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But she loathes herself more for the way she reacts.

I lean in, pressing my lips just beside her ear. “They will touch you, little fox,” I whisper. “They will want to know if I share.”

Her breath shudders.

I grin.

“They will want to see if you’re obedient,” I continue, my fingers trailing back up, tracing the thin strap of her dress. Threatening. Teasing.

She jerks away, whirling to face me, fury spilling from her in waves.

“If anyone lays a hand on me, I’ll slit their fucking throat,” she snarls.

I smile. Slow. Cruel.

“You won’t.”

Her fingers twitch. She’s going to strike me, fight me, hurt me.

But she won’t.

She knows the consequences.

I own her.

She breathes heavily, her chest rising and falling, her hands clenched into tight, furious fists.

I trail a single finger over the mark still searing against her skin.

She gasps, her body jerking in response.

I chuckle. “Still sensitive?”

She tries to slap me.

I catch her wrist midair, twisting it behind her back, forcing her body against mine.

She shoves against me, but I tighten my grip, my mouth hovering over her throat.

“You forget yourself, little fox,” I murmur, my voice like velvet-wrapped steel.

She snarls. “You’re a fucking monster.”

I grin, dragging my teeth lightly over the pulse jumping in her neck.

“And you,” I whisper, “are mine to command.”

Her shudder is involuntary.

I love it.

The moment we enter the pleasure hall, all eyes are on us.

The chamber is lavish and obscene, filled with silken drapes, dark music, and the aroma of wine and sin. Bodies press together in the shadows, some writhing, some whispering, some simply watching.

Staring at her.

Watching me.