Like that’snotenough, Roman’s protection has gotten worse. Whenever he’s near, he insists I stay close to him, like some fragile thing that might break if I breathe wrong. And when he’s not around, there are guards. Dozens of them. Trailing my every step. Watching. Waiting.
I feel like I’m suffocating.
I want distance. Space. Air. But he doesn’t get that.
He lets me stay in my room during the day, on one condition: that his guards remain stationed outside my door like prison sentinels.
And every night, he insists I sleep in his bed.
He hasn’t touched me again. Not even once. Not even by accident.
I don’t know which is more infuriating—his restraint or the fact that I notice it.
I hate him. Yes.
Right now, I’m storming downstairs because he sent a staff member to come and call me down for breakfast. I refused twice, and he sent her again, telling me he “won’t ask a third time.” Like I’m some child he can bend with a warning.
Why would I want breakfast with him?
I reach the landing and stride toward the dining hall, my steps echoing through the long corridor. The smell of freshly baked bread and coffee hits me, but it doesn’t soften my mood. When I enter, there’s a massive spread on the table—eggs, fruit, pastries, food that makes my stomach growl with hunger—and, of course, Roman sitting there like a king. Alone.
Good. That means I can lash out without worrying that anyone else will see.
He hears me coming, I know he does, but he doesn’t even bother to look up. The scrape of his knife against the plate grates on my nerves. I stop right in front of him, fists clenched at my sides.
“What is wrong with you?” I snap. “Why are you forcing me to have breakfast? I’m not your toy.”
Roman finally looks up, calm as ever, his expression unreadable. “You’re my wife,” he says simply, like that explains everything. “And wives have breakfast with their husbands.”
I laugh, sharp and bitter. “You’re unbelievable. You think a ring gives you the right to summon me like a damn servant?”
He doesn’t flinch. “I think,” he says, cutting into his eggs with maddening patience, “that refusing to eat for two days is self-destructive. And since you won’t take care of yourself, I will.”
My jaw drops. “Oh, you will? You’ll make me eat now? That’s your new thing, deciding what’s good for me?”
He lifts his gaze again, eyes cold and steady. “If I wanted to make you do anything, Elara, you wouldn’t still be standing there arguing.”
That shuts me up for a second. The quiet hums between us, charged and dangerous.
Then I find my voice again. “You can keep your food, Roman. I’m not hungry.”
“You only ate fruit yesterday after I had the cook bring it up,” he says, voice low, even. “That’s not enough. You’re starving.”
“Then look inward,” I fire back, heat rising in my chest. “Happy wives don’t starve. If your wife is starving, what sort of husband does that make you?”
I turn to leave.
“Sit,” he says quietly.
It’s not loud, but it cuts through the room like a blade.
“I’m not—”
“Sit. I’m not asking.”
And damn it, my body goes still before my mind can catch up. My muscles lock, breath catching in my throat. Against every shred of pride I have left, I lower myself into the chair.
Roman doesn’t gloat, doesn’t even smirk. He simply reaches for a plate, piles it with food, and slides it in front of me. “You’re not leaving this table until you clear your plate,” he says. “I suggest you start now.”
