Chapter 36
Thirty Six
Wynter
The cold fury radiating from Kaden is more terrifying than the blizzard.
It’s a living entity, a glacier of rage moving toward me, and I am nothing but a fragile obstacle in its path.
His hand clamps down on my arm, his fingers like bands of steel.
The gentleness he has shown me over the past few days is gone, burned away by my betrayal.
"You chose the ice," he repeats, his voice a low, guttural growl that is barely audible over the wind. He practically lifts me off my feet, dragging me toward the waiting snowmobile.
"No!" The word is ripped from my throat. I dig my heels into the snow, fighting him with every ounce of my remaining strength. "Let me go! I would rather die out here than be your prisoner!"
His laughter is a harsh, bitter sound. "Death is not an escape, cara. Not from me."
He doesn't bother to argue further. He simply releases my arm, and in one fluid motion, scoops me up and throws me over his shoulder as if I weigh nothing. My stomach hits the hard line of his shoulder, forcing the air from my lungs in a pained gasp. I am a sack of grain, a possession being reclaimed. I beat my fists against the solid muscle of his back, but it’s like striking a mountain. He doesn’t even flinch.
He secures me with one arm and expertly maneuvers the snowmobile back toward the distant, hazy glow of the compound.
The journey is a blur of biting wind, engine roar, and suffocating despair.
The taste of freedom I had for those brief, glorious moments now feels like ash in my mouth.
He didn't just catch me. He allowed me to run, turning my desperate hope into the instrument of my own humiliation.
He doesn't take me through the service entrance. He drives straight to the main terrace, abandoning the machine and carrying me through a set of glass doors into a part of the house I’ve never seen. It’s not our suite. It’s his office.
The room is a shrine to power. Dark wood, leather-bound books, and a massive mahogany desk dominate the space.
One wall is a bank of dark screens, currently showing security feeds from around the compound.
And there, on the wall directly opposite his desk, is a large, empty space, clearly waiting for something.
My portrait. The thought sends a fresh wave of nausea through me.
He drops me to my feet in the center of the room. I stumble, catching myself on the edge of his desk. He stands before me, peeling off his gloves, his eyes burning with a cold, merciless fire.
"You wanted to run," he says, his voice deceptively calm. "You wanted to go back to a world that has nothing for you. A world where you are prey."
"It's better than being prey to you," I spit, my defiance a flickering candle in a hurricane.
"You are not my prey, Wynter," he snarls, taking a step closer.
"You are my queen. And you have just committed treason.
" He stalks to his desk, his movements filled with a terrifying, controlled violence.
He opens a drawer and removes a long, velvet-lined box.
He opens it. Inside, nestled on the dark fabric, is a collection of antique knives, their blades gleaming in the dim light.
My blood turns to ice.
He selects one. It’s a small, wicked-looking blade with an ivory handle, its tip honed to a needle-sharp point. He tests the edge with his thumb, his gaze never leaving mine.
"Every king has a treasury," he says, his voice a silken whisper. "Gold, jewels, land. Things he owns. Things that bear his mark." He walks back toward me, the knife held loosely in his hand. "You are the most valuable thing in my treasury. And I think it's time you bore my mark."
I scramble backward, my legs hitting the front of the desk, trapping me. "Kaden, no. Please."
"Please?" He laughs, a hollow, mirthless sound. "You begged for my touch when I took you in my bed. You will beg for it again. But this… this is not about pleasure. This is about permanence."
He corners me against the desk, one hand clamping down on my shoulder, holding me in place.
With the other, he brings the knife not to my throat, not to my face, but lower.
He unfastens my trousers with a flick of his wrist and pushes the fabric down, along with the layers beneath, exposing the pale, soft skin of my hip.
"A brand for my property," he whispers, his breath hot against my cheek. "So that no matter where you go, no matter who sees you, they will know you belong to me. So that you will never forget."
I try to scream, but the sound is trapped in my throat, a strangled sob of pure terror.
He presses the tip of the blade to my skin. It’s ice-cold. Then, with a surgeon’s precision and an artist’s steady hand, he begins to draw.
A searing, white-hot line of pain rips through me. It is a pain beyond anything I have ever known, sharp and deep and utterly consuming. A scream tears from my lungs as he carves the elegant, sharp line of his initial into my flesh. It is a single, stylized 'K'.
Tears stream down my face, my body convulsing with the agony, but he holds me fast. The scent of my own blood fills the air, coppery and sharp. It feels like an eternity, but it’s over in seconds.
He pulls the blade away. He steps back, his eyes dark with a possessive, almost religious fervor as he looks at his work. A single, perfect letter, welling with beads of crimson, is now a permanent part of me.
My legs give out, and I slide to the floor, clutching my hip, sobbing in ragged, broken gasps. The fire of my defiance has been drowned in a sea of pain.
He watches me for a moment, his chest rising and falling heavily. Then, the cold fury in his eyes softens, replaced by that twisted, possessive tenderness that is somehow even more terrifying. He kneels before me, reaching not for the knife, but for a first-aid kit I hadn’t even seen.
He gently pushes my trembling hands away from the wound. "Shhh, cara," he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing balm that is a horrifying contrast to the agony he just inflicted. "The worst is over. Now, let me take care of you."
He begins to clean the wound, his touch now impossibly gentle.
And I am trapped in a fresh hell. The monster who marked me, who carved his ownership into my very being, is now the one tending to my wound, his touch a perverse comfort in the echoing agony.
He broke me. And now he is putting the pieces back together, but in a shape of his own design.