He closed the distance between them in one swift stride. His arm snaked around her waist, a band of iron that jerked her against him with a force that stole her breath. She struggled, a furious, twisting rebellion against his unyielding grip, but he only watched, his expression chillingly detached.
"Unhand me!" she demanded, striking his chest with her fists—sharp, useless blows against the solid wall of him.
With a single, contemptuous motion, he pushed her backward. She stumbled, the edge of the bed catching her behind the knees, and fell onto the mattress in a tangle of skirts and shock. Before she could scramble away, he was there.
He moved with a slow, deliberate certainty, planting a knee beside her hip, then the other, caging her beneath him. His weight settled, not crushing, but inescapably present.
"Do not dare to touch me, Henry." The words were pure fire, but they trembled at the edges.
A low, bitter laugh escaped him, devoid of any warmth. "Touch you?" He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Why should I not? I own you, you little fool. Every breath, every tremor, every furious thought. I can do anything. Anything I wish. And you will learn the weight of that word."
"No. You lie." The words were a hissed curse, and with them, a sharp, deliberate spit struck his cheek.
Henry went very still. A muscle twitched in his jaw. He slowly wiped the moisture away with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving hers.
"So," he said, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. "You want the hard lesson. Very well. I will give it to you."
His hands moved to the fastenings of her gown. There was no passion in the act, only a cold, systematic precision. Each lace undone, each pin removed, was a silent proclamation of ownership. Gisela did not fight. She lay utterly still, a statue of defiance carved from ice and fire. Silent tears tracked from the corners of her eyes into her hairline, but her amber gaze burned up at him, unwavering.
"You have no idea what you need, Henry," she whispered, her voice thick with tears yet clear as crystal. "You never will."
He paused, his hands stilling. A flicker of something—irritation, curiosity—crossed his stony face. "Then enlighten me, Gisela," he said, his tone dangerously soft. "Tell me what I need."
She could not answer. The words died in her throat, drowned by a wave of anguish that finally broke through her defiance. A sob wrenched itself from her chest, then another, shaking her entire frame as she lay exposed and vulnerable beneath him. The tears flowed freely now, a silent river of humiliation and despair.
"Why…" she gasped between ragged breaths, her voice crumbling. "Why are you doing this to me?"
He watched her unravel, his expression unmoved. "We are merely beginning," he stated, his voice devoid of empathy. "Tears are a waste of energy. Quiet yourself, my little Queen."
His free hand came up, and with a chilling contradiction, his fingers stroked her damp cheek, a parody of tenderness. Gisela flinched at the touch, then squeezed her eyes shut, a final retreat. Her fingers scrabbled weakly against the bedsheet, clutching at the fabric as if it were a lifeline—her last, futile anchor to any semblance of safety or self.
It was a mistake. Noting the movement, his grip shifted. In one efficient motion, he captured both her wrists, pulled them above her head, and pinned them there with the unassailable strength of one hand. The act was not passionate, but practical—the securing of a prize. She was now truly immobilized, her physical resistance neutralized, leaving only the shattered, weeping echo of the queen she had been moments before.
He lowered himself, his shadow consuming her. His mouth found hers, but it was no kiss—it was a conquest. Hard, insistent, taking without asking. His tongue forced its way past her lips, tangling with hers in a violation that was as much about dominance as desire. At the same moment, his hand—the one not pinning her wrists—fisted in the fiery mass of her hair at the crown of her head. It was not a caress. He dug his fingers into the roots, tilting her face up at a sharper angle to deepen his access, holding her skull in a vise of possessive control. The pain was a bright, clarifying counterpoint to the suffocating intimacy of the kiss, a brutal reminder that even this small rebellion would not be tolerated.
Her eyes, which had been shut in resigned defeat, flew open. A shock of pure, undiluted revolt surged through her, burning away the haze of tears.
With a strength born of that final, primal refusal, she wrenched her face to the side against the painful grip, breaking the brutal contact. Her body arched, not in passion, but in a desperate heave to dislodge him. It was a short, sharp rebellion—a physical no shouted into the space between their mouths, even as his hand remained knotted in her hair.
"You are a monster," she sobbed, the words ragged and broken as she fought to steady her shuddering breath.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP
The sound was stark and officious against the charged silence. Henry's head snapped toward the door, his focus instantly severed.
A hesitant male voice filtered through the heavy wood. "My lord. A thousand pardons. The Queen Mother requires you in her council chamber. Immediately."
Beneath him, Gisela's eyes squeezed shut. A single, profound tear of sheer relief escaped, tracing a swift path through the sweat on her temple.
The tension in Henry's body shifted from predatory to poised. He looked down at her for one last, searing moment, then pushed himself off the bed with a cold efficiency.
"You will remain here," he commanded, his voice flat as he adjusted the rumpled linen of his shirt. "Make yourself presentable."
He gave her one final, inscrutable glare—a look that promised this interruption was a postponement, not a pardon—before turning on his heel and striding from the room. The door sighed shut behind him, leaving the echo of his dominion hanging in the air, and Gisela alone in the wreckage of her dignity.