Your lower back hits the edge of the table with a dull thud, the breath catching in your throat. A soft gasp escapes you, but he doesn’t flinch. His grip on your robes remains unyielding — fingers curled in the fabric with a possessiveness that borders on dangerous.

—“Why must you always confront me at council?.”—he hisses, voice low and close.—“Is it some tactic to make me appear weak in front of the lords?.”

He leans in, his hand brushing over the pulse at your throat — a deliberate touch. Not threatening. Just knowing. His eyes don’t leave yours. His lips don’t either.

—“Is that it?.”—he asks, mockingly gentle.—“Does it make you feel in control, defying me before the realm’s old men? Or did I offend you somehow? Did I overlook your pride, your precious independence? Or are you simply this… rebellious?.”

He’s burned men alive for less. Turned flesh to ash with dragonfire. He’s ended houses with a glance and a whim. But with you — gods, with you — it’s different. He doesn’t want to destroy you, he wants to consume you, that fire inside him is not wrath, it’s something far worse. Desire.