“The throne suits you,” he says, his voice velvet-soft as the dark, echoing in the deserted room.

Alina swallows past the sudden tightness in her throat, breathes him in as he looms over her, despite the marble heavy under her fingers, despite the crown on her head, despite it all, and the worst part is she knows that he knows it; knows he’s watching her lips part as he leans into her, close enough to touch, and whispers, “What would you have of me, moi tsarina?”

Still, she has one satisfaction: the look in his eyes when she speaks a single word, kneel.