Zalthor leaned against the chair imperiously, staring with dark satisfaction at the panic on her face, as though he cared for nothing in the world except the figure standing before him.
There was another knock on the door.
Yeara's gaze snapped toward it, her face turning pale before she looked back at Zalthor, who remained seated, his eyes locked on her.
Her body shivered as countless thoughts of what would happen if the door opened flashed before her eyes. Fear passed through her gaze; her lashes fluttered gently as she drew in a deep breath.
Yeara finally spoke, her voice low—she was certain the door was not locked and so opening it would be easy.
"Ple… please answer the door… that would avoid suspicion," she stuttered, her eyes darting around the room in search of a hiding place. The room was large enough.
But where could she hide?
An emotionless chuckle left Zalthor's lips, echoing through the room. He was enjoying this far more than he wanted to admit.
This little show was far more entertaining than the ones he watched with countless stage players.
"Ple… please, Your Highness, do some… something," her voice cracked, her eyes pleading with him.
Yeara did not understand why he was relishing this. Her heart hammered loudly, fear wrapping tightly around her body—yet this man sat there, his eyes dancing with grave excitement, as though her terror was nothing more than amusement.
Zalthor's eyes flashed with something fleeting as he noticed her eyes beginning to turn watery like she was about to cry.
Finally…
He stood.
He strode toward the door as Yeara quickly moved to the far side of the room, near the table. Her legs were already growing cold, her skin tightening, her toes turning numb.
She pressed her lips into a thin line, biting the inside of her cheeks.
Her toes curled together.
Zalthor opened the door. Standing before him was a guard. The man bowed deeply, his hands trembling slightly beside him at the sudden thickness and sharpness in the air. The intimidating aura was unlike anything he had ever felt.
"Your M.Majesty, the Duke has arrived from his travels, just as you wished to speak with him first," the guard reported.
Zalthor shifted, shutting the door.
He turned to Yeara.
"Come to me," he commanded, his voice flat with authority.
Yeara tilted her head in confusion, shifting her cold foot that rested atop the other. Zalthor calmly averted his gaze before speaking again.
"I will take you to your room now. Come," he ordered, his sharp gaze turning serious.
Yeara nodded and walked toward him slowly—almost cautiously. She did not know why, but she felt that was the best way. The dangerous air surrounding this man told her more than words ever could.
Her eyes drifted to his Adam's apple as it bobbed slightly, then to his hands as they moved to his sharp jawline, massaging it lightly before sweeping his hair back. It was obvious he was trying to be patient with how slowly she moved—like prey testing whether the lion was still asleep in its den.
Just as she reached him, she stopped inches away. Her heart thudded violently against her chest. She had never been this close to a man like this before. She did not look at him; her gaze remained lowered.
"Shut your eyes," he commanded.
Curiosity flickered within her, but she pressed her lips together and obeyed. The moment she did, her feet left the floor. Her breath caught as his strong arm carried her effortlessly.
Zalthor glanced once more at the book—the same one she had been clutching tightly since entering the room. His gaze was blank before drifting to her feet.
His eyes dimmed.
A soft gasp slipped past Yeara's lips as she felt his large, warm, yet firm hands wrap around her cold feet.
Then.
He caressed them.
Her body shivered, butterflies dancing wildly in her stomach at the smoothness of his touch.
Her eyes flew open—and immediately locked onto midnight-dark, empty ones already fixed on her.
She shut her eyes at once, her face burning.
"Behave. Do not open them."
She tightened them further, biting her lips hard. Then she felt a sudden rush of wind. Her heart skipped as goosebumps rippled across her skin. Soon after, she heard the steady sound of feet landing.
She felt him move before he laid her down on something soft. Her eyes remained tightly shut, his piercing gaze heavy upon her.
She wondered why he was placing her down—wasn't he meant to take her to her room?
Then… silence.
She slowly opened her eyes.
He was gone.
She sat up, her body trembling as she realized she was already in her room.
H… how?
Her head spun with questions. How was that even possible? She dropped the book beside the bed and stood, her hands moving to her head as she tried to understand how she had gotten here.
She rushed to the window and looked outside..but no one was there. Of course not. Her room was on the top floor.
What danger had she run into…?
.
.
The Next Day
Yeara sucked in a sharp breath as the maid tightened the straps of her gown. She wore a light rose-pink dress—long and flawless. Her wavy hair flowed neatly down her back, carefully styled to keep it in place.
The maid, finally finished and visibly mesmerized by Yeara's rare beauty, bowed. Yeara gave her a calm nod before the woman left.
She knew she was late—very late for breakfast. She had woken much later than usual because, for some unknown reason, she couldn't sleep the night before.
Maybe because of him…those eyes.
She opened her door and walked through the hallway. As she walked down the corridor, her heart began to race, memories of the previous night flooding her mind.
She steadied her breath, her fingers gently clutching her gown as she descended the stairs toward the dining hall. Reaching the main door, she exhaled deeply before pushing it open.
The scent of food filled the room. Her gaze moved from her mama to Cedric, then to her papa.
"He's back," she said softly, a small smile forming.
She quickened her steps, reached her seat, and sat.
"Good morning, Papa and Mama," she greeted.
Lady Persophone and Duke John nodded in response, unable to speak as they ate—Duke John took etiquette seriously.
Yeara turned to Cedric, who smiled at her. She returned it, her gaze shifting briefly to the food before silently urging him to continue eating. She placed the napkin gently on her lap and glanced around.
Did he leave? she wondered.
If King Zalthor was not present, then that could only mean he had left. It would be rude if he had not been informed to have breakfast with them.
'Why are you even thinking about that dangerous man, Yeara?' she scolded herself, startled by the realization. She did not know why, but a faint sadness settled in her chest at the thought of him leaving so suddenly.
But why?
Duke John turned to his wife, who subtly signaled him to speak. He lifted his napkin to his lips and cleared his throat—an action that alone told her something important was coming.
He finally spoke.
"King Zalthor…"
The fork in Yeara's hand slipped and clattered to the floor.
All eyes turned to her.
She forced a tight smile and bowed her head apologetically.
"My apologies, Papa," she said, her fingers trembling as her heart pounded violently. She did not understand why—she already knew this. Yet merely hearing his name had shaken her.
"You will be getting married to King Zalthor," Duke John stated.
Her heart raced as they all looked at her. She did not know why she was reacting this way.
Duke John studied his daughter carefully before continuing.
"The wedding will take place in his kingdom… which means you will be leaving tomorrow."