Page 21
Story: His Forbidden Princess
He's right, of course. But the thought of him walking away now, of returning to pretense and protocol after what we've shared, is unbearable.
"Tomorrow night, then?" I ask, hating the vulnerability in my voice.
His expression softens. "Tomorrow and every night I can manage it without risking your reputation. This I swear."
He helps me straighten my clothing, his touch lingering as if he can't bear to stop touching me. When I'm presentable again, he steps back, visibly gathering his control around him like armor.
"Remember this," he says, his voice low and intent, "when your prince speaks of alliance and advantage. Remember what it feels like to be wanted for yourself alone, not for your crown or your kingdom."
"I'll remember." How could I forget? My body still hums with the echo of his touch, my lips still bear the imprint of his kiss.
He unlocks the door, checking the corridor before turning back to me one last time. The guard captain is firmly back in place—posture straight, expression neutral. Only his eyes betray him, still burning with everything he feels for me.
"Goodnight, Your Highness," he says formally, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear.
"Goodnight, Captain Vorex," I respond in kind, maintaining the charade.
But as he closes the door between us, I know with bone-deep certainty that everything has changed. I am still a princess, still bound by duty and tradition and the weight of a kingdom's expectations.
But now, I am also a woman who knows what it means to be truly wanted. And I will not settle for less again.
eight
. . .
Dain
I stand at my post,perfectly still, while something primal rages inside me. Six feet away, Prince Aldric leans too close to Lirien as they walk the palace gardens, his hand occasionally brushing hers in a way that looks accidental but isn't. She responds with practiced smiles and appropriate laughter, every inch the grateful bride-to-be. Only I see the tension in her shoulders, the slight tremor in her fingers when he touches her, the way her eyes flick to me when she thinks no one will notice. Last night I made her cry out in pleasure against her chamber door. Today I must watch another man stake his claim on what is mine.
The possessiveness of my thoughts should disturb me. I've spent a lifetime in service, understanding my place, accepting the natural order of things. Guards don't claim princesses. Soldiers don't challenge royal decrees. Men like me don't reach above their station.
Yet here I stand, planning treason with the same tactical precision I once applied to battlefield strategy.
Prince Aldric gestures to a flowering vine, making some undoubtedly insipid observation about its beauty. Lirien nods politely, maintaining the perfect distance—close enough for courtesy, far enough to prevent further "accidental" touches. I've watched her perfect this dance of avoidance all morning, subtly reinforcing boundaries while appearing to welcome his attention.
She is magnificent in her restraint. And I am dying with every minute of it.
"The gardens at Westland Palace are twice this size," Aldric says, voice pitched to carry to the nearby courtiers who hang on his every word. "You'll find them most impressive, Princess."
"I look forward to seeing them someday," she responds diplomatically, avoiding any mention of when that "someday" might be.
He smiles with the confidence of a man who has never been denied anything in his life. "Perhaps we could arrange a visit before the wedding. I'm certain your father would agree it's important for you to see your future home."
Something in me snaps at the word "home"—as if he could ever provide her with the sense of belonging she craves, as if his palace of strangers could ever be where she's meant to be.
She belongs with me. Not in his kingdom, not in his palace, not in his bed.
The thought crystallizes with such clarity that I nearly stagger under its weight. I have spent seven years protecting her for others—for her father, for the kingdom, for the abstract concept of duty. Now I will protect her for myself, for her, for us.
The garden tour continues. I follow at the prescribed distance, cataloging information with each step. Guard rotations. Servant schedules. The phases of the moon and howthey affect visibility on the palace grounds. The identity of every guard who can be bribed or distracted or, if necessary, disabled.
By the time they return to the palace proper, my decision is made. I will not allow this betrothal to proceed. I will not watch her marry a man she doesn't love, doesn't want. I will not spend the rest of my life guarding the prison of her political marriage.
I will burn the world for her.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of planning. Every skill I've acquired in fifteen years of military service, every secret passage and security weakness I've discovered in seven years of guarding the palace, every contact and resource I've cultivated—all of it now serves one purpose. Getting her out.
I'm scheduled for night duty outside her chambers, which gives me the opportunity I need. As darkness falls, I make my final preparations. A pack hidden near the eastern postern gate contains essentials—food, clothing, money, forged papers. Horses, arranged through contacts who owe me favors, wait at a stable two miles from the palace. A diversion set to draw guards away from our escape route at precisely the right moment.
