CHAPTER 22 — NO ESCAPE
Leona barely slept that night, tossing in her small cot in the servants' quarters. Her body ached from the day's work, but her mind was restless, replaying the King's presence, his cold gaze, and the whisper of silver hair and bright eyes that had followed her even as she left the chamber. Every shadow in the castle seemed alive, every creak of the floorboards a threat.
Before dawn, a soft knock at the door made her jump. "Leona," a voice called, smooth and low, cutting through the quiet like steel. "Come to the King's chambers."
Her stomach twisted. She froze. She hadn't expected to be called back so soon. Every instinct screamed to hide, to run—but there was no escape. Not from him. Not from this place.
She stood, trembling, and followed the corridor silently, trying to keep her head down, trying to vanish into the shadows. The air felt heavier the closer she got to the King's wing, the familiar pulse of power pressing down like a living thing.
The doors swung open before her. He was waiting. Standing there, tall, pale, and impossibly still, radiating authority and danger. The chamber smelled of the oils she had prepared the night before, but now it mixed with something darker—something predatory.
"Draw my bath," he said, his voice low, commanding, leaving no room for refusal.
Leona stiffened. "I… I cannot," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I will not—"
He stepped forward, slow, deliberate, his presence filling the room. "You will," he said simply. No argument, no question, only the weight of inevitability pressing down on her. "Or there will be consequences you cannot survive."
Her throat tightened. Her hands trembled. Every nerve screamed to run, to hide, to defy—but he had made it clear: there was no running. There was no hiding.
"I… I cannot," she said again, trying to summon courage, though it felt like a thin candle against a storm.
His eyes, pale and sharp, bore into her. "You will," he repeated, and with each word, it became less a request and more an absolute law. "Now."
Leona's chest heaved. Her heart hammered so violently she feared he could hear it. She wanted to refuse, wanted to prove she could not be controlled—but he was not asking. He was asserting. She could see it in every movement, every shadowed line of his figure.
Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away. The King's gaze did not waver. His patience was infinite, his command absolute. Slowly, shaking, she turned toward the bath. Every step felt like walking deeper into danger, every breath stolen like it belonged to him.
As she prepared the water, her mind screamed with questions: why her? Why this attention? Why did it feel like he was testing her… watching her… learning her? And yet, even as fear surged, a strange shiver of awareness traced through her chest—danger, power, and something else she could not name.
She placed her hands in the water, trembling, the warm steam rising between her and him, though he remained silent, still as a shadow. Every movement was observed, measured, judged. And Leona knew, deep down, that she had no choice. No matter how much she wanted to resist, there was no escape—not here, not now, not while he stood like a storm in the room with her.
The bath was ready. She could only wait for what he would demand next.