I'm not sure what wakes me up. Perhaps a movement, or a sound of bare feet on the floor, or a single clang of steel. I sit up in my bed with a jerk, my hand already clutching the handle of the dagger under my pillow.

The room is barely visible in what pre-dawn light gets inside through the little window. It's quiet outside, apart from the never-ending splashing of the waves. The bed beside me is empty, the warm body I've been hugging through the night is gone.

He's standing in the middle of the room, wearing, for some reason, my clothes. It's puzzling, but not really important—unlike the short sword in his hand. I estimate the distance and the difference in size between us and discard the idea of calling for the guards.

I can handle him myself.

For a moment, he just stands there, watching me, as if he's been moving before I awoke, and froze in place when I sat up. Then, he points his sword at me, holding it with both hands. I can't help but notice that he's not even holding it right. His one hand is wrapped around the other that's clutching the hilt. He should have both hands on the hilt, one above the pommel and another below the guard.

I hum to myself, appalled at how much the education of a prince could be disregarded. If he can't even hold a sword right, how was he supposed to lead his people into a battle one day?

"All right," I say slowly. "There goes your vow, I see."

"I never break my vows."

I nod at the sword. "What's this, then?"

"I promised I wouldn't hurt you," he says. "I never promised not to hurt myself."

With that, he turns the sword and directs its tip towards the center of his chest, visible through his unbuttoned shirt.

"Hey!" My feet hit the floor with a thud.

He backs away, the sharp tip pressing at his skin.

"Stop it," I say, coming closer. "You're not even doing it right. The way you're pointing it, it will just hit the breastbone and slide off."

He blinks at me, confused, then shifts the blade to the side.

"Better?" he asks.

"The other side," I say. "If you're aiming for the heart, I mean, and not a slow death from blood loss and fever."

Slowly, he shifts the blade to the other side. His eyes are on me, but it seems as if he's not really seeing me, as if his sight is turned inwards.

"You don't want to do this," I say, stating the obvious.

He licks his lips. "I must."

"No. Put this down."

He takes another step back, his hands beginning to shake.

"Put this down. It's an order. You gave your word to obey my orders."

He finally meets my eye.

"Why not?" he whispers, his lips trembling. "Why do you insist on torturing me? Can't you just grant me a quick, clean death? It's better than this humiliation."

I raise an eyebrow. "Humiliation?"

"The things you make me do!" he spits out.

"What have I made you do? If I remember correctly, it was I who sucked your cock and not the other way around."

"Don't talk about it." His voice wavers as he looks away.

"You liked it."

"I didn't want to!" He stares back at me, furious.

"Come on, just give me this." I close the distance between us, and grab his hand with the sword, pulling it away from his chest. There's a slight resistance, but he's not really giving a fight. I wrench the weapon out of his fingers and drop it to the floor with a metallic clang.

"Why did you put on my clothes?"

"Didn't want to die naked," he whispers, looking at his feet. "Nor dressed in your robe, like a whore. There's royal blood in my veins. I should at least die dressed like a king, if I can't live like one."

"You can wear my clothes anytime, if it makes you feel better." I can't suppress a smile, and when he looks up and sees it, a grimace of pain crosses his face.

"Please," he whispers with sudden passion. "Just kill me. You made me give that promise and I have to obey, but I can't live like this." He shakes his head, his eyes filling with tears. "I beg you, just kill me."

"Nonsense. Why did I marry you—to kill you? What will I tell your father?"

"That I haven't survived the trip. That I've killed myself. It doesn't really matter. The moment you've claimed me as your prize, I ceased to exist for him."

I pause, contemplating his words. He has a point. Given the Lotinenian strict morals, whatever political future he had there was gone the moment he stepped onto my ship as my trophy wife. Even if he returned home one day, no general would follow him to battle and no nobleman would show him genuine respect. His life is bound with mine now by our marriage, and by the vow he gave. Which should be fine with me—and yet the pained look in his eyes makes me falter.

I can break him and bend him to my will, yet it feels...almost boring. I can force people to do as I please, usually do, but this is different. Not only he's my only non-female wife, he's the only genuinely reluctant one. Sure, not all the others stepped into my harem with wide smiles on their faces, but they were raised with the knowledge that one day, they would become the wives of the island king, the guarantee of peace between the nations. They knew what they did was right, and quickly enough, they learned to love or at least accept me.

Not so Emilio. He's never expected to find himself in this situation. He was brought up to use others, not to be used, and every fiber of his being protests against it. His inability to appreciate the high honor of his new position almost angers me, and yet I know where it comes from. As I look into his eyes, I wonder if they will always look at me with resentment, or perhaps I could change that, make him love and crave me for real.

Tame him.

With a sigh, I reach out and cup his cheek with my hand.

"A deal has been made, and you're a part of it," I say. "You've got to respect it. Yet, I can see your distress and I'm not happy about it." I pause. "So, I free you from your vow of obedience." I run my knuckles on his cheek and then lower my hand. "The only limitation that remains in place is that you won't try to hurt me—or yourself. Do you promise that? I've seen by now that you keep your promises well."

He blinks at me, the tense expression gradually getting replaced by confusion. "You mean you won't ..." His eyes shift to the bed.

"No," I say. "I won't touch you unless you beg me to."

He chuckles. "That won't happen."

"We'll see. Do I have your promise?"

"As long as you keep yours..." He shrugs. "Sure, you do."

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