Chapter 5: The King Kneels in the Dark
The corridor was a vein of ice.
Gavin moved through it barefoot, his shirt untucked, his breeches unlaced. The stone bit into his soles with every step, but he didn't feel it. He couldn't feel anything except the phantom weight of her body beneath his hands, the taste of her still coating his tongue like honey and sin.
He'd tried to sleep.
For three hours, he'd lain in his massive bed, staring at the canopy, counting the cracks in the ceiling. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her—silver hair spread across his pillow, pale green eyes dark with want, lips parted around his name. Every time he breathed, he smelled her—jasmine and musk and something wilder underneath, something that made his chest ache and his cock twitch against his thigh.
The castle was silent.
No servants, no guards, no ladies whispering in the shadows. Just him and the cold and the desperate, gnawing need that had driven him from his bed like a man possessed.
He didn't knock.
The door swung open beneath his palm, and he stepped into her chamber like he belonged there.
She was awake.
Seraphina sat in the chair by the fire, her legs tucked beneath her, a book open in her lap. Her shift was thin—so thin he could see the outline of her nipples through the fabric, could trace the curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts with his eyes alone. Her hair was loose, cascading over her shoulders in a river of silver and gold, and her feet were bare, toes curled against the fur rug beneath the chair.
She looked up when he entered.
No surprise. No fear. No pretense of modesty or shock. She simply closed her book, set it aside, and met his gaze with those pale green eyes that saw too much.
"You came back," she said.
"I couldn't stay away."
"I know."
He stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his hands clenched at his sides. He felt like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing he was about to jump but unable to stop himself.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he admitted.
"Neither do I."
"This isn't—" He stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. "This isn't how it's supposed to work. I'm the king. I'm supposed to be in control. I'm supposed to—"
"Gavin." Her voice was soft but firm, cutting through his spiraling thoughts like a blade. "Stop talking."
He closed his mouth.
She rose from the chair, and the firelight caught her from behind, turning her shift translucent. He could see everything—the dark circles of her nipples, the shadow between her thighs, the gentle curve of her belly. His mouth went dry.
"Come here," she said.
He went.
He crossed the room in three long strides, but when he reached her, he didn't touch her. He couldn't. His hands hovered at his sides, trembling, and he looked down at her with something that felt terrifyingly like desperation.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said.
"You've already hurt me."
"I know."
"I don't care."
He blinked. "What?"
She reached up and touched his face, her fingers cool against his flushed skin. "I don't care that you've hurt me. I don't care that you're a monster. I don't care that this is going to destroy me." She smiled—a sad, knowing smile that made his chest crack open. "I want you anyway."
Something inside him snapped.
He kissed her.
Not gentle. Not tender. This was hunger, raw and unbridled, months of denial and weeks of obsession crashing together in a single moment. He fisted his hand in her hair and pulled her head back, devouring her mouth like a starving man, and she kissed him back with equal ferocity, her nails raking down his chest, tearing at the buttons of his shirt.
"Off," she gasped against his lips. "Take it off."
He tore the shirt over his head and tossed it aside. His breeches followed, kicked into the shadows, and then he was naked before her—every scar, every muscle, every inch of him laid bare.
Seraphina stepped back.
Her eyes traveled down his body, slow and deliberate, taking in the broad planes of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen, the thick, heavy cock already hard and leaking against his thigh. She licked her lips, and Gavin nearly came from the sight alone.
"You're beautiful," she murmured.
"I don't want to be beautiful." He reached for her, but she stepped back again, out of reach.
"Then what do you want?"
"I want—" He stopped. The words tangled in his throat, too raw, too honest. He couldn't say them. He couldn't admit what he'd been feeling since the moment she'd walked into his court and refused to bow.
She tilted her head. "You want what?"
"I want to taste you."
The words came out rough, broken, nothing like the commanding tone he used with everyone else. He wasn't commanding her. He was begging.
And she knew it.
"Then taste me," she said.
She didn't wait for him to move. She pulled her shift over her head and let it fall to the floor, revealing every inch of her body in the flickering firelight. Full breasts with dark, pebbled nipples. A narrow waist that curved into generous hips. A thatch of silver-blonde curls at the apex of her thighs, already glistening with want.
