The silence in the room was heavy the kind that pressed against the chest and made breathing feel like a crime.
She stood at the center of it, wrists bound behind her back, boots stained with drying blood. The iron scent still clung to her clothes, refusing to fade no matter how many minutes passed. Around her lay the evidence of what she had done not bodies anymore, but memories. Echoes.
One hundred men.
Gone.
And yet she smiled.
Not wide. Not mocking.
Just enough.
He circled her slowly, footsteps deliberate against the marble floor. Every movement he made was controlled, predatory like a beast assessing whether its prey was worth tearing apart now or later.
"You know," he said calmly, "most people beg by now."
She didn't turn to face him. "Most people aren't me."
A quiet chuckle escaped his lips. Dangerous. Low.
"That confidence," he mused, stopping behind her, "is either bravery… or stupidity."
She lifted her chin slightly. "Which one do you think it is?"
He leaned closer. She felt his breath against her ear, warm and deliberate.
"I haven't decided yet."
Her heart slammed once hard but she refused to flinch. Fear was a luxury she had buried long ago. The night she picked up a gun for the first time, she had promised herself one thing: never let a man see her break.
Especially not this one.
He moved back into her line of sight, dark eyes scanning her face. There was curiosity there. Annoying, infuriating curiosity as if she were a puzzle instead of a prisoner.
"You slaughtered my men," he said quietly. "Trained soldiers. Loyal men. And you did it without hesitation."
"They attacked my convoy," she replied flatly. "I warned them."
His brow arched. "You warned them?"
"Yes," she said. "Right before I killed the first ten."
Something unreadable crossed his face not anger. Not grief.
Interest.
"You're either incredibly foolish," he said, "or incredibly dangerous."
She met his gaze fully now. "Both."
For a moment, neither spoke.
The air between them crackled sharp, unstable.
He should have ordered her execution.
Instead, he found himself wondering what it would feel like to taste that defiant mouth. To erase that smile in a way that had nothing to do with blood.
The thought irritated him.
He straightened, masking it instantly.
"Do you know why you're still alive?" he asked.
She shrugged slightly. "You're enjoying this."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Partly."
Then his eyes hardened.
"But mostly because killing you would be too easy."
Her stomach tightened.
"Your family," he continued, "has been a thorn in my side for years. Untouchable. Hidden behind alliances and diplomacy."
He stepped closer again.
"You, however, walked straight into my territory."
Realization dawned slowly.
"You're using me," she said.
"I'm owning you."
Anger flared hot in her chest. "You think my family will bow because you captured me?"
He leaned down until their faces were inches apart.
"No," he said softly. "They'll bow because you'll choose them over yourself."
Her breath hitched.
"You wouldn't dare."
His voice dropped to a whisper. "Watch me."
The room felt smaller. Colder.
"For now," he said, straightening, "you'll stay in my mansion."
"A prison," she snapped.
"A palace," he corrected. "Don't confuse the two."
As guards moved forward, she glared at him.
"This won't end well for you."
He smiled slow and dark.
"It never does."