“Pick up a dagger, Malik.” And Malik, Casteel’s brother, picked up a dagger with a shaking hand—a long, thick one with a wickedly sharp blade. The tendons in his neck stood out. “On your knees,” Casteel demanded. Malik’s entire body trembled as he obeyed, falling to his knees. “Put it to your throat,” the King coaxed, his voice velvet and iron. A compulsion. He was using compulsion. Malik did just as he’d been forced to do.