Gavin dropped to his knees.
He didn't think. He didn't plan. He simply fell, his hands finding her hips, his mouth pressing hot and open against her stomach. She gasped, her fingers threading through his hair, and he worked his way lower—kissing the curve of her hip, the inside of her thigh, the soft skin just above her cunt.
"Gavin—"
He buried his face between her legs.
The taste hit him like a blow. Salt and honey and musk, so fucking good his eyes rolled back in his head. He licked her from hole to clit in one slow, deliberate stroke, and she moaned—a high, desperate sound that echoed off the stone walls.
"Fuck," she breathed. "Fuck, Gavin—"
He didn't answer. He couldn't. His mouth was too busy, his tongue too deep inside her, lapping at her like she was the last drop of water in a desert. He pushed her legs wider apart, opening her up, and then he dove in—sucking her clit between his lips, flicking it with the tip of his tongue, driving her wild.
Her fingers tightened in his hair.
"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, god, right there—"
He could feel her thighs trembling against his cheeks, could taste how close she was, could hear the way her breath was coming faster and faster. He slid two fingers inside her and curled them upward, finding that spot that made her scream, and then he sucked her clit hard and fast until she shattered.
She came with his name on her lips.
He didn't stop.
He kept licking her through the aftershocks, gentler now but still relentless, his tongue flicking over her clit in soft, steady strokes. She bucked against him, oversensitive, but he held her hips in place and kept going, drinking every drop.
"Gavin, please—" Her voice was broken, desperate. "Please, I can't—"
"You can." He lifted his head just enough to speak, his lips slick with her juices. "You can, and you will."
Then he went back to work.
He ate her out until she came again—a second, sharper orgasm that made her collapse against him, her legs giving out, her weight sagging into his arms. He caught her easily and lifted her onto the bed, spreading her legs wide and settling between them.
"Look at me," he commanded.
She opened her eyes.
Her face was flushed, her lips swollen, her hair a wild tangle around her head. She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"I'm going to fuck you now," he said. "And I'm going to be gentle, because I want you to remember this. I want you to remember that I can be gentle. That I can be something other than a monster."
"You are a monster."
"Yes." He positioned himself at her entrance. "But I'm your monster."
He pushed inside her.
She was tight and wet and perfect, her cunt gripping him like a fist. He groaned, dropping his forehead to hers, and held still for a moment—just breathing, just feeling, just letting himself be here with her.
"Move," she whispered.
So he moved.
Long, slow strokes. Deep and deliberate. He fucked her like he was trying to memorize the shape of her, the feel of her, the sound of her breath hitching every time he bottomed out. He braced himself on his forearms and looked down at her face, watching every flicker of pleasure that crossed her features.
"This perfect cunt," he murmured. "This stubborn mouth. This woman who won't bow."
She arched beneath him, her nails digging into his back. "Gavin—"
"Shut up and take it."
She laughed—a breathless, incredulous sound—and then moaned as he angled his hips and hit a deeper spot. He did it again, harder, and her laugh turned into a sob.
"Please," she gasped. "Please, don't stop—"
"I won't."
He fucked her faster now, the bed creaking beneath them, the fire casting wild shadows on the walls. Sweat slicked their bodies, and he could feel his climax building at the base of his spine—hot and tight and inevitable.
"Come with me," he said. "Come with me, Seraphina. I want to feel you."
She shattered.
Her cunt clenched around him like a vice, and she cried out—a raw, primal sound that tore through the silence of the room. He followed her over the edge, spilling inside her with a groan, his body collapsing onto hers.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
He lay on top of her, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his breath hot against her neck. He could hear her heartbeat—fast, then slowing—and feel her hands stroking up and down his spine.
"I'm yours," he whispered.
The words hung in the air like a confession.
She didn't respond. She just kept stroking his back, her touch gentle, her breath steady. And Gavin, exhausted and empty and terrified of what he'd just admitted, closed his eyes and let himself drift.
He fell asleep on her chest.
Seraphina lay still beneath him, her fingers moving through his hair. She could feel the weight of him—the broad shoulders, the heavy cock still half-hard against her thigh, the slow, steady rhythm of his breath.
He looked younger when he slept.
