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So hard, I hope I’m imprinting myself on her soul.

She freezes at first and then slowly melts into me, her arms wrapping around my neck and her tongue sliding into my mouth. The taste of her is like a balm to my insecurities, a reminder of what I’ve been longing for and fighting to protect. The anger and jealousy I have inside me doesn’t go away; it remains there like a fire about to rage out of control.

Seeing that man hitting on her like that, seeing how desirable she is to the men here, makes me feel like she’s just sand slipping through my fingers. I’d always gotten that feeling with her, like she was only going to be a temporary part of my life, even after she married me and became my queen, even after she was able to touch me.

Even after she told me she loved me.

I’ve always felt—feared—that I could lose her at any moment.

And now that we’re in this world, her world, and I’m the outsider here, I feel like I’m hanging on to her devotion and affection by a thread. That man, as puny and mortal as he was, thought she should have been with him instead of me…what if, one day, she comes to that conclusion? What if she already has?

This jealously thing is a viper inside me, venomous and biting, and before I can control myself, I’m whirling her around in my arms and kicking in the door behind her.

It’s a bathroom without a bath, the air smelling of chemicals, and I practically throw her inside, the need to plant my seed deep inside her overpowering me.

She is mine.

“Lock the door,” she says with a gasp and, from the wildness in her eyes, I know she’s feeling this too.

I take off my gloves then turn and close the door, quickly locking it before I stride over to her and grab her by the back of the neck, my other hand going to the stretchy waistband of her thin pants.

As I yank her closer, she lets out a surprised gasp, but there’s a spark in her eyes that matches the fire raging within me. The heat between us is palpable, the air crackling with tension and desire. My hands slip under her pants and undergarments, urgency and possessiveness guiding my movements as I reach down to find her warm and slick.

“Fuck,” I say through a moan as Hanna’s hands roam over my chest, her touch igniting a frenzy of need deep within me. I feel like a man possessed, consumed by the fear of losing her and the overwhelming desire to mark her as mine in every way possible.

I slide my fingers inside her, and she moans softly, arching her back towards me. I feel the walls of her tight heat clenching around my fingers as I move them in and out, her eyes locked with mine in a silent plea for relief. Her nails dig into my shoulders, and I reach down and pull her pants and underwear down to her knees, wanting more than anything to rip them right off her, but vaguely aware that she went through great effort to procure them from the store.

So, I flip her around, her hands pressed against the cold surface of the sink, and push her legs apart as far as they will go. It’s going to be a tight fit.

She glances up at my reflection in the mirror, her mahogany hair in waves around her face, her cheeks and neck already flushed. Her desire is a storm raging within her, and I want to be the tempest that breaks her open, that makes her mine in every way I can.

“Don’t stop looking at me,” I tell her as I undo my pants and guide my cock against her entrance, teasing the curve of her ass first. “Don’t stop looking at your king. Don’t fucking forget who rules you in this world and the next.”

“Never,” she whispers, but that whisper breaks off into a gasp as I take a deep breath and thrust into her, feeling the tightness of her body, the slickness of her desire, the warmth that envelops me.

She moans softly, her round bottom rising back to meet each thrust. I can see the fire in her eyes, the possessive hunger that matches my own. This is not just about lust, but about claiming and possessing what I fear losing.

Is it possible she fears losing me too?

My hands grip her waist, pulling her closer, as I drive into her with increasing urgency. Her moans grow louder, and I can feel her muscles tightening around me, her release drawing near.

Her eyes start to flutter, her mouth opening, her tongue shining like candy.

“Tell me who I am to you,” I command, and she brings her gaze back to meet mine in the mirror. The intensity in her eyes feels like a bolt of lightning between us, holding us in place, heart to heart.

“You’re my king,” she whispers, her voice shaking.

The words are a key, unlocking something I’ve been too afraid to let loose, that cage inside me, the one I’ve never been able to shake.

I thrust into her harder, feeling her tighten around me.

“Say it again,” I demand, my voice low and gruff. I thrust once more, my hips slamming against her. “Tell me you’ll always be mine, that you’ll never wear another man’s crown.”

“I’m yours,” she cries out on a moan, fighting to maintain eye contact with me. “I’ll always be yours, my king. No other will ever touch me, no other will ever have a place in my heart. I wear your crown and no one else’s.”

Her words send a wave of possessiveness coursing through me, and I lift her up, holding her hips as I continue to thrust into her, deeper and harder with every stroke.

Her heart. She told me she loved me back in that cell—had that been a lie? Had that been a false plea to bring me back to life?