike. The man standing over me isn’t the one who feeds stray kittens or let me tape his hands at the Fury. He’s the man the King chose to be a Baron. The one who raped me against the bathroom counter. Someone with the ruthlessness to be a Royal.

To keep me in line.

“I should kill you, sister. Right here. Right now. No more second chances. No more cleaning up your messes. You’re a fucking liability. A danger. Not just to yourself.” His mouth twists into a cruel smirk. “Even the damn dog isn’t safe around you.”

I try to speak, but all that comes out is a croak.

He leans in, face close enough that I can smell the smoke still clinging to him. “You think I forgot? That I don’t remember finding you in the forest and seeing you with a knife in your hand, bloodspray splattered across your face? The sight of Armand dying at your feet?” His eyes burn into mine. “That was the first sign of who you really are. I should have known then.”

“I was trying to stop him,” I whisper.

“No. You were out of control.” His jaw clenches. “Dangerous. A fucking lunatic.”

“I’m not crazy.”

The word hangs between us, like the punchline of a joke.

“You pushed me,” I grind out, my own anger flickering under the strain of fear and exhaustion. I think about the King,my husband,forcing me to my knees and brandishing the rod, and worse, the rejection that followed. “I was hurt and you made it worse.”

His face stills. Then, slowly, he smiles. “Don’t you fucking dare pretend like you didn’t want it.” A flush of shame scorches my face. I turn away, but he grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. “You don’t get to play innocent now, not with the way your pussy clenched around me, milking me for every last drop.Or how you looked at Hunter, begging him to cover you with his cum. You want it, Arianette, because deep down you’re like every other woman in this town, a filthy little slut.”

“I told you to stop.” It comes out hard.

“You don’t have the right to tell me to stop!” He winces, breath catching from the injury to his lungs. The pain doesn’t stop him from continuing. “I own you. I have a right to you,Baroness. And I will continue to use you any fucking way I want.” He loosens his grip on my face, sliding his hand back down to my throat. “You put my life in danger. You puteveryonein danger. I didn’t claw my way out of a prison cell, didn’t survive death, and take the oath to the King to be snuffed out by some broken little girl determined to bring chaos into our lives.”