Liona's POV
The King stood frozen at the far end of the room, his broad back still turned to me.
His large hand remained clamped over the iron handle of the door, his knuckles turning white under the strain.
He hadn't moved a single muscle since my threat had echoed through the quiet space.
I stood by the long wooden table, watching the heavy rise and fall of his shoulders beneath his black tunic.
He was breathing slowly, deeply, and deliberately, like a man counting the seconds in his head, desperately trying to pull himself back from the edge of a cliff.
The thick wave of dark, suffocating emotion radiating from him slowly began to settle, thinning out into the quiet air.
I swallowed the dry lump in my throat and forced my boots to take a slow, cautious step toward him.
"I am sorry," I said, my voice breaking the heavy quiet, sounding soft and heavy with regret.
He didn't pull the door open. He didn't drop his hand.
