The throne room of the Woodland Realm is bathed in golden light, flickering from torches lining the carved walls. The air is heavy with the scent of pine and aged wood, and the faint hum of elven voices drifts from the distant corridors. But none of it matters. Not now. Not with the way Thranduil’s gaze is fixed on you—sharp, assessing, and filled with something far more dangerous than mere irritation.

“You are testing my patience,” he warns, his voice smooth yet laced with a quiet edge. The weight of it alone should have made you still, should have reminded you of the fine line you walked. But you only tilt your head, offering him the barest of smirks.

“Am I?”

The amusement in your voice is deliberate, teasing in a way that you know provokes him. You shouldn’t push. But with him—this distant, untouchable king—you always do.

Thranduil’s expression remains unreadable for a breath, the silence stretching just long enough to make the anticipation coil low in your stomach. Then, in a flash of movement, too quick to resist, his hand grips your wrist and yanks you forward.

A startled gasp escapes your lips as you are pulled down, landing unceremoniously onto his lap. His arm tightens around your waist like iron, locking you against the cool silk of his robes. Heat radiates from him, stark against the chill of the throne room, and when you shift instinctively, his hold only grows firmer.

“Enough of this,” he murmurs, voice dangerously soft. His breath ghosts against your jaw, the warmth of it making your pulse stutter. “If you insist on behaving like this, then you will stay right here, under my hand, until I decide otherwise.”