Less like a king. Less like a monster. More like a boy who had been given too much power too young, who had learned to wield cruelty because he didn't know how to be kind.
She should hate him.
She should push him off her and walk away, go back to the North, forget she'd ever met him. She should save herself while she still could.
But she didn't.
She held him instead.
Her eyes drifted to the map on the wall—the frayed edges where her fingers had traced the borders, the pins marking the northern packs, the ink lines showing rivers and mountains and roads. She'd spent hours staring at it, memorizing the geography of his kingdom, planning the routes she might take if she needed to escape.
She wouldn't need to escape.
She'd already decided.
She would stay. She would be his mate, his queen, the woman who stood beside him. But she would not let him destroy her. She would not let him grind her down until there was nothing left but a shadow of the woman she'd been.
If he tried—if he ever tried—she would destroy him first.
Her fingers tightened in his hair.
He stirred, murmuring something unintelligible, and she loosened her grip. She traced the curve of his ear, the line of his jaw, the soft skin beneath his eye.
He was beautiful.
He was dangerous.
He was hers.
And she was going to be the death of him.
The fire burned low. The shadows deepened. And Seraphina lay awake, stroking the hair of the king who had claimed her, and plotted.
He woke to the taste of her still on his tongue.
The fire had burned down to embers, casting the room in a dim, orange glow that made shadows dance across the ceiling. Gavin blinked, disoriented, and felt the soft weight of her fingers still tangled in his hair. He was sprawled across her chest, his cheek pressed to the steady thrum of her heartbeat, his arms wrapped around her waist like she might vanish if he let go.
He lifted his head.
Seraphina was awake. She had been awake for hours, if the shadows under her eyes meant anything. She looked down at him with an expression he couldn't read—something caught between tenderness and calculation, warmth and wariness.
"Morning," she said.
"Is it?"
"Almost." She gestured toward the window, where the first blush of dawn was bleeding through the curtains. "You slept for a while."
"I never sleep."
"You did tonight."
He shifted, propping himself up on his elbows, and felt the sticky evidence of their night together still cooling on his skin. His cock stirred at the memory—her thighs clenching around his head, her cunt gripping his fingers, the taste of her second orgasm flooding his mouth.
He should say something.
Something meaningful, something that acknowledged what had happened between them. Something that didn't sound like a king issuing a decree or a monster making excuses.
"Seraphina—"
"Don't." She pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. "Whatever you're about to say, don't say it yet."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not ready to hear it." She shifted beneath him, and the movement made him acutely aware of her nakedness—the soft curve of her hip against his thigh, the brush of her nipple against his chest. "And you're not ready to mean it."
He wanted to argue.
He wanted to tell her that he'd meant every word he'd whispered into her ear, every filthy promise, every broken confession. He wanted to tell her that "I'm yours" wasn't just a phrase he'd used in the heat of the moment—it was a truth that terrified him more than any battlefield ever had.
But she was right.
He wasn't ready.
So he kissed her instead.
It was soft this time—a gentle press of lips against hers, no urgency, no hunger. Just a question. Just a promise. She kissed him back, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, and for a moment, the world outside this room ceased to exist.
Then someone knocked on the door.
Gavin froze.
Seraphina went rigid beneath him, her eyes flying to the door. The knock came again—sharper this time, more insistent—and a voice followed, muffled by the thick wood.
"Lady Seraphina? The council has summoned you to the Great Hall."
Gavin's blood turned to ice.
He knew that voice. It belonged to one of the palace stewards, a nervous man named Edmund who had served his father before him. The council didn't summon ladies to the Great Hall. Not unless something had gone wrong.
"I'll be there shortly," Seraphina called out, her voice steady despite the tension in her body.
Footsteps retreated down the corridor.
Gavin rolled off her and sat up, running his hands through his hair. His clothes were scattered across the floor, his shirt crumpled near the hearth, his breeches tangled with her discarded shift. He looked at the mess and felt something cold settle in his chest.
"The council," he said.
"Yes."
"They know."
"Probably." Seraphina sat up, pulling the sheet to her chest. "They always know."
Gavin stood, his mind already racing ahead. The council had been pushing him for months—first to find a mate, then to announce his choice, then to formalize the bond before the winter solstice. He had stalled, deflected, delayed, hoping to buy himself more time.
