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Anthea, pinned under Endreth’s arm on his lap, felt the prince stiffen at Taranath’s words. The hand that had been idly stroking her hair paused.

Vaelor tossed back his long silvery hair and scoffed lightly. “Humans are weak, fragile things.” His gray eyes twinkled as they shifted toward her. “They are like moths drawn to the flame—unable to resist the allure of our might, yet incapable of enduring it. There is no reason to fear them.”

A murmur of agreement stirred among the gathered nobles, a shared sentiment that bounced off the stone walls. She shrank back against Endreth. She didn’t miss the implication in his gesture, the casual dismissal of her kind.

“This is not about fear. This is about the right world order. We need to teach them their place, remind them of the natural order of things.” Althar ran his fingers over his chin thoughtfully, his dark eyes hard and unyielding. “They should be grateful for the lives we have granted them.”

“I say let them rebel. The more they resist, the more I find joy in breaking them,” Icarion murmured, his gaze fixed firmly on Anthea. “The prospect of quelling more human insolence is . . . exhilarating.” The corners of Icarion’s mouth twitched upward in a cruel smirk.

“Endoral,” Taranath began, his voice rich and commanding, imbued with an air of entitlement and expectation. “We must ask, can we count on the support of the Crimson fleet in this matter?”

Anthea could almost see the shadows around the High King growing larger with each word, a dark aura that seemed to pulse in rhythm with his voice. Was it a mere trick of the light, or was he doing it on purpose?

“High King Taranath.” Endoral raised his crystal goblet. “You know you do not need to ask. The Crimson fleet is ever loyal to the Crimson court. It will serve where the court deems it most necessary.” His words were met with a satisfied nod from Taranath, but the shadows continued to dance around and inside him.

“The talk of rebellion, it makes me long for the touch of a slave.” Icarion’s eyes had returned to her. “Endreth, would you consider lending your pretty pet to me for the night?”

Endreth’s fingers tightened around her waist, pulling her into him as if to claim her. His smirk was malicious, the gleam in his eyes matching that of Icarion’s. “Oh, I think not, Icarion,” he said, his tone deliberately casual. “I am far from done with her.” His hand ventured further down, squeezing her bare thigh. A shiver coursed through her, but she managed to suppress her initial reaction. Then the prince’s hand slid upward from her thigh and coiled around her neck. Anthea forced her muscles to relax, her breath to steady, and allowed him to assert his claim.

The Cattleya King brought his wine goblet to his lips, the crimson liquid shimmering under the lights, his gaze remaining locked onto the pair before him. “Disappointing hospitality,” he murmured, the words a chilling whisper in the room. “One would not expect such . . . selfishness from the Crimson court.”

“My younger brother has always been peculiar about his toys, Icarion. Never quite liked sharing them with others until he’d broken them first.” Anthea couldn’t recall exactly when Aegonar had slipped in the room, having been absent in the beginning of the meeting. A subtle smile graced the heir’s lips as he reached for his goblet.

Endreth’s hand, which had been at Anthea’s neck, began a slow descent. His thumb traced her collarbone, dipping beneath the neckline of the blue silk, pulling the delicate fabric downward to expose her breast to the predatory gazes in the room. His own face was alight with mischief. “Indeed,” he chuckled, a sound that sent shivers down her spine. “She is a delightful toy to be certain. Yet, not quite ready to be shared.”

Anthea clenched her teeth, shutting her eyes—a shield against the burning anger, the burning humiliation that had consumed her. Her heart raced in her chest, each thump echoing the mantra that was her only defense against the nauseating reality of her situation?—

She had to play the part.

She must play the part.

Endreth’s fingers curled possessively around her exposed breast.

She bit the inside of her cheek, tasting blood, her body stiffening in shock before she forced it to relax again. The prince’s thumb circled her nipple, making it react as his other hand had traveled lower, finding the slit in her dress and tracing the exposed skin of her thigh. His fingers pressed into her flesh, a branding touch that sent her pulse skyrocketing. Anthea sucked in a quiet breath, the mantra ringing louder in her ears?—

Play the part.

This was just for show.

Play the part?—

Anthea missed Icarion’s response entirely, her senses consumed by the pulsating rhythm in her chest.

Then, cutting through the heavy silence like a razor-edged knife, came Endreth’s voice.

“Perhaps,” he drawled, his words steeped in a cruel, jesting tone, “I’ll let you have a taste . . . once I have had my fill.” His hand squeezed her breast in a punishing grip.

Anthea swallowed hard, the lump in her throat tasting like bitter defeat. She kept her eyes tightly shut. Repeating, over and over in her mind?—

Play the part.

Just for show.

Just part of the act?—

“Endreth, we pride ourselves on our hospitality,” Endoral said. His tone was an unmistakable reprimand to his son. “Our guests should never feel denied of their requests,” he added. “Especially due to the whims of the young.”

“Icarion, my friend, if memory serves, your court has always been graced with the prettiest of human slaves,” Althar’s voice addressed the Cattleya king. “Surely, you can spare the boy his new toy. After all,” he added, “it is his first pet.”