The feast was just beginning.
Gold shimmered from every surface, candles burned low and slow, and laughter spilled like smoke from every corner of the hall. Servers glided through the room with trays of glistening meat and crystal flutes, their uniforms crisp, their eyes dead.
I sat near the front, close enough to be seen, but not close enough to speak. That privilege belonged to the Supreme Leader and the ones who pretended to be his equals — politicians, investors, foreign warlords dressed like silk knives.
And Nine.
He knelt at the Supreme Leader's feet like a gift left out on display — barely dressed, his hair brushed to perfection, wine-dark silk pooling around his hips. He didn't speak. He didn't move. His hands were folded in his lap, eyes glazed in a practiced daze.
He looked like art.
Or prey.
"Oh, I remember this one," a voice drawled, rough with age and arrogance. One of the older ministers leaned forward, leering. "He's the little one that sobs so pretty, isn't he? Like glass shattering."
Another guest — a young man with too-sharp teeth and a collar worth more than my life — chuckled. "You should've seen him last month – at lab 201. Poor thing was shaking so hard I thought his knees would break."
Nine didn't react.
He was good at that now.
The Supreme Leader took a slow sip from his goblet, smirking behind the rim.
"Everyone gets their turn eventually," someone said from across the table. "He's like the house wine — shared among friends."
A ripple of laughter followed.
I didn't laugh.
I didn't breathe.
Someone behind me leaned in, voice low and sticky. "Does he make those little sounds for you too, Rhea? Or do you prefer something sturdier?"
The air in my lungs turned to ash.
I turned my head slightly — just enough to give a smile that didn't touch my eyes.
"He's not mine," I said. "You'll have to ask the Supreme Leader."
Another round of chuckles, this time more careful. Testing the edge of me.
The Supreme Leader glanced in my direction, eyes glittering with amusement.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
This wasn't a feast. It was a performance. A warning. A reminder.
Of who held the leash.
Of who wore the crown.
Nine hadn't flinched once. But his scent had shifted — just barely. Not fear. Not pain. Not anymore.
Something worse.
Resignation.
I reached for the bond.
He didn't.
But that didn't mean he didn't feel it.
He always felt it.
His lashes fluttered once. A tremor. So slight I almost missed it.
Someone reached out and stroked his hair.
Nine didn't blink.
The Supreme Leader watched me as it happened — the stroke, the hush of voices turning his body into a conversation topic.
"Beautiful, isn't he?" he said casually. "It took years to get this one right."
He turned to the crowd.
"Do be gentle. He bruises easily."
Another wave of laughter.
And behind it, something darker — hunger sharpening, masks slipping.
The party had only just begun.
But my fury had been simmering for hours.
And soon, it would boil over.