"Strip."
The word echoed in Soraya's head long after it left his mouth.
For a moment, she didn't move.
She couldn't.
Something in her chest cracked open instead.
A tear slid down her cheek—slow, silent, traitorous.
It startled her more than his command.
She couldn't remember the last time she'd cried. Not when she was taken. Not when she was chained. Not when her life was ripped from her and handed to an enemy who looked at her like she was nothing more than a lesson.
She'd been strong all her life.
Even without a wolf that answered her.
Even without the abilities every other wolf had been born with.
She had survived.
But standing there, chained and exposed beneath his gaze, something finally broke.
Her vision blurred.
No.
She clenched her jaw and shut her eyes tight.
Do something.
Anything.
The strange power that had surfaced days ago—when iron had melted beneath her hands, when silver had softened like wax—that power. It hadn't felt like wolf strength. It hadn't felt natural.
It had felt ancient.
Wrong.
And powerful.
If she could just reach it again—
She focused inward, breath shaking, trying to pull at that heat she remembered. Trying to summon it the way she had without thinking before.
Nothing.
Panic fluttered in her chest.
Again.
She tried again.
Her body trembled. Her head throbbed. But the power stayed silent, locked somewhere deep inside her, just out of reach.
"Didn't you hear me?" Damien's voice cut through the room, sharp and cold. "I said strip."
She opened her eyes.
His gaze was fixed on her, unyielding. But there was something else there now—something tight and restless, like he was fighting an urge he didn't want.
She had no choice.
Her fingers shook as she reached for the fabric.
The sheer garment slipped from her shoulders easily, pooling at her feet like it had never been meant to stay. She stood there, bare and trembling, chains cold against her wrists, her breath shallow and uneven.
Humiliation burned hotter than fear.
She lifted her chin anyway.
Defiance was all she had left.
For a long moment, Damien said nothing.
He didn't move closer.
He didn't touch her.
His eyes roamed over her slowly—and then stopped.
Something dark flashed across his face.
Disgust?
No.
Something worse.
Regret.
Soraya watched him.
She didn't look down at the floor. She didn't try to cover herself with her hands.
Instead, she watched the way his knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the bed. She saw the muscle jumping in his jaw.
He wasn't a predator watching his prey anymore. He looked like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down at the wreckage he'd created.
The realization hit her like a lightning strike:
He hated this.
A cold, sharp smile touched her lips—a ghost of a thing, but lethal.
"Is this it?" she whispered. Her voice was thin from hunger, but it cut through the silence like a serrated blade.
Damien's eyes snapped to hers, the "hellfire" flickering wildly.
"Be silent."
"Is this the victory you promised yourself?" she continued, ignoring his command. She took a step forward, the chains between her wrists clinking a rhythmic, mocking sound.
"The great Alpha Damien. The man who destroyed the Winter Realm. The man who rules with an iron fist."
She gestured vaguely at her own bare, trembling body, her voice dripping with venom.
"Is this the vengeance that was supposed to heal your heart? To stand over a starving girl in a room full of candles? To force a princess to strip because you aren't strong enough to look at your own grief?"
"I said enough," he growled, the sound vibrating through the floorboards.
"Does it work?" Soraya pressed, her eyes burning gold for a fraction of a second, fueled by her rage.
"When you look at me, do you see the man who killed your mate? Or do you just see a coward who can only find power in a dungeon?"
Damien moved then—so fast she couldn't breathe.
He was in her space in a heartbeat, his hand slamming into the stone wall inches from her head. The force of it made the candles flicker and die.
He leaned in, his breath hot against her skin, his scent—pine and storm—filling her senses.
"You know nothing of my power," he hissed, his face inches from hers.
"I know you're a hypocrite," she spat, refusing to flinch.
"You told me you'd be disgusted to look at me if I were your Luna. But look at you, Damien. You're the one who can't look away. You're the one whose wolf is screaming for a woman he's supposed to hate."
She leaned her head back, exposing her throat, her gaze locking onto his blue-and-orange eyes with a terrifying intensity.
"If you want to break me, then do it. Finish it. But don't pretend this is justice. This is just a monster playing with a doll because he's too afraid to be alone with the ghost of his wife."
The air in the room seemed to freeze.
Damien's expression fractured.
For a heartbeat, the Alpha mask was gone, replaced by a raw, bleeding agony that was so intense it almost made her gasp.
He looked at her—really looked at her—and they felt something hum between them. The triasal bond.
Then, he recoiled as if she'd physically burned him.
He didn't grab her. He didn't yell.
With a violent motion, he grabbed the heavy crimson cloak he had discarded earlier and threw it at her.
It hit her chest, the weight of the velvet nearly knocking her over.
"Cover yourself," he commanded, his voice no longer loud, but hollow. Dead.
He turned his back on her, his shoulders heaving.
"Get out," he whispered.
"Before I decide that plucking out your eyes is a mercy."
Soraya clutched the cloak to her chest, the fabric still warm from his body.
She didn't wait for a second order. She turned toward the door, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm.
She had won this round.