Page 17
Story: His Forbidden Princess
Court protocol keeps me rooted to my post as nobility file past to offer congratulations. I watch as men who have never spoken to Lirien beyond formal pleasantries kiss her hand and wish her happiness. I watch as women who have gossiped about her behind their fans embrace her with false sincerity. I watch as Prince Aldric plays the role of devoted betrothed, his hand occasionally resting on the small of her back in a gesture of possession.
Each touch is a knife between my ribs. Each smile she forces is a wound that will not heal.
The formal receiving line seems endless. Through it all, Lirien performs her role perfectly, the consummate princess accepting felicitations for a match she never chose, never wanted.
Only once does she glance in my direction, a fleeting moment when the press of well-wishers briefly recedes. Our eyes lock across the crowded hall, and in that instant, all pretense falls away. I see the desperation in her gaze, the silent plea for...what? Rescue? Understanding? Permission to accept her fate?
Whatever she seeks, I cannot provide it. Not here, not now, not as Captain Vorex of the royal guard.
But later, when the crowds disperse, when night falls and the palace sleeps...
The thought forms unbidden, dangerous in its allure. My duty is to accept this arrangement, to continue protecting heras she transitions to her new role, to eventually watch her leave with her prince.
Instead, for the first time in my career, I find myself planning treason.
Because I cannot—will not—watch her be given to another man. Not after last night. Not after tasting what could be.
My hands are numb, but I feel a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as rage, as possessiveness, as a decision taking shape that will either damn us both or save us.
Let them have their betrothal ceremony. Let them plan their political alliance.
They do not know what I am capable of when it comes to her. They have no idea what lines I am prepared to cross.
And neither, God help me, does she.
seven
. . .
Lirien
I dismissmy ladies as soon as propriety allows, unable to bear another moment of their excited chatter about wedding preparations and Prince Aldric's obvious charms. The moment the door closes behind them, I tear the diamonds from my ears and throat, flinging them onto my dressing table with satisfying little clinks. Fine chains tangle, earrings scatter, and I can't bring myself to care. Let them break. Let them be lost. Small rebellions are all I have left now.
My fingers work at the elaborate pins holding my hair in place, yanking them free without regard for the strands that come with them. Pain prickles my scalp, but it's a welcome distraction from the hollow ache in my chest. With each pin that clatters to the floor, I feel a fraction of the court persona slipping away, revealing the raw, wounded woman beneath.
"Princess Lirien Vellara, betrothed to Prince Aldric of Westland." I say the words aloud, testing their weight, finding them impossibly heavy. "Future queen of two united kingdoms."
The perfect political alliance. The culmination of my royal upbringing. Everything I was born to be.
And nothing I want.
I sink onto the edge of my bed, still wearing the emerald gown chosen specifically to impress my future husband. Husband. The word sticks in my throat like a fishbone. Prince Aldric seemed pleasant enough during our brief introduction—handsome in the bland way of nobility, respectful in his address, clearly pleased with the arrangement. He spoke of his kingdom with pride, of our alliance with enthusiasm, of me as if I were a particularly valuable mare he'd acquired at auction.
Not once did he ask what I wanted. Not once did he look at me and see beyond the crown.
Not like Dain.
The memory of last night rises unbidden—his hands in my hair, his mouth on mine, the scar rough against my fingertips. The way he looked at me in that safehouse, desire warring with duty. The honesty in his confession, the restraint that must have cost him dearly.
The contrast between those raw moments and today's carefully choreographed farce makes me want to scream. I press my palms against my eyes, willing back the tears that threaten. Princesses don't cry over political marriages. They accept their duty with grace and dignity.
But I don't feel like a princess tonight. I feel like a woman trapped in a gilded cage, watching her one chance at happiness slip away.
During the reception, I caught Dain's eye exactly once. That single glance nearly undid me—the barely contained fury in his expression, the possessive heat that made my skin flush despite the distance between us. For one wild moment, I imagined him cutting a path through the crowd, seizing my hand, leading me away from it all.
A fantasy, nothing more. Captain Vorex performed his duty impeccably today, as always. Standing at attention, face impassive, the perfect royal guard while his princess was promised to another man.
