Chapter 1
He doesn’t knock.
The door closes behind him with a soft, deliberate click, the kind meant to sound intimate instead of intrusive. The chamber smells faintly of candle wax and old parchment, the fire burned low to embers. Moonlight spills through the tall window where I sit, pale and silver, painting the floor in long quiet bars.
I am pretending to read.
The book rests open in my lap, its spine cracked from years of comfort, but the words blur together. I have been staring at the same paragraph for too long, tracing the margins with my thumb as if repetition might turn the past into something safer.
Then warmth brushes my cheek.
His lips. Familiar. Gentle.
I startle violently, breath ripping from my chest as my body reacts before my mind can catch up. The book slips and lands face-down on the rug.
He chuckles softly, breath warm against my skin.
“Still so jumpy,” he murmurs, kissing my cheek again slower this time, lingering like he owns the moment. Like he owns me. His hands settle on my shoulders, thumbs stroking in a mockery of comfort. “You always were sensitive.”
I twist away, heart hammering, the moonlight catching the sharp line of his jaw, the softness of his mouth features I once thought kind. Thought safe.
“Don’t,” I say.
The word comes out small. I hate that.
He doesn’t move back. He steps closer, crowding my space, forcing me to tilt my head up to look at him. His eyes are calm. Patient. The same eyes that once watched me like I was something precious.
“You used to like it,” he says mildly. “When I touched you.”
“I liked it when I thought you loved me,” I snap.
Something shifts then. Not regret. Irritation.
He leans down, aiming for my lips, confident, unquestioning. I shove at his chest with both hands, panic surging, my palms stinging as they collide with solid muscle.
“You’re getting married tomorrow,” I say, breath shaking. “Don’t touch me.”
His hands snap around my wrists mid-push, twisting them down painfully between us. The movement is sharp, practiced. Not enough to bruise. Just enough to remind me he is stronger.
“You’re overreacting,” he says calmly.
Pain flares up my arms. My eyes burn. “Let go of me.”
“Stop acting hysterical.” His grip tightens when I struggle. “You always do this turn emotions into drama.”
“I imagined you wouldn’t lie to me,” I whisper.
He scoffs. “I never lied. You simply misunderstood your place.”
The words knock the breath from my lungs.
I swallow hard, my voice breaking despite my effort to keep it steady. “I thought you loved me.”
He releases one wrist only to grab my chin, fingers digging in, forcing my face up so I cannot look away. His touch is not tender now. It is corrective.
“I was kind to you,” he says. “That is not the same thing.”
Tears spill over, hot and silent, tracing my cheeks. He watches them fall like they are an inconvenience.
“You told me you wanted me,” I choke. “You said you couldn’t stop thinking about me.”
“And I meant it,” he replies easily. “Men want many things they don’t intend to ruin their lives for.”
Something caves in my chest.
“I would have chosen you,” I whisper. “I would have stood beside you. I would have given up—”
He laughs, sharp and cruel, and shoves me backward. My spine slams into the window. The glass rattles violently behind my head, the cold seeping through the fabric of my dress.
“Don’t be pathetic,” he snaps. “You were never an option.”
The word never rings in my ears.
“You came to me,” I sob. “You kissed me first. You said I was different.”
“And you believed it,” he says flatly. “That was your greatest failing.”
I try to move, to get past him, but he catches my arms and slams them above my head against the glass. The shock sends a jolt of pain through my shoulders. I cry out, the sound sharp and humiliating.
“Stop,” I plead. “Please—”
“See?” he murmurs. “Always begging. Always grateful for scraps.”
My body trembles uncontrollably now, tears sliding unchecked, my breath coming in broken pulls.
“You made me feel special,” I whisper.
“I made you feel noticed,” he corrects. “Because no one else ever bothered.”
That hurts more than the pain in my arms.
“I loved you,” I say. “Why can’t you choose me?”
His expression hardens, something ugly flashing through his eyes.
“Because you don’t deserve to be chosen,” he says. “You’re a secret. A convenience. Something warm when I was bored.”
I make a sound I don’t recognize, halfway between a sob and a gasp.
“You’re marrying my sister,” I say through tears. “How can you stand here and touch me like this?”
“Because she is my future,” he snaps. “And you are my indulgence.”
“I won’t be your mistress,” I say, my voice barely holding together.
He stills.
“You don’t get to refuse me,” he snarls. “A woman of your standing should be grateful I’d keep you.”
“My standing?” I whisper. “I’m a princess.”
