I spat in the face of kings from my hedgerow cottage.
Until royal guards chained my wrists and marched me through smoke-veiled corridors to his velvet-draped throne. A commoner like me, they said, perfect for breeding the heir his barren queens couldn't give. Defile my body with sovereign seed or face the block. Simple as that.
But nothing's simple when he looms there, this shadowed monarch whose gravel voice unravels my snarls like thread from a spool. He should be just tyranny in flesh, a strategist devouring lives for his line. Instead, his eyes hold a crack, a raw ache mirroring the one I bury deep. I crave that vulnerability, the bared throat beneath the crown, even as I claw against it.
Our first clash happens behind a trembling velvet curtain, his breath fire-hot on my lips without the mercy of a kiss. Then sweat seals us to a tower window's chill frame, city lights mocking my gasps. Anger welds our bodies in hearth flicker, every yielding inch a war cry disguised as moan. Shame twists with bliss, my resistance fracturing under thrusts that demand heirs and souls alike.
One whisper of our tangled truth, and deadly courtiers circle like wolves. My scraped-together freedoms shatter. His throne topples under alliance knives. Worst? The heart I armored against love, now pounding traitor rhythms for the man who owns me.
Gods help me, I burn to fight him forever. Or surrender and watch us both break.
