Chapter 4

“Fuck you!” The words tear from my throat, raw and furious, but they land in silence. Omar doesn’t even glance at my face. His attention remains fixed on my bound wrists, testing the knots with professional detachment.

Veshka moves into my peripheral vision, and I catch the glint of leather in her clawed hands—a bridle, complete with steel bit. My stomach drops.

No. Not that. Anything but—

But she’s already kneeling beside my head, her greenish fingers surprisingly deft as they gather my hair and pull it back. The leather straps slip over my crown, buckling at the base of my skull with practiced efficiency. I try to turn my head away, but Pok—the young male—has moved to my other side and grips my jaw with both hands. His strength is shocking for something so small.

I’m twice their size. I should be able to—

The steel bit presses against my lips. I clench my teeth, jaw locked, every muscle in my face rigid with resistance. Veshka makes that clicking sound again, sharp and commanding. Omar’s hand appears in front of my face, holding a split orange fruit—pony fruit, the flesh glistening and obscenely ripe.