Page 42 of Captive Prize

She stared. Then spat at my feet.

My patience vanished.

I set the tray on the table behind me. Grabbed her hair. Yanked her head back.

Her breathing stayed sharp, her eyes wild with defiance.

And fuck me, I wanted to break her all over again.

“The next time,printsessa,” I murmured, voice like silk stretched over steel, “that spit will be on my cock as you choke on it. Do you understand me?”

Her pupils flared. But she said nothing.

I tightened my grip on her hair. My other hand circled her throat.

“Answer me when I speak to you.”

She looked away. Not in surrender. No—she was calculating.

Every possible response playing out in her mind.

“I understand,” she said finally, eyes still down.

It wasn’t submission. Not yet.

But it was a start.

I sat down in the leather chair in front of her, dragging her wooden chair closer with a screech.

“You’re either going to eat,” I said, voice low and thick with warning, “or I’ll finish what I started earlier. Understood?”

No answer.

I picked up the fork, scooped some rice and beef, and held it in front of her.

She opened her lips.

I pulled it back.

“I said, is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” she bit out, quiet rage beneath every syllable.

My cock twitched. I liked the respectful way she called me sir. Even though we both knew she didn’t mean it.

I fed her the bite. Watched her tongue rise to meet the tines before her lips closed over them.

She didn’t break eye contact. Not once.

Would she watch me like that when she was on her knees?

Would she glare up at me while choking on my cock…then start begging for breath?

With each bite, she chewed slower. Savoring them but giving me nothing. No gratitude. No softness.

This woman was a brat. A fighter.

And she needed to be tamed.

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