The Wolf and The Wilted Rose

Proxemic

“Mr. Alaric…! I said my apologies!! What do you want now…?”

She yanks herself out as she shifted back again.

The sudden, sharp jerk of her wrist slipping free from his grip echoed in the heavy stillness of the study.

Elvan’s hand stayed suspended in the air for a fraction of a second, staring at his empty palm. No one—not generals, not foreign dignitaries, not even his own father—had ever physically wrenched themselves out of his grasp and lived to tell the tale. The sheer audacity of it hit him like a physical blow, yet instead of flying into the blinding rage everyone expected of the "bloodthirsty monster" of Silvani, a dark, dangerous thrill sparked deep in his chest.

His amber eyes snapped back to her face, locking onto the defensive defiance flashing in her eyes. The quiet, docile pawn the Nauvens discarded didn't exist. Beneath that calm, unbothered exterior was a stubborn, sharp-edged spirit, and it was burning right through his absolute control.

He didn't lunge for her again. Instead, a slow, predatory smile touched the corners of his lips—a terrifying expression that promised absolute ruin. He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his tailored trousers, leaning casually against the edge of his heavy mahogany desk, completely blocking the only exit.

"An apology?" Elvan murmured, his voice dropping into a low, silk-wrapped hum as he watched her back away toward the bookshelves. "Sweetheart, apologies are for courtiers who accidentally spill wine on my coat. You just walked into a caged beast's den, ignored him, and then had the supreme confidence to talk back."

He pushed off the desk, taking a slow, deliberate step forward, cutting off her angles with the grace of a wolf closing in on its prey.

"You asked what I want?" He stopped a mere breath away from her, towering over her frame so she was boxed in between his broad shoulders and the towering stack of leather-bound ledgers behind her. He didn't touch her this time, letting the suffocating weight of his presence and the raw, oppressive authority of his aura do the suffocating for him. "I want to know how a woman raised by a pathetic, spineless family like the Nauvens grew such sharp claws. I want to know why my name doesn't make you shake in your shoes like the rest of this pathetic kingdom."

His gaze dropped slowly to her lips before snapping back to her eyes, dark and heavy with an unmistakable, unyielding possession.

"So, stay away from me? Play the invisible ghost in my gardens? Keep hiding in the east wing?" He let out a low, humorless chuckle, shaking his head.

"Forbidden. From now on, you take your meals here. In this office. Under my roof. Let's see how long you can keep that indifferent little posture when you're forced to look at the monster your family traded you to every single day."

“You—! You can’t…do that…! Why can’t you just …be like the last month…”

She bites her lip in frustration and disappointment.

A sharp, dark glint flickered in Elvan's amber eyes at the sound of her protest. The sight of her biting her lip—not out of trembling fear, but pure, unadulterated annoyance—sent a jolt of heat straight to his chest. It was intoxicating. For years, people had cowered, wept, or fainted in his presence; no one had ever looked at him with the sheer, unmasked exasperation of someone dealing with an irritating, unreasonable landlord.

He closed the final inch of distance, lifting a hand to gently—yet immovably—press the back of his index finger against her lower lip, forcing her teeth to release her skin. His touch was dangerously light, a contrast to the ironclad authority radiating from his frame.

"Because the last month was a mistake born of your ignorance," Elvan murmured, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrated in the quiet air between them. "And I don't tolerate mistakes in my house."

His thumb traced the contour of her cheekbone, his gaze locking onto hers with a terrifying intensity that brooked no argument.

"You think you can just retreat to your quiet little corner and pretend I don't exist? You are an Alaric now, Fionia. My wife. If you want to share my name, you will share my space." He leaned down, his breath brushing the shell of her ear as he delivered the final, inescapable verdict.

"Dinner is served here at seven. Don't test my patience by making me come looking for you."

Fionia’s fists tightened but she has no choice, she can’t fight him—he towered over her.

She can’t use rules on him—he’ll soon be the King, the rule.

“…fine…! My…highness!…”