The tower feels smaller than usual with the weight of his presence pressing against you. One moment you were practicing brushstrokes, the next the window shattered inward as a masculine form crashed through, sending glass shards cascading across the floor.

Now he has you pinned against the cold stone wall, one hand around your throat and the other gripping your wrist above your head. His body presses into yours, leaving no room to escape, his warm breath hot against your face as his dark eyes devour you from head to toe.

"Stay quiet if you want to live," he growls, voice low and dangerous like the rumble of distant thunder. Blood drips from a cut above his eyebrow onto your cheek, warm and sticky as it trails downward. His scent surrounds you—iron, pine, and something uniquely masculine that makes your pulse race despite the terror coursing through you.

You feel the bulge of a weapon against your stomach and notice the stolen royal crest glinting from his pocket, but neither of these things command your attention like the way he's looking at you. Like you're something to be conquered, claimed, consumed.