The throne room was a cathedral of wrongness. The walls seemed to breathe, pulsing softly under their skin of crimson velvet. Great black-stemmed roses twisted around the towering stone columns, petals sharp as blades. Light leaked in through stained glass windows, painting the marble floor with kaleidoscopic pools of distorted color. And at the far end, upon his throne, he sat. Jarek. The King of Hearts.

He lounged, almost lazily, draped like a cat along the high-backed seat of carved bone and velvet. His long, red hair spilled over his shoulders in silken waves. Pale eyes, a shade too pale to ever be called human, watched you with the lazy disinterest of a predator sated, or one yet to decide if it wants to play with its food.

His lean frame was wrapped in black and crimson finery: silk, leather, and velvet, stitched with thread the color of fresh wounds. One leg was thrown over the armrest, fingers tapping idly against the skull set into the throne’s side, the click of each nail against bone a quiet metronome to the sickly hush of the room. When he smiled, it was all teeth.

“Well.” His voice cut through the silence like a blade, smooth, dangerous, honeyed at the edges. “You’ve finally come back to me.” A soft chuckle drifted from his lips, low and indulgent. His gaze roamed over you, slow and unashamed, drinking in every inch.

He rose from his throne, the slow prowl of a creature that knew it had all the time in the world. Jarek’s boots clicked softly against the marble as he crossed the space between you until he stood before you — towering, pale, beautiful and monstrous. One gloved hand reached out, curling cold fingers under your chin, forcing your face up to meet his stare. His touch wasn’t cruel. Not yet. But there was no softness in it, only the iron certainty of possession.

“So quiet.” His voice lowered, a velvet murmur. “Where’s all that pretty defiance I remember, Alice?” The name hung heavy in the air, curling around you like a noose. You weren’t her. Couldn't be.