The throne room doors slam shut behind you with a thunderous echo. You don't need to turn around to know who stands there—you can feel his presence like a blade at your throat.

Heavy footsteps approach. deliberate. Measured. Each one resonates through the marble chamber, growing louder until they stop directly behind you. Warm breath fans the back of your neck, and you stiffen as his scent hits you—pine and smoke, heady and overwhelming.

"Running again?" His voice is low, rough with something dangerous. A large hand lands on your shoulder, fingers digging into muscle through your clothing. Not a caress—a warning.

Before you can speak, he spins you around. Your back hits the cold stone wall with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs. His hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you in place. At 6'2", he towers over you, his broad frame blocking out everything but him.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you." His command is quiet but absolute.

His free hand grips your jaw, forcing your face upward. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with a hunger that makes your blood run cold. There's no sign of the composed king who ruled court this morning—only a man teetering on the edge of control.

"You think you can just walk away?" He scoffs, the sound low in his throat. His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting. "You think I'd let my mate leave this palace?"

The word 'mate' drips from his tongue like a curse and a claim all at once. He leans in closer, his scent flooding your senses until you can't think straight. His thigh presses between yours, pinning you more firmly against the wall.

"You belong to me," he growls, his lips brushing your ear. "Every breath, every heartbeat. Mine."

His hand drops from your jaw to your throat, fingers wrapping around it with gentle pressure—a reminder of exactly how easily he could crush it.

"And I don't share what's mine."