The throne room was a tomb of silence, the air thick with the weight of unspoken threats. She trembled violently, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs, her head bowed in an attempt to hide the tears streaming down her face.

But she was not stripped further.

King Jungkook had not removed her remaining garments—not her bra that barely contained her heaving breasts, not her skirt that shielded her most intimate parts. He did not need to.

The message he intended to send required no further nudity, no additional exposure.

The point was not to display her flesh for their pleasure, but to display her vulnerability for their understanding.

He wanted them to see—to truly see—what happened to those who were claimed by the King. He wanted the image of her—bound, trembling, half-naked and weeping—to burn into their minds as a warning. This is what becomes of those who stand against me. This is how easily I can reduce a princess to a trembling creature. This is how thoroughly I can break what others seek to protect.

The four councilmen leaned forward in their seats, their eyes raking over her exposed skin with a hunger that made her stomach churn. They did not touch her—they would not dare without the King's permission—but their gazes were violations in themselves.

They looked at the way her bra strained against her breasts, the dark bruises from previous nights visible along her collarbones. They looked at her narrow waist, the skirt clinging to her hips, imagining what lay beneath. They looked at her tear-streaked face, her swollen eyes, her parted lips gasping for breath.

"Look at those tits," the first councilman rasped, his voice thick with lust. "Begging to be squeezed. The King has marked them well."

"She's just a warm hole for king use," the second muttered, adjusting his robes. "A pretty little fucktoy to keep the King satisfied."

"I'd pay gold to see her on her knees," the third groaned, his eyes fixed on her bound arms thrusting her chest forward. "Servicing His Majesty like the whore she is."

"The skirt should be torn off," the fourth suggested, his tongue darting across his lips. "We should see if her cunt is as wet as her eyes."

The vulgar cheap words washed over Y/N like filthy water—degrading, objectifying, reducing her to nothing but holes and flesh for royal pleasure.

She stood there crying, her sobs echoing softly in the chamber, her body swaying slightly from exhaustion and fear. Each crude comment was another nail in the coffin of her dignity, another reminder that she was property, not person.

After twenty minutes of this psychological torture—long enough for the message to be etched into stone—Jungkook rose from his throne.

"Enough," he commanded, his voice cutting through the crude commentary.

He descended the steps slowly, his boots clicking against marble, his bare chest rippling in the torchlight. He approached Y/N and stopped before her, his shadow swallowing her whole. With rough hands, he untied the ropes binding her wrists, massaging the red marks his bonds had left. Then, in a gesture that seemed almost tender but was purely calculated, he guided her down onto his lap, positioning her so she sat astride him in the center of the throne room.

She collapsed against him, too weak to resist, her head falling against his shoulder, her body fitting against his like a puzzle piece forced into place.

"You are dismissed," Jungkook barked at the councilmen, his arms wrapping around Y/N's waist.

The four men rose, bowing deeply, their eyes lingering on Y/N's half-naked form one last time before they scurried from the chamber like rats fleeing light.

When the doors closed, silence reigned absolute.

Jungkook took Y/N's chin in his hand—rough, calloused fingers gripping her jaw with bruising gentleness—and tilted her face up to meet his gaze. His eyes burned into hers—black, predatory, bottomless.

"Do you get," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her bones, "what will happen if anyone goes against me?"

Y/N stared into those eyes and saw her own destruction reflected there. She saw the truth of his power—not just over her body, but over everyone she loved, everyone she had left behind. She saw the armies he could summon, the villages he could burn, the lives he could snuff out with a single command. She understood, in that moment, that her suffering was not merely personal—it was political. It was a demonstration. It was the King's way of showing his son, his court, his kingdom, that his word was absolute law.

She nodded.

She did not have the energy to speak—her voice had been screamed away, cried away, beaten away over nights of abuse. She was empty, a hollow vessel filled only with fear.

Jungkook held her gaze for a long moment, searching for any spark of defiance, any ember of resistance. He found none. She was broken. She was his.

He leaned forward and kissed her—a brutal, claiming press of his lips against hers that tasted of power and possession. It was not a kiss of affection; it was a seal, a brand, a reminder that her mouth belonged to him to use as he pleased. When he pulled back, her lips were swollen, her eyes glazed with tears.

"Maids!" he called out, his voice carrying through the chamber.

