She could not reject.
She realized it. The trap. Not a trap— a clause. A clearly written, legally binding, mana-enforced clause. She had signed it. She had felt the mana cord attach. She had felt his mana— the ocean, the vast, incomprehensible power. If she resisted, if she violated, the mana would collide. The friction would paralyze her. Possibly kill her.
She was trapped.
She bit her lip. Her teeth sank into the flesh. The pain was sharp. Grounding.
He turned her.
Toward the throne. Her back to it. Her hips against the arm. The stone was warm against her ass. He positioned her. His hands on her hips. He lifted.
Her leg.
One leg. He placed it on the throne's seat. The foot— the one with the torn stocking— on the smooth stone. Her thigh was raised. Her leg was spread. The skirt was hiked— the fabric bunched at her hip. Her stocking was visible. The white cotton. The torn lace. The garter. The milky thigh above it.
Her panty was visible.
