Chapter LXIII: Affront
Isabella approached the king and bowed courteously, her heart racing beneath the red roses adorning her dress. Anxiety gnawed at her, but she kept her expression serene, concealing her inner turmoil. The king took her hand, his grip firm, and pulled her into a dance. She could feel the tension in his touch, the barely suppressed anger simmering beneath his calm exterior.
As they moved to the rhythm of the music, he leaned in close, his voice a low, controlled growl. "I thought your days of affronting me were over, Isabella."
She maintained her poise, meeting his gaze with steady eyes. "What do you mean, my king?"
His grip tightened on her waist as they spun, his words laced with menace. "I should have you hanged just for showing up wearing the symbol of my enemy’s dynasty."
Her heart pounded, but she refused to back down. With a boldness that surprised even herself, she asked, "Am I your enemy then?"
The king's eyes flashed with a mix of anger and something else—something deeper and more complex. He paused their dance, the music and revelry continuing around them unnoticed. His gaze bore into hers, searching for defiance or submission.
"You are not my enemy," he said finally, his voice quieter but no less intense. "Because you are mine. Never forget what that means."
Isabella held his gaze, her voice steady. "I am yours, my king, I am well aware of that. These are just flowers. Why should a few blossoms threaten the fire of the mighty, undefeatable dragon?"
The king laughed, but it was a sharp, angry sound that echoed through the hall. "I know what you're trying to do," he replied, his eyes narrowing.
Feigning innocence, Isabella tilted her head slightly. "What am I trying to do, my king?"
He leaned in closer, his voice low and edged with frustration. "You knew I would avoid losing my temper. Freaking out about a bunch of flowers would only prove a point, and that's why you're doing this."
Isabella's heart pounded, but she met his gaze calmly. "I never intended to provoke you, my king. These flowers—this dress—they are a part of me, just as much as my loyalty to you is. I wanted to remind myself, and perhaps you, of who I am."
The king's expression softened for a brief moment, a flicker of something more profound passing through his eyes. Then, just as quickly, his mask of control returned. "You walk a fine line, Isabella. I will not tolerate disobedience or defiance. You should know your place."
Isabella leaned in close, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered, "I know my place, my king. My place is under your arms, in your bed, or wherever you desire to fuck me."
A shiver ran down the king's spine, the intensity of her words cutting through his anger. Her defiance, cloaked in submission, stirred something deep within him. He pulled back slightly, searching her eyes for any sign of deceit, but found only a fierce look that both challenged and captivated him.
"Do not mistake your comfort for security," he warned, his voice low. "Your place is determined by my will, and I can change it as I see fit."
Isabella held his gaze, unwavering. "I am yours to command, my king. But I can never be loyal if I hold no sovereignty. Only submissive. Which I am, my king, body and soul."
For a moment, the tension between them hung heavy in the air. Then, with a reluctant sigh, the king's stern expression softened just a fraction. He took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her knuckles with a possessive tenderness. "Very well, Isabella."
She nodded, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips.
The king pulled her closer, his grip firm but no longer harsh. For a moment, the fury in his eyes was replaced by an intense, almost possessive hunger. He pulled her even closer, their bodies pressed together as he breathed in her scent.
Isabella's heart raced, but she maintained her composure, looking up at him with a steady gaze. "Yours to command, my king," she whispered softly.
The king led Isabella swiftly through the winding corridors of the palace, their steps quick and purposeful. They barely made it to the royal quarters before their passion overtook them. With a sudden turn, he pulled her into the winter garden, the moonlight filtering through the glass roof casting a silvery glow on the lush greenery.
Their breaths were heavy with anticipation, the scent of roses mingling with the intoxicating aroma of wine still lingering on their lips. The king's hands were everywhere, urgent and demanding, as he pressed Isabella against the cool stone wall of the garden.
With a swift motion, he lifted her, wrapping her legs around his waist. He kissed her deeply, hungrily, their mouths clashing with a desperate need.
"Isabella," he murmured, his voice soft now, filled with something deeper than desire. She looked up at him, her eyes shining with a mixture of satisfaction and longing.
"Yes, my king?" she whispered, her fingers tracing the lines of his face.
He smiled, a rare and genuine smile, filled with passion and malice. "You are mine," he said simply, the words carrying a weight that echoed through the garden.
"And you are mine," she replied, her voice steady and sure.
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