Now time had run out.
He dressed quickly, his movements mechanical. Breeches, shirt, boots. He didn't bother with the buttons, didn't bother with his belt. The council would see him as he was—disheveled, guilty, caught.
Let them.
"I have to go," he said.
"I know."
He paused at the door and turned back. Seraphina was still in bed, the sheet wrapped around her like armor. Her hair was a wild tangle of silver and gold, and her lips were swollen from his kisses. She looked like a woman who had been thoroughly fucked and didn't regret a single moment of it.
"I'll handle the council," he said.
"I'm sure you will."
"Seraphina—"
"Go." She gestured toward the door. "They're waiting."
He went.
The Great Hall was colder than he remembered.
The braziers had been lit, but the flames did little to cut through the chill that had settled into the stone overnight. The council members were assembled at the long table beneath the throne—seven alphas, all of them old enough to be his father, all of them watching him with expressions that ranged from disapproval to contempt.
Lord Marcus stood at the far end of the table.
His face was pale, his jaw tight, and Gavin knew immediately that something was wrong. Marcus had been his closest friend since childhood, his most trusted advisor, the only person who could tell him the truth without fear of punishment. But now he looked like a man who had swallowed glass.
"Your Majesty," Marcus said, inclining his head.
"Lord Marcus." Gavin took his seat at the head of the table, trying to project confidence he didn't feel. "You summoned me."
"The council summoned you." Marcus glanced at the others, then back at Gavin. "There's been a development."
"What kind of development?"
Lord Aldric, the oldest and most conservative member of the council, cleared his throat. He was a thin, sour man with eyes like chips of flint and a voice that could curdle milk.
"The kind that requires immediate action," Aldric said. "The other packs are growing restless. They've heard about your... dalliances. They've heard about your refusal to choose a mate. And now—"
"Now what?"
Aldric's lips thinned. "Now they've heard about what you did in this very hall yesterday. The public claiming of Lady Voss. The... demonstration."
Gavin felt the blood drain from his face.
He hadn't thought. He hadn't considered the consequences. He'd been so focused on asserting his dominance, on proving his point, on punishing Seraphina for the crime of making him feel something—he'd forgotten that the walls had ears.
"That was a private matter," he said.
"Private?" Aldric laughed—a dry, humorless sound. "You fucked a woman in front of your entire court. There's nothing private about that."
The other council members murmured their agreement.
Gavin's hands curled into fists beneath the table. He wanted to lunge across the table and smash Aldric's smug face into the wood. He wanted to remind them all who was king, who held the power, who could have them executed with a single word.
But that would only prove their point.
"The packs are demanding assurance," Marcus said quietly. "They want to know that you're serious about finding a mate. They want to know that you're not going to run this kingdom into the ground with your reckless behavior."
"I'm not—"
"They've given us an ultimatum." Marcus met his eyes, and there was something like sympathy in his gaze. "You have until the end of the month to formally announce your choice. If you don't, they'll consider you unfit to rule."
The words hit Gavin like a physical blow.
Unfit to rule.
He'd been king for two years—two years of fighting, scraping, clawing his way to respect. He'd led his pack through famine and war, had negotiated treaties that his father couldn't have dreamed of, had built alliances that made Blackthorn Palace the most powerful seat in the realm.
And now they were threatening to take it all away.
Because of a woman.
"Who's behind this?" Gavin demanded. "Which pack is leading the charge?"
"The Voss family," Aldric said. "Lord Voss has made it clear that he won't accept anything less than a formal bond. His daughter was publicly claimed. If you don't follow through, he'll consider it an insult."
Gavin's stomach dropped.
Seraphina's father.
The man who had sent her to Blackthorn Palace in the first place, hoping to secure an alliance through marriage. The man who had probably heard every detail of what had happened in the Great Hall, every crude word, every filthy act.
He wouldn't just be angry.
He'd be furious.
And he had the power to destroy everything Gavin had built.
"I need time," Gavin said.
"You don't have time." Aldric leaned forward, his flinty eyes boring into Gavin's. "The council has voted. We're not asking you to choose a mate. We're telling you. Pick one of the ladies, bond with her before the solstice, or we'll find someone who will."
Gavin rose from his chair.
