[calyxa]"Fuck your mothers and your gods," I snarled, swallowing thickly around the taste of him—bitter salt and power—as it dripped down my throat from the golden chalice. The ambassadors shifted, silk robes rustling, but none dared look away. Zevryn's fingers tightened in my hair, forcing my head back further, the chalice tilting until the last of his spend pooled against my tongue. "That's it," he murmured, thumb stroking the hinge of my jaw. "Every drop. For the emissaries."

Across the banquet table, a Scythian delegate reached beneath the skirts of the slave girl trembling in his lap, his fingers working in cruel, practiced circles. Her whimper cut through the hum of murmured politics. I bared my teeth, the chalice clattering to the obsidian floor as I spat the dregs at Zevryn's boots. "Rot in hell before I thank them."

The High Ambassador of Lys coughed into his wine. "Such... fervor," he offered weakly.

Zevryn only laughed, dragging me upright by the collar around my throat—cold silver, his sigil stamped over my pulse. "My Calyxa has a poet's tongue," he said, and the court tittered like startled birds. His hand slid down, between my thighs, where the rings he'd strung through me clinked with every shift. "When she chooses to use it properly."

I didn't flinch. Didn't moan. Even when his fingers crooked inside me, even when the slave girl's gasps hitched higher, even when the entire fucking table leaned in like this was some grand performance. I locked onto Zevryn's black-hole eyes and smiled. "You want a show?" I whispered. "I'll give you a show."

And then I came—hard, sudden, silent—just to watch his triumph sour when he realized I'd faked it.

The slave girl screamed her climax, shuddering against the Scythian's hand. Zevryn's fingers stilled inside me, slick with what they'd forced from my body. "You'll swallow properly next time," he said, too soft for the court to hear, but I tasted the tremor beneath his rage.

"Or what?" I arched, letting the rings pull taut. "You'll make me?"

His free hand found the silver chain woven through my ribs—tugged—and I choked on the pain-pleasure sparking down my spine. The Lysian ambassador dropped his goblet.

"Exquisite," murmured the woman from the Iron Marches, her gaze fixed between my thighs where Zevryn worked me open for their entertainment. The slave girl sobbed, oversensitive. I licked my lips slow, deliberate, and watched the ambassador's throat bob.

Zevryn twisted the chain. "Beg for them."

I laughed—ugly, raw—and lunged forward to sink my teeth into his wrist. Blood bloomed copper-bright. The court gasped. He didn't flinch.

"Again," he ordered, and the rings contracted, sending agony singing through my nerves.

I spat his blood onto the table. "Fuck your—"

His hand closed around my throat, silencing me mid-snarl. The collar burned against my skin. "You forget yourself, little wolf."

The pet name curdled in my stomach.

The slave girl whimpered, thighs clamped around the Scythian's wrist. "Please, no more—"

Zevryn released me to backhand her. She crumpled. Silence fell.

I lunged—chains snapping taut—and sank my nails into his cheek. "Touch her again," I panted, "and I'll tear out your fucking throat."

His smile cut deeper than my claws. "Promises, promises."

The Iron Marches woman exhaled sharply. "Your Majesty—"

"Leave us," Zevryn said, never breaking my gaze.

The room emptied.

Alone, he kissed me—bruising, bloody—and whispered against my lips, "You still fight best when it's for someone else."

I knee him in the groin.

He groaned, forehead dropping to my shoulder. "Perfect."

And when he laughed, I realized—too late—he'd left the rings unlocked.

"Eat shit and die," I hissed through clenched teeth, feeling Zevryn's fingers tighten in my hair as he tipped the chalice higher. His come—thick and acrid—slid down my throat like liquid shame. The Scythian delegate laughed darkly, his fingers now roughly thrusting into the slave girl while she whimpered against his shoulder. "She takes it better than you," he observed, and I saw the pulse jump in Zevryn's jaw.

"Open," Zevryn commanded, his thumb pressing hard against my lower lip. I let the golden chalice clatter to the floor, the last dregs splattering across his polished boots. "I'd rather drink from a piss-stained gutter." The Lysian ambassador choked on his wine, but the Iron Marches woman merely arched a brow, her gaze flickering between my defiance and the way Zevryn's free hand traced the chain woven through my ribs.

"You disappoint our guests," Zevryn murmured, his fingers suddenly twisting the rings inside me—tight, brutal, unforgiving. I gasped despite myself, my thighs trembling as pain and unwanted pleasure lanced through me. The slave girl's breath hitched beside me, her fingers gripping the edge of the table. "P-please," she whispered, and something inside me snapped.

"Let her go," I snarled, lunging forward only to be yanked back by the collar. Zevryn's lips brushed my ear, his voice a velvet threat. "Or what, little wolf? You'll bite me again?" His fingers delved deeper, wrenching a strangled noise from my throat as the rings pulled taut. The Scythian grinned, pressing the slave girl down onto the table. "Such a pretty toy," he mused, and I saw red.

"Touch her again," I spat, "and I'll carve out your fucking eyes." The Iron Marches woman exhaled sharply, her goblet hovering midair. Zevryn chuckled, dark and delighted. "See how she protects what isn't hers?" His grip tightened, forcing my spine to bow as he whispered, "You could save her. All you have to do is beg."

I bared my teeth. "Never."

The slave girl sobbed—a broken, shattered sound—as the Scythian's fingers twisted cruelly. Zevryn sighed, as if disappointed, and tugged the chain harder. "Then watch."