I rise restlessly, moving to the window that overlooks the palace gardens. Moonlight silvers the pathways and fountains, making them look like something from a fairy tale. How many times have I stared at this same view, dreaming of escape? And now, having tasted freedom for one night, the prospect of a lifetime of duty feels more suffocating than ever.
Each touch is a knife between my ribs. Each smile she forces is a wound that will not heal.
The formal receiving line seems endless. Through it all, Lirien performs her role perfectly, the consummate princess accepting felicitations for a match she never chose, never wanted.
Only once does she glance in my direction, a fleeting moment when the press of well-wishers briefly recedes. Our eyes lock across the crowded hall, and in that instant, all pretense falls away. I see the desperation in her gaze, the silent plea for...what? Rescue? Understanding? Permission to accept her fate?
Whatever she seeks, I cannot provide it. Not here, not now, not as Captain Vorex of the royal guard.
But later, when the crowds disperse, when night falls and the palace sleeps...
The thought forms unbidden, dangerous in its allure. My duty is to accept this arrangement, to continue protecting heras she transitions to her new role, to eventually watch her leave with her prince.
Instead, for the first time in my career, I find myself planning treason.
Because I cannot—will not—watch her be given to another man. Not after last night. Not after tasting what could be.
My hands are numb, but I feel a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as rage, as possessiveness, as a decision taking shape that will either damn us both or save us.
Let them have their betrothal ceremony. Let them plan their political alliance.
They do not know what I am capable of when it comes to her. They have no idea what lines I am prepared to cross.
And neither, God help me, does she.
seven
. . .
Lirien
I dismissmy ladies as soon as propriety allows, unable to bear another moment of their excited chatter about wedding preparations and Prince Aldric's obvious charms. The moment the door closes behind them, I tear the diamonds from my ears and throat, flinging them onto my dressing table with satisfying little clinks. Fine chains tangle, earrings scatter, and I can't bring myself to care. Let them break. Let them be lost. Small rebellions are all I have left now.
My fingers work at the elaborate pins holding my hair in place, yanking them free without regard for the strands that come with them. Pain prickles my scalp, but it's a welcome distraction from the hollow ache in my chest. With each pin that clatters to the floor, I feel a fraction of the court persona slipping away, revealing the raw, wounded woman beneath.
"Princess Lirien Vellara, betrothed to Prince Aldric of Westland." I say the words aloud, testing their weight, finding them impossibly heavy. "Future queen of two united kingdoms."
The perfect political alliance. The culmination of my royal upbringing. Everything I was born to be.
And nothing I want.
I sink onto the edge of my bed, still wearing the emerald gown chosen specifically to impress my future husband. Husband. The word sticks in my throat like a fishbone. Prince Aldric seemed pleasant enough during our brief introduction—handsome in the bland way of nobility, respectful in his address, clearly pleased with the arrangement. He spoke of his kingdom with pride, of our alliance with enthusiasm, of me as if I were a particularly valuable mare he'd acquired at auction.
Not once did he ask what I wanted. Not once did he look at me and see beyond the crown.
Not like Dain.
The memory of last night rises unbidden—his hands in my hair, his mouth on mine, the scar rough against my fingertips. The way he looked at me in that safehouse, desire warring with duty. The honesty in his confession, the restraint that must have cost him dearly.
The contrast between those raw moments and today's carefully choreographed farce makes me want to scream. I press my palms against my eyes, willing back the tears that threaten. Princesses don't cry over political marriages. They accept their duty with grace and dignity.
But I don't feel like a princess tonight. I feel like a woman trapped in a gilded cage, watching her one chance at happiness slip away.
During the reception, I caught Dain's eye exactly once. That single glance nearly undid me—the barely contained fury in his expression, the possessive heat that made my skin flush despite the distance between us. For one wild moment, I imagined him cutting a path through the crowd, seizing my hand, leading me away from it all.
A fantasy, nothing more. Captain Vorex performed his duty impeccably today, as always. Standing at attention, face impassive, the perfect royal guard while his princess was promised to another man.
I rise restlessly, moving to the window that overlooks the palace gardens. Moonlight silvers the pathways and fountains, making them look like something from a fairy tale. How many times have I stared at this same view, dreaming of escape? And now, having tasted freedom for one night, the prospect of a lifetime of duty feels more suffocating than ever.