Ruthless Lord 2

Cora POV

The King has spared no expense for his son’s wedding. When the carriage arrives at the gates of the fortress, it is impossible to miss, an enormous construct of black and gold, gleaming like a gilded cage. The panels are carved with intricate patterns of lions and crowns, every inch polished to perfection, as though meant to remind us of the King’s wealth and power. Even the wheels are rimmed in gold, heavy and ostentatious, grinding against the stone with a sound that feels more like chains than celebration.

Mika stands nearby, laughter spilling from him as though he cannot help himself. “Paraded like the King’s prized goats,” his grin seems to say, and I know he is right. This carriage is not meant to honor us, it is meant to display us, to show the world that even Garrion and I bend to the King’s will.

I glance at Garrion. His mask is firmly in place, hiding his face from the world. It is the first time I have seen it since his running with the wolves, and its return unsettles me. He watches the carriage with open disgust, his jaw tight, his eyes cold.

King has sent his men to escort us, their armor gleaming, their eyes sharp. There is no room for disobedience. Any refusal, any hint of defiance, would be carried back to the King, twisted into a tale of rebellion.

So we stand before the carriage, bound by duty, by appearances, by the weight of a crown that is not ours. And though Garrion’s mask hides his face, I can feel the storm brewing beneath it.

I had Bira prepare lavish gowns for our visit, each one unique, each one designed to capture the elegance reserved for the royal court. Silks in deep jewel tones, embroidery threaded with gold, hems that whisper of power and refinement.

And yet, as I think of them folded carefully in our trunks, a flicker of doubt gnaws at me. Will I still fit them when we arrive? Soma reassured me that so early on, no noticeable signs of pregnancy will show for another two months. Still, the thought lingers, heavy and secret, tucked beneath the layers of fabric and duty.

Garrion takes my hand as we settle into the carriage, his grip steady, grounding me against the unease. Outside, the King’s men move with precision, loading our belongings at the back. Their armor gleams, their faces unreadable, a reminder that every step we take is watched, every breath measured against the King’s expectations.

Mika leans in at the last moment, his grin wide, his tone teasing. “Try not to start a war while you’re there, Garrion. I’m enjoying being at home.”

The words hang in the air, lighthearted but edged with truth. Garrion’s jaw tightens, his mask of composure slipping just enough for me to see the storm beneath. He slams the carriage door shut with deliberate force, the heavy wood closing inches from Mika’s face.

The sound reverberates like a warning, sharp and final. Garrion settles back beside me, his hand still wrapped around mine, his silence louder than any retort.

Garrion exhales heavily, the sound more like a burden being released than a simple sigh. He leans his head back against the velvet cushion of the carriage, his eyes closing for a moment as though searching for strength in the silence.

“All will be alright,” I whisper, reaching for his hand. My fingers curl around his, giving a gentle squeeze meant to anchor him, to remind him he is not alone in this.

He nods, but the gesture is muted, his lips pressed into a thin line. Words fail him, yet his hand speaks louder than any vow. It slides across my stomach, slow and gentle, resting there with a weight that feels protective, almost desperate. As though by touch alone he could shield our unborn child from the dangers of this world, from the King’s reach, from the shadows that haunt us.

His eyes open, and when they meet mine, they are filled with fear and determination tangled together. “What are we going to do, Cora?” His voice is low, rough, carrying the weight of a man who has fought battles but now faces one unlike any other. “How do we protect what’s ours?”

The question hangs between us, heavy and sacred. It is not just about survival, it is about love, about defiance, about the promise of a future we will carve out no matter the cost.

I press my forehead to his, letting the closeness speak where words falter. “We will protect it,” I murmur, my voice steady despite the fear inside of me. And in that moment, I feel his resolve harden. Garrion is no longer just a lord, no longer just a warrior, he is a father already, and nothing in this kingdom, not even the King himself, will take that from us.

“Well, I’ve been giving this a lot of thought,” I say, my voice steady though my heart races. Garrion smirks, the curve of his lips both teasing and challenging.

“And?” he prompts, his tone playful, though I can see the sharpness in his eyes.

“The King has made a mistake arranging marriage to Helga Vorath,” I reply.

He slides his mask from his face, revealing the full weight of his attention. “How?”

I draw in a breath, gathering my thoughts. “My brother will be the next General of the southern armies. I am married to you, the General of the northern armies. And my sister Agatha is married to Kael Vorath, the future General of the western armies.”

Garrion frowns, confusion flickering across his features. “I still don’t see your point.”

I lean closer, my voice low. “Those three regions command the largest armies in the kingdom. And three of Tharion’s children are tied to those armies. That is no coincidence, it is power, concentrated in bloodlines the King cannot control.”

His teasing smile returns as he pulls me onto his lap, his breath warm against my neck. “So you think my men will follow you to war?”

I shiver at his touch, my voice breaking into a soft moan. “No. But they will follow you. And you will follow me.”

His lips brush my skin. “So what do you suggest?”

“If we can bring my brother and Kael to our side, perhaps we can force the King into a bargain, one where our children are left untouched, free from his reach.”

Garrion shakes his head, his voice grim. “He will never allow that.”

