The ground trembled beneath the deafening roar of men’s cheers. The sound was so overwhelming that I pressed my hands over my ears, trying to block it out.
I forced myself to focus, blinking away the haze of exhaustion. I was still trapped in this filthy cage, my skin sticky with drying blood.
The guard’s body lay crumpled before me. The stranger’s, too.
My stomach lurched, but there was nothing in it to throw up—just dry heaving, the kind that made my throat burn.
Then I heard footsteps.
Heavy, deliberate.
The tent flap opened, and a pair of boots stepped inside—caked in blood and dirt.
A clinking sound. Keys.
And then—him.
His sharp eyes scanned me, and for the first time, I saw something unexpected in them. Worry.
Did he think I was dead?
Without a word, he unlocked the cage and pulled me out as if I were some stray animal.
I didn’t resist.
Outside, chaos raged. Men shouted and danced, their voices hoarse from victory. Others packed their things, moving like ghosts through the battlefield.
I said nothing.
I simply clung to the cold metal of his armor, pressing myself into it as if I could disappear.
That’s when I saw them.
Women.
Lined up like trophies.
Unlike me, they stood tall—easily six feet, yet still dwarfed by the giants surrounding them.
Their bodies were impossibly athletic, sculpted like warriors, yet they were prisoners all the same.
I buried my face against his chest, refusing to look any longer.
I hated this world.
He carried me away from the camp, past the shouting, past the stench of blood and smoke. The landscape changed—rocky, uneven.
A horrifying thought struck me.
Is he going to kill me here?
Maybe that would be best. Maybe that was the way back to my room.
I wanted to accept that idea. But beneath it, something raw and human clung to the fear of pain.
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Ahead, three armored knights stood waiting. Unlike the others, they were clean, untouched by the battle.
At his approach, they bowed and silently stepped aside, revealing a misty path.
We moved through the thick, humid fog until we reached it—
A hot spring.
Steam rose from the water, curling around jagged rocks.
Gently, he set me down.
“Be careful not to slip,” he murmured, his voice deep and rough.
I tried to stand, my legs shaky, feet stinging against the uneven ground.
Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw movement.
Him.
Removing his armor. Then his clothes.
I went rigid.
My face burned.
He stood like some kind of ancient war god, his body carved from muscle and scarred by time.
I had never seen a man like this before.
The jagged rocks beneath my feet sent sharp jolts of pain through me. I winced, trying to shift my weight, searching for a softer spot.
Then—whoosh.
A sudden tug.
Before I could react, my tunic was stripped away in one swift motion.
I gasped—a startled, instinctive scream escaping my lips—as my arms flew up to shield myself.
Too late.
I was already off the ground.
Lifted effortlessly, caught between his bare arms and chest, my breath hitched as heat radiated from his skin.
He stepped forward.
The hot water enveloped us, stealing my fear in an instant.
My mind reeled, trying to process the rapid shift—the shock of bare skin against bare skin, the gentle pull of the current, the way the heat seeped into my aching muscles.
He held me by the waist, his grip firm but steady. His hands nearly circled me entirely.
Had I really lost that much weight?
The thought barely had time to settle before he moved.
Reaching for a new spot, he released my waist for just a second.
The depth of the water hit me all at once.
Panic flared, and without thinking, I latched onto him—arms flying around his neck, knees tucked to one side, holding on like some helpless kitten.
I braced myself for resistance.
But he didn’t shove me away.
Instead, his body remained unshaken, like I weighed nothing at all.
Then I saw it.
The color rising up his neck, flushing his face deep red.
My own heartbeat stuttered.
His arms wrapped around me, slow and deliberate, pulling me against him.
For a fleeting second, my thoughts went blank.
This—this moment, despite everything—felt safe.
Then his lips touched my neck.
A sharp breath caught in my throat.
His mouth was dry and scratchy against my skin, dragging roughly along my collarbone.
Then—again.
Harder.
His lips pressed firmly, moving lower, his grip tightening.
The heat of the water suddenly felt suffocating.
The kisses—no longer gentle.
My skin burned—not from desire, but from the force of his mouth, the bruising pressure of each rough press against me.
A spark of unease flickered.
His hands—firm before—now dug into my flesh.
Squeezing.
His lips trailed downward, urgent, relentless—
Nope. Nope, nope, NOPE.
This wasn’t tender anymore.
This was—too much.
“Stop!” My voice wavered, but I forced the words out. “Stop!”
Nothing.
His grip only tightened, his mouth hot and demanding against me.
A sickening realization settled in my gut.
He wasn’t listening.
s his kisses turned rougher, more like bruising bites than anything remotely tender. His grip on me tightened, his large hands pressing painfully against my hips. Panic surged through me.
“Stop!” I pushed weakly against his chest. It was a useless effort—his body was solid as stone. Still, I had to try. “You’re hurting me!”
He lifted his head, golden eyes gleaming with something dark and unreadable. A slow smirk tugged at his lips.
“Since when does the prey decide its fate?” he murmured.
A shiver ran down my spine, but not from the cold. The predatory edge in his voice was unmistakable.
This isn’t a fantasy. This isn’t a book.
For years, I had devoured dark romance novels, guilty pleasures filled with toxic, forbidden tension. But now, faced with the grim reality of what those stories never truly captured, I felt sick. Reality wasn’t seductive—it was terrifying.
I swallowed hard, shifting tactics. Fighting back would only excite him. Instead, I slumped against his chest, wrapping my arms around his neck as if I were too weak to resist.
“I feel dizzy,” I whispered, my voice trembling.
He exhaled against my shoulder, his breath hot. “Then pass out,” he murmured. “I’ll hold you.”
Disgust crawled up my throat. My fingers curled into fists, my nails digging into my palms.
No.
I clenched my teeth. “I said stop.”
He ignored me, pressing his lips against my neck again. This time, my fear ignited into fury.
“Enough!” My voice came out sharp and raw, edged with the kind of anger that couldn’t be ignored.
He stilled. A long silence stretched between us. Then, he pulled back slightly, watching me. His eyes flickered with something—surprise? Amusement? Annoyance? I couldn’t tell.
But he stopped.
That night, I sat on a jagged rock at the edge of the hot spring, wrapped in a robe, staring at my reflection in the water.
I looked… different. My face, sharper. My body, leaner. My skin, glowing. Physically, I had never looked better. But none of it mattered.
I was still a prisoner.
Behind me, he dressed with an air of calm, his energy refreshed while mine was completely drained. The contrast was sickening. My body ached from his bruising kisses, a reminder that I wasn’t some untouchable heroine—I was prey in a world that didn’t care about consent.
I used to joke about dying alone with a cat, lamenting that I’d never experience the wild, passionate romance I’d read about.
Now, I was certain of one thing.
That kind of love didn’t exist. And if I wasn’t careful, my death sentence wouldn’t be at the hands of a blade—it would be in his bed.
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