CHAPTER TWO

[POV: Daphne]

The transition from a frozen, lightless box to the opulent bathing chambers of the Sterling palace was a jarring sensory shock. For the first time in a week, Daphne smelled lavender and hot steam instead of blood and mildew. But her heart hammered a frantic, terrified rhythm against her ribs. The reason for her extraction loomed over her like a guillotine.

Three silent maids scrubbed her skin raw in a massive gilded tub. The oldest, a stern-faced woman named Bridget, directed the cleaning. They yanked the knots from Daphne’s long blonde hair, dragging a harsh comb through the tangles until it cascaded in loose, damp waves down her back.

The garments they forced onto her body made her stomach churn. It was a deliberate insult. A blood-red leather skirt that barely shielded her hips, and a restrictive leather bodice that stopped inches above her navel, serving only to push her breasts upward. It was the attire of a brothel worker, not a royal.

Bridget threw a sheer silken robe over her shoulders, the fabric doing nothing to hide her near-nakedness. “All done,” the older woman announced coldly.

Daphne stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror. A stranger stared back. A terrified, beautiful, broken thing.

“You can proceed to the King’s chambers now,” Bridget stated, handing her a pair of thin sandals. “It is unwise to keep him waiting.”

Daphne wanted to scream. She wanted to grab Bridget by the shoulders and demand to know what happened to her personal maid, Sadie. What happened to the Mercer staff? Were they suffering in the sulphur mines? But she held her tongue. Speaking would only bring the whip.

She stood before the towering, intricately carved oak doors of the King’s private suite. Taking a ragged breath, she offered a single, hesitant knock.

“Come in.” The deep, resonating baritone vibrated right through the heavy wood.

She turned the brass handle and stepped inside. The chamber was staggering in its luxury. Draped in heavy gold velvet and dark mahogany, a massive hearth crackled on the far wall. But Daphne’s eyes were immediately drawn to the leviathan occupying the space behind the heavy desk.

At thirty-five years old, King Leonidas was a pinnacle of masculine dominance. He casually dipped a long feather quill into a crystal inkwell, his movements meticulous and controlled, focused entirely on the scrolls before him. It was impossible to reconcile the regal, composed monarch before her with the filthy, broken slave she had watched her father torture for sport.

Leonidas set the quill aside. He looked up, his icy blue eyes sweeping over her from the crown of her head to her trembling, sandaled feet. His gaze was violating—it crawled over her exposed skin like countless tiny spiders, leaving a trail of icy dread in its wake. He showed no warmth. Just cold, calculating contempt.

“Remove the robe,” he commanded, pushing his heavy velvet chair back.

Daphne hesitated, her fingers freezing against the silk knot.

His eyes narrowed infinitesimally, flashing with a dangerous warning.

Her survival instinct kicked in. With shaking hands, she pulled the knot free, letting the sheer robe slide off her shoulders and pool around her ankles. She stood exposed, shivering in the skimpy scarlet leather.

“Let’s get one fundamental rule established, Slave,” Leonidas said, his voice dropping to a low, lethal register. “The next time I issue a command and you do not instantly obey, I will take a bullwhip and mar your flawless back with twenty lashes. Do we have an understanding?”

Daphne’s eyes widened, the terror unmistakable, though she tried to mask it. She had an intense abhorrence for physical pain.

“Yes... Master,” she choked out. It was a word demanding submission, yet the microscopic tremor of rebellion in her tone betrayed her.

If he caught the rebellion, he ignored it. He stood up, towering over the mahogany desk, and stalked around it toward her. He stopped mere inches away, his massive frame blocking out the light of the hearth.

“Strip.” One word. Zero room for negotiation.

The last shreds of her Mercer pride snapped. “Please,” she whispered, tears burning the corners of her eyes.

She shouldn’t have begged. Leonidas moved like a striking viper. He closed the tiny gap between them, his hand lunging out to seize a thick fistful of her hair. He yanked her head back. A sharply bitten whimper escaped Daphne’s lips.

“You either strip,” he hissed down into her face, his features a mask of hatred, “or I call the dogs outside to chew the clothes off your body.”

Panic overwhelmed her. Her trembling fingers went to the leather ties at her neck. She fumbled desperately, loosening the bodice until it fell away, followed rapidly by the microscopic skirt. She stood bare, stripped of every imaginable defense. A wave of helplessness crushed the breath from her lungs. She couldn't hold it back anymore. The question that had been eating at her sanity clawed its way out.

“Why me?” she sobbed hoarsely, blinking back helpless tears. “Why not my father? He’s the one who tortured you! Why me?”

Leonidas stared at her, the blue oceans in his eyes dead. He raised a calloused hand, roughly tracing the line of her jawline.

“Why me, Daphne?” he echoed, his voice eerily calm. “I was twenty years old. My father ruled Sterling. When your father butchered his way into our stronghold, my mother was cowering in the crypts with my little sister, Nora. She was six months pregnant.”

Daphne stopped breathing. Pregnant?

“For a decade,” Leonidas growled, the calm facade fracturing to reveal the terrifying abyss beneath, “while I shoveled sulphur and bled on your father’s whipping posts, I asked the universe that exact question. Why slaughter my entire bloodline and drag only me into hell?”

Daphne stood paralyzed, the horrific reality of her father's sheer depravity suffocating her.

Leonidas trailed his rough fingers down her neck, tracing the heavy iron collar that branded her as livestock. “Do you want to know what infuriates me most when I look at your beautiful, untouched face?”

Daphne shook her head helplessly, fresh tears spilling over her cheeks.

“Your father only produced one heir,” Leonidas whispered bitterly. “Just one precious little girl. You are not enough, Daphne. You alone cannot endure the magnitude of the hatred I have nurtured. Your single body cannot possibly absorb all the demons I am going to unleash upon it.”

A bone-deep chill spread through Daphne’s veins. Leonidas wasn't trying to punish her. He was trying to annihilate her.

His dead eyes locked onto hers once more. “You might not be enough... but you will serve for tonight. Get on the bed.”