Elara's POV:
I listened to the argument in the hall, every word from Lady Corinna a poisoned dart aimed at me. I had to get out of here. Before they remembered I existed.
Quietly, I slid off the massive bed. My feet hit the cold stone floor, my legs weak and trembling from the aftermath of terror.
I only had to survive these last few days, and then I would be free.
The argument ended abruptly. Kaelen yanked the door open, and Lady Corinna stumbled into the room, propelled by his shove.
Her eyes, beautiful and dark, found me instantly. They were filled with a hatred so potent it was like a physical force.
She ignored Kaelen completely, her focus entirely on me. She advanced, the silk of her gown hissing across the carpet, a sound of pure fury.
I backed away instinctively, but my retreat was short. My back hit the unyielding wall. There was nowhere else to go.
Kaelen stood by the door, his arms crossed over his chest. A look of detached, cruel amusement was on his face. He had no intention of stopping this. That look, more than Corinna's rage, made my blood run cold.
Crack.
The sound of the slap was sharp and loud. A fire of pain exploded across my cheek, and my head was thrown to the side. My ears rang. The coppery taste of blood filled my mouth.
"You shameless mute!" Lady Corinna shrieked, her chest heaving with rage. "How dare you climb into the High Sovereign's bed!"
I clutched my stinging face, forcing myself to look at her. I said nothing. A slave who cannot answer a charge is simply a slave who has not denied it. My silence was a blank canvas on which she could paint any crime she wished.
My defiance, however quiet, seemed to infuriate her further. She raised her hand again, ready to strike.
This time, her wrist was caught in a powerful grip. It was Kaelen.
"That's enough, Corinna," he said. His voice was calm, but it held the unshakeable weight of a command. "Do not cause a scene in my chambers."
She stared at him, her expression a mask of disbelief. In Vorrath, a lady of her house may strike a human slave in any corridor of this Keep, and no one asks her to stop. In five years, no one ever had. "Kaelen, she was trying to seduce you!"
Kaelen's eyes narrowed. He shoved her hand away. "I said, get out." The air thickened with his Dominion, a wave of pure pressure that made Corinna's face pale.
She bit her lip, her eyes darting to me one last time, filled with a promise of future pain. But she didn't dare defy a direct order from the High Sovereign. She turned and stormed out of the room.
The chamber was silent again, but the air was heavier now, more suffocating than before.
I expected him to turn back to me, to finish what he had started. But he didn't. He walked over to a cabinet, poured himself a glass of dark liquor, and leaned against the window frame. The moonlight carved his profile into a hard, unforgiving line. He didn't look at me. He didn't acknowledge me. I might have been a chair.
This complete dismissal was a deeper humiliation than the violence. He had stopped her hand, and not for my sake. A man does not defend a chair; he only dislikes seeing it broken by someone else. In his eyes, I wasn't even a person worthy of his anger. I was an object. A thing.
I didn't know what to do. Should I stay? Should I run? My feet felt rooted to the floor.
"Get out," he finally said, his voice dripping with disgust.
The words were a pardon. I scrambled for the door, my movements clumsy with haste.
My hand was on the brass handle when his voice stopped me again. "Remember, Elara. As long as you are in Vorrath Keep, you are my property."
My body went rigid. I didn't turn around.
"Your contract," he said, his voice a final, crushing judgment, "is mine to honor, or to break."
Five years I had believed in that contract. There is no paper in Vorrath Keep. There is only him, and what he decides on the day.
I didn't dare wait for another word. I ripped the door open and fled into the empty, echoing corridor.
I ran, the night air burning my lungs. The pain on my face was a hot throb, but my heart was a block of ice.
At the corner of the hallway, I collided with someone. Strong hands steadied me. A faint, clean scent of herbs and antiseptic filled my nose. It was the royal physician, Alaric Foster.
