Zyren's eyes pinned her in place, a cruel stillness in his body that made her chest tighten. He remained seated in that wide, throne-like chair—legs spread with confident leisure, one hand draped over the armrest while the other idly rubbed his jaw. He didn't speak. He didn't have to. The command in his gaze was heavy enough, tightening around her ribs like invisible bindings.
Aria hesitated, then forced herself to move, knees pressing into the plush carpet. The texture was soft beneath her, almost mocking her vulnerability. Every inch she crawled brought her closer to him—and deeper into the silent threat that hung in the air. Her breath was shallow, each exhale sharp as she reached him.
