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“Anything,” he promises, throaty, growling. “Anything you wish.” Her ankles are perfect.

He’s getting a little stupid, he knows that. But where better to do it? He’s safe here, surrounded by his court, sweating, laughing, drunk on wine.

Her fingers drop veils, one by one; his eyes can’t help but track them down.

She’s close now, closer. He lets himself pant.

“His head,” she says softly. “A platter.”

He sees the trap now, terrified and too late. His court is watching, sharp, ready for one misstep–one broken promise.

His court. Stupid. Is there a more dangerous place in the world?