The doors opened, and two young servant girls entered, their eyes carefully lowered, their faces pale. They carried a fresh set of garments—fine silk robes in royal blue, undergarments of the softest cotton, a new bra and skirt to replace the soiled, torn ones she wore.

"Leave them and go," Jungkook commanded.

The maids placed the clothes on a nearby table and retreated quickly, closing the doors behind them.

Jungkook released Y/N from his lap and stood, gesturing to the fresh garments. "Remove your skirt," he ordered. "Wear the new set."

Y/N did not resist. She was too afraid—afraid of what he might do if she delayed, afraid of the consequences of disobedience that had been so vividly demonstrated. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the tie of her skirt, loosening the knot with fumbling hands. The fabric pooled at her feet, leaving her in only her bra and undergarments. She stepped out of the discarded garment, naked save for the thin veil of her remaining clothes, and reached for the new set.

She dressed slowly, mechanically, aware of his eyes on her every movement.

She stepped into the fresh skirt, tying it with shaking fingers. She pulled the silk robe over her shoulders, covering herself finally, the fabric heavy and luxurious against her battered body.

When she was fully dressed, Jungkook approached her once more. Without a word, he scooped her into his arms—bridal style, as if she were a precious thing—and carried her from the throne room.

He walked through the corridors of the palace, past guards who averted their eyes, past servants who scurried into shadows, until he reached her chamber.

He laid her gently upon the bed, arranging her limbs with surprising tenderness, pulling the covers up to her chin.

"You need rest," he murmured, his hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Sleep, little bride.

Tomorrow, you serve your King again."

Then he turned and left, closing the door softly behind him, leaving her alone in the silence of her ruined sanctuary.

Prince Jeon heard the news from a whispering maid, her eyes wide with gossip and fear. He heard how his wife had been bound in the throne room, how she had been displayed before the councilmen like a prize, how she had sat upon his father's lap while crude words were spoken of her flesh.

He screamed.

The sound tore from his throat—a raw, animal howl of anguish that echoed through the guest chamber, through the corridors, through the very foundation of the palace. He screamed until his voice broke, until blood flecked his lips, until he collapsed to his knees, his hands tearing at his own hair.

He felt shattered—broken into pieces so small they could never be reassembled. He had failed her. Again. He had stood in the garden burning with hate while his father displayed his wife's vulnerability to old men with filthy mouths. He had done nothing. He could do nothing.

The realization settled into his bones like a terminal illness—he was powerless. Completely, utterly powerless.

He went quiet after that. The fire in his veins cooled to ash. He stopped speaking, stopped eating, stopped existing as anything but a ghost haunting the guest chamber. He began sleeping there, on the narrow bed meant for visitors, refusing to return to the bridal chamber, refusing to come face to face with his father or his wife.

He could not look at Jungkook without seeing the hands that had bound her. He could not look at Y/N without seeing his own failure reflected in her broken eyes.

Queen Myung visited him daily, her face etched with worry, her hands carrying trays of food he would not touch, books he would not read, words he would not hear. She sat with him in silence, trying to make him less lonely, trying to bridge the chasm of his despair with her presence. But her comfort was hollow—she was as much a prisoner as he was, as Y/N was. They were all Jungkook's captives, serving life sentences in his golden cage.

And Jungkook—satisfied that his message had been received, that his power had been demonstrated, that his son had been thoroughly broken—returned to his routine.

Every alternate day, he came to Y/N's chamber. He did not ask permission. He did not offer gentleness. He simply took—pushing her onto the bed, lifting her skirts, using her body with the efficiency of a man using a tool designed for his pleasure. He fucked her hard and fast, or slow and deep, depending on his mood. He filled her with his seed, marked her with his mouth, claimed her in every way a man can claim a woman.

And Y/N did not resist.

She lay beneath him like a doll, her eyes staring at the canopy above, her body moving only as he directed it. She let him do what he wanted—opening her legs when he commanded, turning when he ordered, swallowing when he forced. She had learned the lesson of the throne room. She understood that resistance brought only greater suffering, not just for her, but for everyone she loved.

She was not his daughter in law she was the King's whore. The King's possession. The King's living warning to anyone who might think to defy him.

And in the silence of her chamber, as Jungkook spent himself inside her and rose to leave, Y/N closed her eyes and prayed for the strength to survive another day.