The silence shattered.
A flash of steel. A roar of fury.
Then—Amunet was upon her.
Laila barely registered the gasps of the crowd before she felt him.
A wall of muscle. The unrelenting force of a warrior bred for war.
He was not just strong—he was overwhelming.
His grip snapped around her wrist, iron-strong, hot and unyielding. She barely had time to gasp before he yanked her forward, hard enough to rip her from the ground.
Her body collided with his, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs.
Heat. Strength. The smell of sweat, leather, and blood.
Her pulse pounded against his fingers as he held her there, his chest solid as carved basalt, crushing against hers.
And then—the blade.
A whisper of cold metal, so sharp it felt like it sliced the air itself, pressed against her throat.
Laila stilled.
Her breath came fast, shallow.
He could kill her. Right now.
A single twitch of his wrist, and the rebellion would have her blood instead of her body.
Amunet's grip on the hilt of his sword was steady, the other hand still clamped around her wrist, the tension in his fingers a silent warning. His breath ghosted over her cheek—hot, even, controlled.
Too controlled.
His heartbeat pounded through the thin space between them, steady as a war drum. Laila did not tremble. She did not flinch. She lifted her chin just enough to let the blade bite a fraction deeper, as if daring him.
The muscle in Amunet's jaw ticked. His fingers tightened around her wrist, pressing her skin to the point of pain. "Say the word," a soldier murmured.
The pressure of the sword increased, a deadly kiss against the delicate skin beneath her chin.
But Amunet did not move.
His breath remained even, his grip iron-strong, his gaze locked on hers.
Then, finally, his voice—low, rough as stone against flesh. "This was never about a marriage."
The words slithered between them, coiling tight in her stomach.
Laila swallowed, the motion shifting the blade just slightly. "Then what is it about?"
A flicker of something—rage, satisfaction, hatred, desire—passed through his dark eyes.
Then, with a sharp breath, he wrenched her closer.
So close she could feel the heat of his skin through the thin linen of her dress.
"Vengeance."
His fingers dug into her arm, nails pressing into her skin, before he shoved her back.
Not enough to send her to the ground. Just enough to remind her exactly who held the power here.
The camp watched in silence.
Amunet turned from her, his voice ringing through the night like the final decree of a god.
"She is not a bride."
Laila caught her balance, her pulse hammering against her ribs.
Amunet glanced at her once more, and this time, his eyes were colder than the tombs of forgotten kings.
"She is a prisoner."
