The hall had barely emptied, her grandmother taking her leave with a satisfied smile, blind to the shadows lurking behind. Isabella turned to retreat to her chambers, her breath trembling with the weight of the night—yet before she could escape, she felt herself lifted.
Theodore's arms.
Unyielding.
Possessive.
He swept her up in a bridal hold, but there was nothing tender in his grip. His golden eyes gleamed in the dim torchlight, a predator's triumph glistening there.
"Theodore—let me go!" she gasped, thrashing in vain.
He didn't answer. His lips curled into something cruel, something narcotic, as he carried her down the corridor and into her chamber. The heavy door slammed shut behind him. In one swift, merciless motion, he threw her upon the bed.
The gown of gold shimmered as she landed, spilling across the sheets like molten chains. Theodore stood above her, his gaze devouring, his voice a silken blade.
"My dear," he drawled, "this golden dress suits you perfectly. But your eyes…" His smirk deepened, wicked and narcissistic. "Your eyes almost make me forget myself. Almost."
She turned her face away, fury burning, but he seized her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.
"And what does your grandmother think? That you will bear heirs for her legacy? No." His words grew darker, each one pressing into her like a brand. "You will bear children for me. Children of my legacy. Children with my golden eyes."
Isabella's breath hitched, but he did not let her speak.
"Eyes that will haunt you, torment you, even as you cradle them. Every child you bring into this world will carry half of your blood, half of your soul—but it is my gold they will wear in their gaze. My reflection, my curse."
His smile sharpened. "And I promise you, Isabella, the pain you endure to bring them forth will be nothing compared to the agony of seeing me in them every single day. That, I want. That, I will have."
Her tears glistened in defiance. She shoved him back, clawing her way off the bed, her voice breaking yet sharp:
"I will never be yours! Not your children, not your legacy—never!"
For one fleeting moment, she stood tall, defiant, the golden dress a banner of resistance. But Theodore moved like lightning. His hand clamped around her wrist, dragging her down again, pressing her back against the sheets with a strength that stole her breath.
His face hovered close, his golden gaze burning into hers.
"You listen to me, little wolf," he hissed, his tone low, dangerous, intoxicating. "Do you not know? I could snap your neck in a single breath. Break you, end you, erase you." His hand trailed slowly to her throat, not squeezing, only reminding her of the power resting there. "But I won't. Not if you learn to behave properly."
The weight of him, the heat of him, his scent, his words—they smothered her like nightfall.
And yet, even as her body trembled, her eyes blazed.
She whispered, her voice shaking but unbroken:
"I would rather die than belong to you."
Theodore's lips curved into a slow, merciless smile. His golden eyes glowed like the devil's vow.
"You already do, Isabella. Death itself would deliver you back to me."