He laughs, low and merciless. “You’re a tolerated mistake with a title they barely acknowledge. Blood doesn’t make you worthy.”
I try to step around him. He blocks me instantly, shoving me back against the window harder this time. My breath leaves me in a gasp.
“You enjoyed every moment,” he says. “Don’t rewrite the past just because you’re wounded.”
“You hurt me,” I sob.
“No,” he snaps. “You hurt yourself by wanting what was never offered.”
His hand slides down my waist possessively. I slap it away with the last of my strength.
“Don’t touch me.”
That finally enrages him.
His fingers close around my upper arm, crushing, dragging me closer until his face is inches from mine. I can smell wine on his breath. Heat. Anger.
“You were mine,” he hisses.
“I was never yours,” I whisper.
His grip tightens.
“You were mine every time you let me into this room,” he says. “Every tear you shed in my arms. Every time you thanked me for choosing you.”
Shame floods me, burning and suffocating.
“I trusted you.”
“And that,” he says coldly, “is hy your mistake.”
“You should be grateful,” he adds. “I would still keep you. Quietly. Comfortably. This is all a woman like you should expect.”
I lift my head, tears streaking my face, my voice raw.
“I thought you loved me.”
“I loved how easy you were,” he says. “Don’t confuse that with devotion.”
“Get out,” I whisper.
He ignores it. He always ignores what doesn’t serve him.
He steps closer, and reaches down, gripping my chin with enough force that my teeth knock together when he lifts my face. My tears smear across his thumb. He doesn’t wipe them away. He studies them.
“You really thought this would end cleanly,” he murmurs. “That I would simply walk away and spare you the consequences of believing you mattered.”
My chest tightens. “Please.”
The word tastes like ash.
“Listen to me,” he says, voice low and controlled. “Tomorrow, I will marry your sister. After that, I will be the next king of this realm.”
I shake my head, a weak denial. “You’re not king.”
“Not yet,” he corrects calmly. “But your father is old. His body is failing him piece by piece. Everyone knows it, even if no one says it aloud.”
He leans down until his mouth brushes my ear.
“And when he dies,” he continues, “I will wear the crown.”
Cold spreads through me.
“That makes it a very foolish thing,” he says softly, “for you to alienate me.”
I try to pull away. He tightens his grip.
“You should be thinking ahead,” he goes on. “Thinking about how to secure your place. How to ensure my favor.”
“I don’t want your favor,” I say, my voice breaking. “I want you gone.”
He smiles at that.
“You always say things like that when you’re frightened,” he replies. “It doesn’t make them true.”
Then he kisses me.
It is not affection. It is possession.
His mouth presses to mine, forceful and deliberate, stealing breath rather than sharing it. I twist, my hands shoving uselessly at his chest, nails scraping fabric as panic tears through me.
“Stop,” I cry, my voice muffled against his mouth.
He doesn’t.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, holding me there, keeping me still while he takes what he wants from my lips proof, perhaps, that he still can.
“This,” he murmurs against my mouth, “is you remembering who has power.”
I shove him with everything left in me. My back slams into the window again, pain flaring bright and sharp. He follows, crowding me, his body a wall I can’t get around, his presence suffocating.
“You should be grateful,” he says calmly. “A future king’s attention is not something women like you are offered twice.”
“Get away from me!” I scream.
The sound tears out of me raw, ugly, desperate. I strike his chest again, and this time he allows himself to step back, not because he must, but because he wants to.
“Leave,” I shout. “Get out of my room!”
He straightens slowly, eyes bright now not angry, not surprised. Amused.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
Then he licks his lips.
The gesture makes my stomach churn.
“You’ll learn,” he says softly. “You always do.”
“You won’t always be able to say no,” he continues evenly. “Not when I rule. Not when your safety, your comfort, your reputation depend on my goodwill.”
“I’ll tell my father,” I say, clinging to the last fragile hope I have.
He laughs low and confident.
“You’ll tell him what?” he asks. “That you invited me here? That you let me stay night after night? That you cried in my arms and begged me not to leave?”
My throat closes.
“You think anyone will believe you over me?” he continues. “Over a future king and his queen?”
I can’t breathe.
He adjusts his sleeves, smoothing himself back into the man the world believes him to be.
“Think carefully,” he says. “Defiance is a luxury. One you won’t have forever.”
He walks to the door, unhurried. Before leaving, he turns back once, eyes raking over me like I am already something owned.
“Enjoy your ability to refuse me,” he says quietly. “It won’t last.”
The door shuts.
I stand there shaking, skin burning where his hands were, his words sinking into me like poison.
