"Why?" The word tore from her, not once but three times, each repetition more frayed than the last. "Why do you push me away as if I were a contagion? A plague to be avoided? Why must you invent new ways to pretend I do not exist?" She took a step closer, her composure a brittle shell over a well of despair. "I have stated the obvious—you do not want me. I have accepted it. So grant us both mercy. Divorce me. Must I kneel and beg for that as well?"
"You are manufacturing drama where none exists," he replied, his voice the crisp, dead calm of a frozen lake. "You are behaving foolishly."
His gaze did not waver. It was more than a look; it was an invasive scrutiny. Though she stood fully clothed, she felt utterly exposed. It was as if his eyes bypassed the fine grey wool, seeing not her body, but the raw, trembling core of her—stripping away every pretense, every guarded thought, until her very spirit felt flayed and laid bare before him.
"You can lead a horse to water," he said, his tone as cold and smooth as polished stone. "But you cannot force it to drink."
He paused, letting the old adage hang in the air like a verdict.
"However," he continued, his voice dropping into a lower, more deliberate register, "for this display of insolence, there will be a consequence. I will not let it pass. I will punish you for it myself."
He settled back into the chair, the picture of regal authority, and watched her. She remained standing, rigid and unyielding.
"Punish me?" The words were a raw scrape of sound. "How? By commanding me to stand naked for another of your drawings? Or by locking me in this room until I forget the sun? Tell me, what is my sentence?"
A faint, chilling light flickered in his hazel eyes. "You cling to such childish fantasies of punishment. I treat a tantrum as what it is—the petulance of a child."
His gaze traveled over her, from her clenched fists to her defiantly set jaw.
"But it seems you believe you have grown wings, is that it?" he mused, his voice a soft, dangerous whisper. "Let us see how they fare."
"Come here."
The command was quiet, but the action was not. His hand shot out, tangling in the vibrant cascade of her hair. He fisted it close to the scalp, and with a sharp, merciless jerk, he pulled.
"Ahhh!" The cry was ripped from her, part pain, part shock.
He dragged her, not with a steady pull, but with short, brutal yanks that brought tears of pure agony to her eyes. Every strand felt like it was being torn from its root.
"My lord—Henry, please—stop!" she sobbed, stumbling as he hauled her across the chamber toward the adjoining bathing alcove.
He shoved her forward. Her knees buckled, and she fell hard on the cold tile floor beside the large, sunken bathtub. It was already filled, steam rising gently from water strewn with rose petals—a prepared luxury that now felt like a cruel mockery.
Gasping, her chest heaving from pain and terror, she looked up at him through a blur of tears. "What… what are you doing?"
He stood over her, his expression impassive. "You will warm up," he stated, his voice devoid of all warmth. "And I will begin by washing the foolishness from your head."
"Wh—what are you—?"
Before the full protest could leave her lips, his hand was in her hair again. This time, he did not drag her—he forced her head down, plunging her face into the waiting water.
The world vanished into a sudden, suffocating silence, broken only by the frantic, bubbling gasp she couldn't contain. Rose petals clung to her skin and lashes. She twisted violently, her hands scrambling against the slick sides of the tub, her legs kicking out uselessly behind her. Muffled, desperate sounds of panic erupted into the water, loud and terrible in the enclosed space.
He held her there, immovable, his grip unrelenting.
"These petals," he said, his voice detached, almost conversational above the struggle, "were meant for decoration. For comfort." He leaned closer, the words a chilling whisper against the steam. "Today, they will witness your undoing."
Only then did he wrench her back.
She erupted from the water with a ragged, hacking gasp, her face deathly pale, her hair plastered in dripping, petal-strewn ropes across her cheeks and neck. She swayed on her knees, shuddering, fighting to draw air into her burning lungs.
Henry's hand stretched forward...
"No… please, don't—" Her plea was cut short as his hand forced her head back into the water.
This time, he did not hurry. He watched, his expression impassive, as her struggles churned the petal-strewn surface—the frantic, weakening thrash of limbs, the bubbles rising in desperate clusters. Only when her movements began to slow did he pull her out.
She collapsed forward, water streaming from her hair and nose, her body wracked with coughs and shuddering gulps of air.
"How do you feel, little one?" he asked, his voice devoid of empathy. A devilish, cold smile touched his lips. "We are only beginning. By the time I am finished, you will regret the very fact you were born."
Without another word, he hauled her into his arms, a sodden, trembling weight. He carried her from the steamy confines of the bathroom and, without ceremony, threw her onto the bed. The impact knocked the remaining breath from her lungs in a sharp, pained cry.
"My lord, I beg you—Henry, cease—" The entreaty fell from her lips in a shaken whisper, her complexion ashen, her hair a damp cascade across the silk.
He granted no quarter. In one fluid, merciless motion, he closed the distance, caging her against the expanse of the bed, his form eclipsing the light from the canopy above.
"As was decreed before,"he intoned, his voice the sound of chilled steel, his gaze the flat grey of a winter sky, "you will select your own chastisement. Choose something you know will be a true penance."
A raw sob broke from Gisela, swallowed by the heavy brocade and down.
"Your hesitation is noted.I shall count to three."
"One."He observed the tremor that wracked her frame, a sovereign beholding a subject's defiance.
"Two."He leaned deeper, his shadow swallowing her within the opulent confines.
"Three."
The word was final. A sentence passed in the intimacy of the chambers. The only sounds left were the ragged catch of her breath and the distant, implacable ticking of the clock upon the mantel—marking the start of an endless night.