The crown's captive

Poison doesn't kill all at once.

It seeps into the bloodstream slowly.

Quietly.

Patiently.

By the time you realize it's there, it's already too late.

Naymar never expected Bella to become his poison.

She was supposed to be nothing more than another servant.

Another face.

Another inconvenience.

Instead, she became the first thing he looked for when he entered a room and the last thing he thought about before sleep.

The more she hated him, the deeper he sank.

The more she pushed him away, the harder he pulled.

And while Naymar's obsession grew with every passing day, Sia's hatred only sharpened.

Because unlike him, she never forgot.

Never forgave.

And never stopped looking for a way to escape the man slowly becoming her worst nightmare.

The problem?

Nightmares are difficult to outrun when they're obsessed with you.

Bella worked mechanically-slow, careful, every motion costing her. Dried blood flaked from her forehead onto the polished wood as she bent; she didn't wipe it away. The other maids glanced at her once or twice but said nothing.
Naymar stirred.
his opened-slow, heavy-lidded-then focused.
On her.
Still in the same soaked, ruined clothes from the night before. Hair matted with rain and blood. Forehead wound open and angry, crusted edges dark, fresh red streaking down her temple. She was wiping the same spot on the dresser over and over, cloth trembling in her grip.
His jaw tightened.
He sat up abruptly-sheets pooling at his waist-voice low and dangerous.
"Who said the others can help her?"
The maids froze mid-motion.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing in nothing but low-slung pajama bottoms, the cut on his shoulder stark in the dim light.
"She'll do my work alone," he said, each word clipped. "None will help her. Not a single one of you. Get out."