I was never meant to kneel.
Not to the man who torched my father's banners and claimed our castle in a night of blood and screams. Yet here I stand, draped in silks that mock my chains, his war prize turned bride before a hall of leering victors.
Hate should choke me. It doesn't. His gaze strips me bare, not with cruelty, but a hunger that mirrors the storm raging in my chest. Defiance is my only weapon, sharp words my shield. But when he pulls me close in that dim wedding chamber, sweat-slicked skin sliding under torchlight, my barbs turn to gasps.
Every touch is battle. His hands, rough from the sword hilt, map my body like conquered lands, turning surrender into something wickedly sweet. I claw back, nails raking his back, whispering venom by the crackling hearthfire where secrets spill like wine. He laughs, low and unguarded, unraveling that armored soul over shared goblets, his clumsy tenderness cracking my resolve.
It's madness. This brute who razed my world now shields me from his own wolves, his protection a velvet noose. Enmity twists into need, captive and conqueror blurring in the heat of stolen nights. Laughter echoes through sun-dappled corridors, impossible and bright, as if we could rewrite the ashes he left behind.
But oaths bind him tighter than chains bind me. My people's whispers cling like ghosts, their fragile hope pinned on my dignity. One wrong breath, one yielding glance seen by the wrong eyes, and it all crumbles. He could shatter my heart or forge it anew. Yet as his mouth claims mine, fierce and unyielding, I wonder if victory tastes like his name on my lips.
Or if I'll burn us both before dawn claims the truth.