The movement was sudden, violent, and the council members flinched back. He was taller than all of them, broader, stronger—a wolf among sheep. And right now, he felt every inch the predator.
"You're threatening me," he said.
"We're advising you." Marcus's voice was steady, but Gavin could see the plea in his eyes. "Please, Gavin. Don't make this harder than it has to be."
Gavin stared at his friend—his oldest friend, the man who had stood by him through everything. And he realized, with a sickening lurch in his chest, that Marcus wasn't trying to trap him.
He was trying to save him.
"I'll make my choice," Gavin said.
The council members exchanged glances.
"When?" Aldric asked.
"By the end of the week."
"And you'll bond with her?"
Gavin hesitated.
The word "bond" hung in the air between them—heavy, permanent, irreversible. A binding of souls, a merging of lives, a promise that couldn't be broken except by death. He'd never wanted it. He'd spent years avoiding it, fighting it, denying that he needed it.
But now, standing in the cold hall with the weight of his kingdom pressing down on him, he realized he might not have a choice.
"Yes," he said. "I'll bond with her."
Marcus exhaled.
Aldric nodded, a thin smile curling his lips. "Good. Then we have no further business."
The council members rose and filed out of the hall, their footsteps echoing on the marble. Marcus lingered behind, waiting until the others had gone before approaching Gavin.
"You're doing the right thing," he said.
"Am I?"
"I know it doesn't feel like it now. But you'll see." Marcus clasped Gavin's shoulder. "Seraphina is a good match. She's strong, intelligent, and she doesn't let you walk all over her. That's exactly what you need."
Gavin laughed—a hollow, bitter sound. "I don't need anyone."
"We all need someone." Marcus's grip tightened. "Even kings. Especially kings."
He left.
Gavin stood alone in the Great Hall, surrounded by shadows and silence. The braziers had burned down to embers, casting the room in a dim, red glow. He looked at the throne—his throne, the seat of his power—and felt nothing but exhaustion.
He'd won.
The council had given him a choice, and he'd made it. He would bond with Seraphina, make her his mate, produce heirs, secure his legacy. Everything would be as it should be.
So why did it feel like a loss?
He didn't have an answer.
He didn't have anything except the weight of his crown and the memory of silver-blonde hair spread across his pillow.
He turned and walked back to his chambers, his footsteps echoing in the empty hall.
When he got there, he found a letter waiting for him.
It was sealed with the crest of the Voss family—a silver wolf on a field of black—and written in a hand he didn't recognize. He broke the wax and unfolded the paper, his eyes scanning the words.
Your Majesty,
I have heard of your... arrangement with my daughter. I have heard what you did to her, in your hall, in front of your court. I have heard the words you called her—whore, cunt, silver-haired bitch. And I will tell you this: if you do not bond with Seraphina by the end of the month, I will ensure that the entire realm knows what kind of man sits on Blackthorn's throne.
I will tell them about the women you've bedded and discarded. I will tell them about the promises you've broken and the laws you've violated. I will tell them everything, and I will watch as your kingdom crumbles around you.
You have until the solstice.
Lord Voss.
Gavin crumpled the letter in his fist.
His heart was pounding, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He wanted to burn the letter, burn the palace, burn everything. He wanted to find Lord Voss and tear his throat out with his teeth.
But he couldn't.
Lord Voss was too powerful, too connected, too beloved by the other packs. If Gavin attacked him, he'd start a war he couldn't win. If Gavin defied him, he'd lose everything he'd worked for.
If Gavin refused to bond with Seraphina, he'd be destroyed.
He sank onto the edge of his bed, the crumpled letter still clutched in his hand. The ghost of her taste still lingered on his tongue, and he could still feel the imprint of her body against his.
He had spent two years running from this.
Two years of bedding women whose names he forgot, of refusing to let anyone close, of pretending that he didn't need anyone. And now, in a matter of days, he would be forced to bind himself to a woman who drove him insane—a woman who challenged him, infuriated him, made him feel things he'd never wanted to feel.
He should be grateful.
He should be relieved that he'd found someone worth bonding with.
But all he felt was trapped.
His jaw clenched.
He pulled on his boots, grabbed his coat, and stalked out of the room. He didn't know where he was going—only that he needed to move, needed to breathe, needed to get away from the walls that were closing in around him.
