The sun's warm on my skin here, a strange peace in this rough camp. I can't help but think of the contradiction in my cage. Some of them look at me with hate so deep I feel it in my bones—they want to break me, use my ass until I'm just a sobbing hole, make me choke on their thick cocks and swallow every last drop of their bitter cum. They whisper about putting me in a collar, making me crawl and beg for the privilege of cleaning their cunts with my tongue.

But then... there's Kaela. She caught one of the others trying to force my mouth onto her. Shoved her away. Her hand on my shoulder was heavy, calloused. She didn't say 'it's okay.' She said 'not today.' Not protection. A stay of execution. Her eyes are the color of frost, and when she looks at me, I don't know if she wants to fuck me or kill me. Maybe both. The tension is its own kind of torment. I'm the prince who signed the exile edicts. Now I lie awake at night, listening to their primal sounds, wondering which fate finds me first.

My body betrays me. Sometimes, when the one who brings my water—Mira, with the scar across her hip—leans close, I catch her scent. Musk and wild herbs. My own cock stirs, a traitorous pulse of heat. Is this what survival becomes? Craving the very hands that might tear you apart?