"Tomorrow night, then?" I ask, hating the vulnerability in my voice.
His expression softens. "Tomorrow and every night I can manage it without risking your reputation. This I swear."
He helps me straighten my clothing, his touch lingering as if he can't bear to stop touching me. When I'm presentable again, he steps back, visibly gathering his control around him like armor.
"Remember this," he says, his voice low and intent, "when your prince speaks of alliance and advantage. Remember what it feels like to be wanted for yourself alone, not for your crown or your kingdom."
"I'll remember." How could I forget? My body still hums with the echo of his touch, my lips still bear the imprint of his kiss.
He unlocks the door, checking the corridor before turning back to me one last time. The guard captain is firmly back in place—posture straight, expression neutral. Only his eyes betray him, still burning with everything he feels for me.
"Goodnight, Your Highness," he says formally, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear.
"Goodnight, Captain Vorex," I respond in kind, maintaining the charade.
But as he closes the door between us, I know with bone-deep certainty that everything has changed. I am still a princess, still bound by duty and tradition and the weight of a kingdom's expectations.
But now, I am also a woman who knows what it means to be truly wanted. And I will not settle for less again.
eight
. . .
Dain
I stand at my post,perfectly still, while something primal rages inside me. Six feet away, Prince Aldric leans too close to Lirien as they walk the palace gardens, his hand occasionally brushing hers in a way that looks accidental but isn't. She responds with practiced smiles and appropriate laughter, every inch the grateful bride-to-be. Only I see the tension in her shoulders, the slight tremor in her fingers when he touches her, the way her eyes flick to me when she thinks no one will notice. Last night I made her cry out in pleasure against her chamber door. Today I must watch another man stake his claim on what is mine.
The possessiveness of my thoughts should disturb me. I've spent a lifetime in service, understanding my place, accepting the natural order of things. Guards don't claim princesses. Soldiers don't challenge royal decrees. Men like me don't reach above their station.
Yet here I stand, planning treason with the same tactical precision I once applied to battlefield strategy.
Prince Aldric gestures to a flowering vine, making some undoubtedly insipid observation about its beauty. Lirien nods politely, maintaining the perfect distance—close enough for courtesy, far enough to prevent further "accidental" touches. I've watched her perfect this dance of avoidance all morning, subtly reinforcing boundaries while appearing to welcome his attention.
She is magnificent in her restraint. And I am dying with every minute of it.
"The gardens at Westland Palace are twice this size," Aldric says, voice pitched to carry to the nearby courtiers who hang on his every word. "You'll find them most impressive, Princess."
"I look forward to seeing them someday," she responds diplomatically, avoiding any mention of when that "someday" might be.
He smiles with the confidence of a man who has never been denied anything in his life. "Perhaps we could arrange a visit before the wedding. I'm certain your father would agree it's important for you to see your future home."
Something in me snaps at the word "home"—as if he could ever provide her with the sense of belonging she craves, as if his palace of strangers could ever be where she's meant to be.
She belongs with me. Not in his kingdom, not in his palace, not in his bed.
The thought crystallizes with such clarity that I nearly stagger under its weight. I have spent seven years protecting her for others—for her father, for the kingdom, for the abstract concept of duty. Now I will protect her for myself, for her, for us.
The garden tour continues. I follow at the prescribed distance, cataloging information with each step. Guard rotations. Servant schedules. The phases of the moon and howthey affect visibility on the palace grounds. The identity of every guard who can be bribed or distracted or, if necessary, disabled.
By the time they return to the palace proper, my decision is made. I will not allow this betrothal to proceed. I will not watch her marry a man she doesn't love, doesn't want. I will not spend the rest of my life guarding the prison of her political marriage.
I will burn the world for her.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of planning. Every skill I've acquired in fifteen years of military service, every secret passage and security weakness I've discovered in seven years of guarding the palace, every contact and resource I've cultivated—all of it now serves one purpose. Getting her out.
I'm scheduled for night duty outside her chambers, which gives me the opportunity I need. As darkness falls, I make my final preparations. A pack hidden near the eastern postern gate contains essentials—food, clothing, money, forged papers. Horses, arranged through contacts who owe me favors, wait at a stable two miles from the palace. A diversion set to draw guards away from our escape route at precisely the right moment.