Elara sat by the window, her eyes fixed on the darkening sky. The room was quiet except for the soft rustle of the wind outside. She had been there for what felt like hours, her thoughts tangled, and her heart heavy with confusion. Earlier that day, Theron had dragged her away from his study, his hands firm and unyielding as he ushered her from one place to another. She had been frightened, her mind racing, unsure of what he would do to her next. But then, he had thrown her into this room—filled with books, a table, and paintings. It was organized and neat, equipped with things that might soothe the mind, but she couldn't find peace.
Instead, Elara stared at the bracelet on her wrist. She had been gifted it by someone, but not Theron. Her heart twisted in frustration. The King is heartless , she thought bitterly.He would neber give me something so beautiful. The thought lingered, fueling her determination. She had to find out who she really was—what was left of her before she became trapped in this castle, under the control of this man.
She stood up as Morgana awaited her , her mind set on her plan. She would corner anyone who knew anything about her—she would search the library for clues, study the paintings on the walls, anything to learn about herself. As she walked down the corridor, with Morgana and her guards behind her, Elara kept her head high, refusing to show any sign of weakness. But when she passed the door where she had first encountered Theron—the night he had dragged her into his world—her blood ran cold.
What had happened that night? She couldn't remember, and she didn't want to. He had threatened to throw her back into the cells, but what did that matter now? It was clear he didn't care about her. He never had.
"Your Majesty," Morgana's voice broke her thoughts. "The King is in the bathing chambers. He would like you to join him."
Elara's heart skipped a beat. Share a bath with Theron? Her fingers trembled as they brushed against the bracelet again, the cool metal doing little to calm her nerves. She felt a wave of nausea rise in her chest, but she swallowed it down. She had no choice. She could either face this with dignity or be crushed under the weight of it.
"Allow me to help you, Majesty," Morgana offered, her tone sugary sweet.
Morgana's hands were gentle but firm as she helped Elara out of her gown. The fabric slid from her skin, leaving her in nothing but her undergarments, and Elara felt exposed, vulnerable. Her skin prickled with unease as she stood motionless, her heart racing with nervous anticipation. Why now? she thought, trying to steady herself. Why did he suddenly want her there, in the bathing chambers with him?
When Morgana finished, she left the room, leaving Elara alone with her thoughts. Elara stood in the middle of the room for a moment, staring at the door that would lead her to Theron. The door that will lead her to a night she would never forget . A night of uncomfortablity .
Entering the room, Elara's eyes flickered nervously, assessing her surroundings with caution. She hesitated, unsure where to rest her gaze, feeling the weight of the moment pressing on her chest. The door behind her shut with a resounding thud, startling her and breaking her thoughts. She flinched at the unexpected noise, her breath hitching as she forced herself to breathe through her mouth to steady her nerves.
Looking forward, her eyes landed on Theron, seated in the center of a large round bathing pool. The surface of the water rippled gently, steam rising and mingling with the soft floral scent of the petals floating in the water. Around the edges of the pool, lotions, towels, and trays of wine and snacks were carefully placed. It was all too meticulously arranged—a deliberate setup. Elara's stomach churned. Why was she here ? Why did he need her presence when he had mistresses that could keep him company to his fullest satisfaction ?
"Come forward," Theron commanded, his deep voice cutting through the silence. "Join me in the bath.
Elara's gaze reluctantly drifted to him. Theron's bare chest was partially submerged, his flat torso visible, adorned with a faint trail of hair. He wasn't strikingly handsome, nor unattractive—just simply a man. And yet, she could barely stand to look at him. Her subconscious stirred. 'Why do I despise him so much ?' she wondered. Was it for what he had said to her, or perhaps the way he had treated her? But hadn't she been provoking him, too? The thoughts lingered, unanswered.
"Take off your garments," Theron ordered, his eyes never leaving her. "You can't take a bath in those."
Her hands trembled slightly as they moved to obey, though her mind screamed in protest. Stripping herself of her clothing under his unyielding gaze felt like a violation she couldn't fully articulate. She didn't feel fear—her confidence in her body and presence remained intact—but there was something deeper. Something that felt wrong, tainted.
When she stepped into the warm water, her skin prickled as the heat enveloped her. Morgana's earlier words echoed in her mind, haunting her thoughts. That fateful night, when Theron had dragged her away, loomed like a dark cloud. The fight that had ensued—what had it led to? She couldn't remember what happened after his threat to throw her into the cells. The memory was a void, but the emotions it stirred felt fresh and raw.
Now, here she was, performing her so-called wifely duties. She didn't feel scared. No, fear wasn't the right word. Instead, guilt clawed at her chest, mingling with disgust. This is wrong. This is all wrong.
As Theron's gaze bore into her, she silently vowed: if he came closer, she would speak. If he dared to reach for her, she would open her mouth and provoke him. Let him slap her, lock her up, throw her into the dungeons for a night—anything but this. She would rather face his anger than let him touch her.