My back hit the hard edge of the table with a thud, knocking the breath from my lungs. The King had me trapped, his massive arms planted on either side of my hips, his towering frame looming over me like a predatory shadow. I was painfully aware of my vulnerable state—wearing nothing but the thin silk slip Mrs. Betty had provided for measurements, my skin prickling with goosebumps beneath the flimsy fabric.
"Let me go," I demanded, pressing my hands against his chest, feeling the solid wall of muscle beneath his shirt.
"No." The single word fell like a stone between us, heavy with finality.
I tried to slide sideways, but he shifted with me, his body effectively caging mine. "Your Majesty, please—"
"Stop calling me that," he growled, his gray eyes stormy with emotion. "Not when we're alone."
"Fine, then. Landon," I snapped, desperation giving me courage. "You can't keep me here like this. The seamstress will return—"
