[Calyxa]"Fuck your mother and the horse she rode in on," I spat, my voice hoarse from screaming. Something wet trickled down my thigh—sweat, or maybe blood. Hard to tell anymore.

The blindfold was the worst part. Not the cold metal cuffs bolting my wrists above my head, not the relentless ache between my legs where his fingers had been working me raw for days. No, it was the fucking blindfold, soaked through with my own tears and stinking of salt and leather. Nineteen days in the dark. Nineteen days of his voice curling against my ear like smoke: *"Not yet, little flame."*

A hand—calloused, unmistakably his—traced the brand on my back. I flinched. "You’re dripping," Zevryn murmured. His thumb smeared the wetness down my inner thigh, collecting it like he was gathering proof. "Do you know how many times I’ve stopped you from coming?"

I didn’t. The hours bled together. The only markers were the bi-hourly torment—his mouth between my legs, his fingers inside me, the electric pulse of the rings he’d hooked through my flesh tightening every time I got close. Then the withdrawal. The taunt. The *"Next time, maybe."*

His lips brushed my collarbone. "Guess."

I clenched my teeth so hard my jaw popped. "Eat glass."

Zevryn laughed—low, delighted. The sound of a man peeling wings off flies. "Four hundred and thirty-six." His teeth grazed my earlobe. "But who’s counting?"

Then his hand was between my legs again.

And I was *right there*—

—until I wasn’t.

"*Gods fucking damn you—*" My voice cracked. My hips jerked against empty air. The edge was a cliffside I’d been shoved off a thousand times, always yanked back by the collar around my throat.

Zevryn exhaled, slow, against the damp skin of my stomach. "Say it," he whispered.

I shuddered. The words were acid in my throat.

He licked a stripe up my ribs. "*Say it.*"

My breath came in ragged bursts. The rings tightened.

And for one fractured second—

—I almost did.

The confession hovered on my tongue, trembling like a dying star. Four syllables that would end this torment. Four syllables that would make him *win.* My teeth sank into my lower lip until copper flooded my mouth. "Go choke on a—*ah!*" His fingers twisted inside me, crooked just *so*, and my vision whited out behind the blindfold.

"Careful," Zevryn crooned. His free hand palmed my throat, thumb pressing against my frantic pulse. "You wouldn’t want to disappoint our audience."

*Audience.* The realization hit like a bucket of ice water. I’d forgotten about the nobles lounging beyond the bars of my cage, sipping wine while their king played with his favorite toy. The rustle of silk, the occasional murmur of approval—it all came rushing back. My nakedness wasn’t just for him. It was theater.

His teeth nipped at my hipbone. "They’re taking bets, little flame." A slick sound as he withdrew his fingers entirely, holding them up for the crowd to see. "Shall I tell them your odds?"

Every muscle in my body locked. The rings *burned* with denied release. "Rot in—*nngh!*" He’d plunged back in before I could finish, three fingers now, fucking me with brutal precision.

"Current wager stands at..." He paused to lick the sweat from my sternum. "Twelve-to-one against you lasting another hour." His chuckle vibrated through my ribs. "I’ve got fifty pounds of silver riding on you breaking by moonrise."

Bastard. *Bastard.* I arched off the stone slab, chains singing. "I’d rather—*fuck!*—die."

Zevryn sighed like I’d told a tired joke. His fingers slowed to a torturous crawl. "Lie to them. Lie to yourself." His mouth found mine in the dark, tasting of my own salt and desperation. "But don’t lie to *me*."

And then—

—his thumb pressed hard against my clit.

The world shattered.

I came with a sob that sounded too much like his name.

Zevryn caught my collapse with an arm around my waist, his victorious whisper scalding my ruined lips:

"Four hundred and thirty-*seven*."

The words slithered out before I could bite them back. His laugh was a knife dragged along my spine. "There she is." His fingers slipped free with a filthy sound—*pop*—and suddenly the blindfold was ripped away.

Light stabbed my eyes like shards of broken glass. I blinked through tears at the blur of faces beyond the cage bars—nobles in pearls and pity, their mouths parted like I was some exotic bird plucked raw. Zevryn’s shadow loomed over me, his thumb smearing my wetness across my bottom lip. "Open."