“You never know,” I counter, my tone sharp with conviction. “Generals command the armies, not the King. If you were to withdraw your support, he would be vulnerable. And if he refuses…” My voice hardens, the words tasting of steel. “Then we will kill him. And his whole bloodline.”

He chuckles softly, though there is no humor in it. “And they say I am the ruthless one.”

I take his hand and place it firmly against my stomach, my voice trembling with fierce protectiveness. “I want to protect what is ours.”

His eyes soften, though his tone remains calm, measured. “We will need to think this through, Cora. What you are suggesting is treason.”

“I can handle my brother,” I insist. “His child is due soon. He will understand what it means to protect family. Agatha will be harder, she hates me, but perhaps she will see reason if it involves her child.”

Garrion tilts his head, his bluntness cutting through the haze. “Does she? I don’t recall seeing her or her husband at our wedding.”

I close my eyes, steadying my mind against the storm of possibilities. “I don’t know. But we will find out soon enough."

The journey to the capital takes six long days by carriage, each mile grinding against my patience. I told Garrion that when we return for Nordvaar, we will take the horses, swift, free, and far less suffocating than this gilded box. He agreed with a quiet nod, though I could see the same thought already burning in his eyes.

By the time we finally arrive, night has fallen. The capital greets us not with crowds or fanfare, but with silence and candlelight. Every street glows with hundreds of flickering flames, lining the cobblestones and windows, casting the city in a whimsical, almost dreamlike haze. Shadows dance across the walls, and for a moment, it feels less like a royal seat of power and more like a place bewitched.

Yet something unsettles me. We are greeted only by servants, no nobles, no officials, no curious onlookers. Interesting. For a wedding that has consumed the kingdom’s attention, the absence of welcome feels deliberate.

“Lord and Lady Darkmoor, welcome,” a tall man with greying hair says quietly, bowing with practiced grace. His voice is low, almost cautious, as though he fears being overheard.

“The King sends his apologies,” he continues, straightening. “He will greet you both in the morning, at breakfast.”

I exchange a glance with Garrion. His mask hides his expression, but I know him too well. The King’s absence is no accident, it is a message. Whether insult or strategy, I cannot yet tell. But the candlelit streets, the quiet servants, and the missing faces all whisper the same truth: we are being watched, measured, and perhaps tested.

He leads us deeper into the castle, and with each step I struggle to believe the extravagance surrounding us. Marble floors gleam beneath our boots, chandeliers drip with crystal light, and the air itself seems perfumed with wealth.

When at last we are shown to our quarters, I pause at the threshold, breath catching in my throat. The room is vast, larger than the great hall of Nordvaar itself, or so it feels. The ceilings soar high above us, painted with golden filigree and scenes of kings long past, their faces watching from the walls like silent judges.

A separate bathing chamber lies beyond a carved archway, its copper basins polished to a mirror’s shine. To the left, a walk-in dressing room stretches like a gallery, lined with wardrobes of carved oak and gilded mirrors, each space designed to hold garments fit for royalty.

And then there is the bed. It dominates the chamber, draped in silks and velvet, so immense that five people could lie across it and still have room to move. Pillars carved with vines rise at each corner, supporting a canopy of embroidered fabric that glows softly in the candlelight.

Every detail speaks of excess the rugs woven with threads of gold, the heavy curtains that could block out the sun itself, the balcony doors opening onto the city lights below. It is a room not meant for comfort alone, but for display, a reminder of the King’s power and wealth.

Our belongings are carried into the dressing room, the servants moving with quiet efficiency as they begin to unpack silks and leathers, folding them into gilded wardrobes as though they belonged here. Their hands linger over fabrics, their eyes darting toward me for approval.

“Leave us,” I state bluntly, my tone sharp enough to cut through the rustle of cloth. They freeze, confusion flickering across their faces.

“My lady, we are here to help with anything you need,” an older woman replies, bowing her head respectfully. “The bath is already prepared, and when you are finished, we will set one for Lord Darkmoor.”

Before I can answer, Garrion’s voice cuts through the chamber like steel. “My wife said leave us.” His tone is cold, dark, stripped of emotion. The servants pale instantly, their composure breaking, and they scurry from the room as though fleeing a shadow.

Silence settles, heavy but welcome. I exhale, tension easing from my shoulders. “Thank you,” I murmur, turning toward the bathing chamber.

The sight steals my breath. A grand bath sits in the center, steaming hot, its surface shimmering beneath the glow of candlelight. The air is thick with the soothing scent of lavender and camomile, filling my lungs, calming the storm inside me. The marble floor gleams, and carved basins overflow with fresh water, as though the King himself had ordered this indulgence.

Behind me, Garrion’s voice softens, teasing now, stripped of the cold edge he had shown the servants. “Do I need to hire an architect to make adjustments to our room at home?”

I turn to face him, a smile tugging at my lips despite the weight of the day. “Don’t even think about it. I am happy with what we have.”

My hands reach for his mask, and I lift it gently from his face. Setting it down on the counter, I meet his eyes fully, unshielded, raw, and real. In this moment, there is no King, no fortress, no looming threat, only us, stripped of pretense, standing together in the quiet luxury of a borrowed room.