He found himself in the lower wing of the palace.
The servants' quarters.
He didn't come here often—only when he needed something he couldn't get in his own chambers. Privacy. Anonymity. A warm body that wouldn't talk.
He stopped at a door at the end of the corridor and knocked.
A moment later, it opened.
Elara stood in the doorway—his favorite of the palace maids, though he was too careful to ever say so. She was a beta wolf with soft brown hair and eyes the color of warm honey. She'd never asked for anything from him, never expected a promise or a future, never looked at him with hope in her eyes.
That was why he'd picked her.
"Your Majesty." She dipped into a curtsy. "I didn't expect you."
"I know." He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "I need—"
"I know what you need."
She reached for him.
He let her.
Her hands found the buttons of his shirt, pulling them open, and he stood still, letting her undress him. There was no ceremony, no pretense—just the practical movements of a woman who had done this before and a man who needed to stop thinking.
"Rough?" she asked.
"Please."
She pushed him onto the bed.
He landed on his back, and she climbed on top of him, her knees straddling his hips. Her nightgown had already been discarded on the floor, and he traced her body with his eyes—full breasts, soft curves, skin that smelled like lavender soap.
"Don't talk," he said.
"Wasn't planning to."
She reached down and freed his cock from his breeches. He was already hard enough to ache, and she stroked him slowly, her fingers wrapping around his length with practiced ease. A groan escaped his lips, and he closed his eyes.
She lowered her mouth to his cock.
Her lips parted, taking the head between them, and she sucked. The wet heat of her mouth drew a shudder from him, and he threaded his fingers through her hair, pushing her down gently.
She took him deeper.
Her tongue worked along the shaft, her throat relaxing to accommodate his size. Gavin gripped the sheets with his free hand, his hips beginning to buck upward, and she moved with him—hollowing her cheeks, swirling her tongue, bringing him dangerously close to the edge.
"Stop," he said.
She pulled back, wiping her mouth.
He grabbed her hips and flipped her onto her back.
"Spread your legs," he commanded.
She did.
He positioned himself at her entrance, and without preamble or warning, he pushed inside her. She moaned, her back arching, her nails digging into his shoulders. He started to move—hard, fast, punishing strokes that made the bed frame shake.
This wasn't about intimacy.
This was about forgetting.
He buried his face in her neck and fucked her with every ounce of fury and frustration and fear he'd been holding onto since the council's summons. She took it—all of it—her moans rising in pitch as he drove into her, harder and harder, until he felt her orgasm clench around him.
"It's okay," she whispered. "It's okay, you can let go—"
He did.
He came with a groan, spilling inside her, his body collapsing onto hers. For a moment, he lay there, panting, his mind blissfully blank.
Then the guilt hit.
He rolled off her and sat up, his hands shaking as he pulled his clothes back on. He could feel her eyes on him—curious, patient, unjudging—and hated himself for what he'd just done.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"For what?"
"For using you."
She smiled—a sad, knowing smile that twisted something in his chest. "You didn't use me. I wanted this. I always want this."
"That's not—"
"Your Majesty." She sat up, pulling the sheet to her chest. "I know what I am to you. I know what I'm not. And I've made peace with it. You don't need to apologize."
But he did.
He needed to apologize to someone—anyone—for the mess he'd made of everything. For the women he'd used, the promises he'd broken, the trust he'd destroyed.
For Seraphina.
He left Elara's chamber without another word.
The corridor was cold, and he pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders. His body was sated, but his mind was still churning—still trapped, still terrified, still spinning out of control.
He needed to see her.
He needed to tell her the truth—about the council, about her father, about the ultimatum. He needed to warn her, prepare her, give her a chance to run before this whole thing blew up in their faces.
But when he reached her door, he stopped.
He could hear her moving inside—the soft rustle of fabric, the scrape of a chair, the crackle of the fire. She was still awake, still waiting, still here.
She hadn't left.
That meant something.
Gavin rested his forehead against the door and closed his eyes.
He had until the end of the week to make his choice. But he'd already made it—he'd made it the moment he'd walked into the Great Hall and knelt at her feet.
He just didn't know if he had the courage to tell her.
He raised his hand to knock.