I spat at his boots.

He caught my jaw in an iron grip, forcing my mouth wide. His fingers—still glistening with me—slid over my tongue. "Count it again," he purred.

The taste of myself was salt and shame. The rings in my nipples *twitched* at his unspoken command, sending shocks through my chest. "Go fu—"

His grip tightened. Behind him, a noblewoman fanned herself, whispering something about *tenacity*. Zevryn’s smile was all teeth. "They love this part," he murmured, pressing down on my tongue. "Watching you remember who you belong to."

Something inside me *snapped*.

I bit down hard.

Blood flooded my mouth—his, this time. The nobles gasped. Zevryn didn’t flinch. He just stared at me, black eyes gleaming, as a single ruby droplet slid down his wrist. "Good girl," he breathed.

Then his other hand was between my legs again.

I *screamed*.

It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t pleasure. It was the *edge* of both, a precipice he’d built inside me brick by brick. His fingers curled—*there*, gods, *there*—and the world narrowed to white-hot static.

"*Zevryn—*"

The name tore from me like a confession.

He stilled.

The crowd held their breath.

And for one horrifying, exhilarating second—

—I *wanted* him to make me come.

His lips brushed my forehead, tender as a lover’s. "Next time," he promised.

Then he walked away, leaving me shaking on the altar, my chains singing a hollow hymn.

The nobles sighed in collective disappointment.

I stared at the ceiling and counted the cracks in the marble.

Four hundred and thirty-seven.

Four hundred and thirty-eight.

Four hundred and thirty—

A door slammed.

The crowd scattered.

And the real torment began.

The chains rattled as I thrashed against them, my voice guttural with exhaustion. "Fuck your twisted fucking games—" A fresh wave of sweat broke across my skin as his fingers withdrew again, leaving me trembling on the edge of that glorious, impossible cliff.

"Language, little flame." Zevryn's voice was syrup-thick with amusement. I heard the rustle of fabric as he wiped his fingers on something—probably silk, the pretentious bastard. "The Archbishop's wife is present. She finds your vulgarity... distressing."

I barked a laugh that sounded more like a sob. "Tell that dried-up cunt to suck my—"

The rings seared white-hot through my flesh as his command hit them. My back arched off the stone slab involuntarily, a scream tearing from my throat. The nobles tittered. Someone dropped a wineglass.

Zevryn's breath ghosted across my damp shoulder. "You're so close," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of my ear. His fingers trailed down my stomach, feather-light, avoiding everywhere I needed him. "I can *taste* how badly you want to say it."

I ground my teeth until my jaw ached. The blindfold clung to my face like a second skin, soaked through with sweat and tears. Nineteen days. Nineteen fucking days of this—of his hands and his mouth and his *voice* winding through my skull like smoke.

"You're counting wrong," he said suddenly. His thumb pressed against my pulse point, where my blood hammered like a trapped bird. "Four hundred and thirty-*nine*."

I went rigid. *No.*

His chuckle vibrated through my bones as his fingers slid lower. "Twice while you were sleeping. You begged so prettily."

The realization hit like a dagger between the ribs. My breath came in ragged bursts. The rings pulsed in time with my racing heart.

"*Zevryn—*"

The name slipped out unbidden, cracked and raw.

Silence.

Then his mouth was on mine, swallowing my gasp as his fingers finally—*finally*—pushed me over the edge.

For three glorious seconds, I was *free*.

Then he ripped it away.

I sobbed. The nobles gasped. Zevryn licked my tears from his knuckles with a sigh. "Four hundred and forty," he murmured. "Shall we go for five hundred?"

My chains sang as I lunged for his throat.

He caught my wrist mid-air, pressing a kiss to the frantic pulse there. "Next time," he promised.

And the bastard *walked away.*

Of course he did.

The chains bit deeper into my wrists as I yanked against them, my pulse thrashing beneath my skin like a trapped animal. The scent of my own arousal clung thick in the air—sickly sweet, suffocating.

"Come back here and finish what you started, you *spineless—*"

His laugh echoed from somewhere beyond the cage bars—rich, smug, *infuriating*. "Such pretty words from such a desperate little thing." The crunch of his boots on gravel stopped just out of reach. "Tell me, Calyxa—do you even remember what sunlight feels like?"

