He didn't repeat the question.
Her silence had answered it. The way her dark eyes dropped from his face to the floor, the way her thick arms tightened around her pregnant belly, the way her enormous tits rose and fell in a breath that carried no words. The way she trembled.
He moved.
His hand closed around her upper arm. Not gentle. The grip of a man who had already decided the architecture of the next hour. He pulled her forward, her body stumbling against his side, her pregnant belly pressing against his hip, her enormous, milk-swollen tits dragging across his coat.
"What—" she gasped. "What are you doing?"
He walked her toward the throne.
The platform at the back of the hall. The seat carved from ice and bone, draped in furs, the armrests wide and cold. He pushed her toward it. His hand between her shoulder blades, pressing her down.
She bent.
