Elena stumbled slightly, her breathing uneven as she adjusted her posture. She frowned deeply, looking around the dimly lit, masculine interior of the bedroom before turning her freezing hazel eyes back to him.
"What do you want, Alaric?" she demanded, smoothing down her white gown with her uninjured hand. "We need to be downstairs. The press is still there, and my father—"
"Get rid of your clothes."
Elena froze completely. Her expression hardened into utter disbelief. "What? Are you out of your mind?"
Alaric didn't blink. He stepped closer, his dark eyes locking onto her face with an intense, suffocating focus that made the air in the room turn instantly cold.
"I said," Alaric muttered, his voice dangerously low and deliberate. "Get... rid... of your clothes."
Elena stood frozen.
She stared at him, her mind frantically trying to read his angle. Was this another twisted test? A power play?
