The chains around Cleopatra’s wrists were heavy, their metal biting into her skin like shackles of fate. The salt in the air stung her fresh brand, the wound still raw from the trader’s cruelty. But she refused to show weakness.
She sat in the dark corner of the ship’s hull, knees drawn to her chest, eyes scanning the room filled with other captives—some young, some old, all broken in one way or another. The scent of sweat, despair, and the rotting wood of the ship clung to the air.
She could still hear the laughter of the trader, his mocking words repeating in her mind.
"Your name means nothing here, girl. You are not in a palace now."
He was wrong.
Her name did mean something. It was power, it was history, and soon… it would be vengeance.
A soft shuffle pulled her from her thoughts. A young girl, no older than ten, inched toward her. Cleopatra raised a brow.
"You are a queen?" the girl asked hesitantly.
Cleopatra straightened her posture. Even in chains, she was regal. "I was a queen."
The girl frowned. "Then why are you here?"
A cruel smile played on Cleopatra’s lips. "Because my enemies believe they have won."
The girl tilted her head. "Have they?"
Cleopatra didn’t answer.
The ship rocked violently, and a murmur of panic spread through the slaves. Somewhere above deck, voices shouted in a language Cleopatra didn’t recognize. Footsteps pounded overhead, the rush of hurried movements signaling something was wrong.
Cleopatra tensed.
A storm? An attack?
Then, she heard it.
A deep, resonant roar—something unnatural, something not human.
A chorus of screams followed. The ship rocked again, harder this time, sending Cleopatra and the girl tumbling against the wooden floor.
The guards near the door cursed. One of them fumbled with a ring of keys, but before he could react, the entire hull trembled with impact.
The door burst open.
And in its place stood a figure—tall, powerful, golden-eyed.
Silence fell.
His presence alone was suffocating, raw power radiating from his body like the sun at its peak. His skin was kissed by the desert, his hair wild like the mane of a lion.
A predator.
Cleopatra stared, her pulse thudding in her throat.
He took a step forward, and the guards raised their weapons. A foolish move.
The golden-eyed man didn’t flinch. In a blur, he lunged, his movements impossibly fast. Metal clashed, screams rang out, and in seconds, the guards lay lifeless on the floor.
The slaves gasped, pressing themselves against the walls, too afraid to move.
But Cleopatra… she didn’t cower.
She met his gaze head-on, unyielding.
His eyes gleamed with something she couldn’t place—respect, amusement… possession.
"You are Cleopatra," he said, his voice deep and commanding.
It wasn’t a question.
She lifted her chin. "And who are you?"
A smirk tugged at his lips. "I have many names." He stepped closer, and for the first time, Cleopatra felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time.
Not fear.
But something dangerously close to fascination.
His hand reached out, brushing against her branded shoulder. The contact sent a shiver down her spine.
"You are mine," he murmured, his voice both a promise and a command.
Cleopatra’s breath hitched.
"My mate."