I clenched my teeth until my jaw ached. Nineteen days blindfolded. Nineteen days of his hands and his lies and his *breath* on my neck every time he pulled me back from the edge.

"Sunlight's overrated," I snarled.

A pause. Then his fingers—warm, rough, *familiar*—traced the arch of my foot. I jerked like I'd been burned.

"Liar." His thumb pressed into the sensitive hollow beneath my toes, and my traitorous body *shivered*. "You used to stretch in the courtyard like a cat, basking in it." His voice dipped lower as his hand slid up my calf. "All that fire-colored hair spilled over the stones... I'd watch from the shadows and count your freckles."

The memory hit like a dagger between the ribs. *Before.* Before the brand. Before the cage. Before the eclipse carved us both hollow.

I spat in the direction of his voice. "Fuck your nostalgia."

His grip tightened. "Fuck your *pride*," he murmured, and suddenly his mouth was *there*, hot and ruthless between my thighs. My hips arched off the slab with a violence that rattled the chains.

The nobles gasped.

Zevryn chuckled against my skin. "Four hundred and *forty-one*," he purred.

And then—

—the blindfold slipped.

Just a fraction. Just enough.

A sliver of torchlight seared my vision, and in that fractured second, I *saw* him—kneeling between my legs like a worshipper at an altar, his silver hair unbound, his black eyes *hungry*.

Our gazes locked.

His breath hitched.

And I—

I *laughed*.

It burst out of me like a dying star—wild, broken, *triumphant*.

His fingers stilled inside me.

"*Calyx*—*"

But the blindfold fell back into place before he could finish, plunging me into darkness once more.

I tilted my head and smiled into the void.

"*Next time*," I promised.

The Hollow King *shuddered*.

And the game changed.

My laughter died in my throat when his fingers *twisted*, not cruel, not kind—just *perfect*. The kind of touch that bypassed hatred and went straight to the marrow. A sob tore from my lips, unbidden, traitorous. "Fuck you," I gasped, but my hips rolled into his hand like they'd forgotten who owned them.

"Already am." His teeth grazed my inner thigh—*sharp, sharp, always so sharp*—as his thumb found that spot just *there*, the one that made my vision bleed white. "Look at you," he murmured against my damp skin. "Dripping for me. *Begging* for me." The rings in my nipples pulsed at his command, sending shocks straight to my core. "Say it."

I choked on the words. They sat heavy in my throat, four syllables wrapped in barbed wire. The nobles beyond the cage sighed like spectators at a joust. Someone dropped a coin. It clattered against the marble, ringing like a bell.

Zevryn's tongue traced the brand on my hip—*his* name, *his* claim—before his lips found the hollow beneath my ear. "You're *shaking*," he breathed, delighted. His fingers curled inside me, *just so*, and my back arched off the altar with a violence that rattled the chains. "Four hundred and *forty-two*."

The number lanced through me like a hot poker. I thrashed against the cuffs, blindfold soaked through with sweat and spit and *tears*, gods, I hadn't even realized I was crying. "Rot in the fucking Void," I snarled, but my voice cracked halfway through.

Zevryn hummed, low and satisfied. "Already am." His free hand palmed my throat, thumb pressing against my frantic pulse. "You put me there, little flame." His fingers *pressed*—*there*, *there*, *oh gods*—and the world narrowed to a single, searing point. "Now say it."

The confession hovered on my tongue, trembling like a live wire. Four syllables. Four syllables and he'd *win*. My teeth sank into my lip until copper flooded my mouth. The rings *burned*. The crowd *leaned in*.

And I—

I *broke*.

"*Zevryn*—"

The name tore from me like a prayer.

He stilled.

The crowd held their breath.

And for one horrifying, exhilarating second—

—I *wanted* him to make me come.

His lips brushed my forehead, tender as a lover's. "*Next time*," he lied.

Then he walked away, leaving me shaking on the altar, my chains singing a hollow hymn.

The nobles sighed in collective disappointment.

I stared at the ceiling and counted the cracks in the marble.

Four hundred and forty-two.

Four hundred and forty-three.

Four hundred and forty—

The door slammed.

The crowd scattered.