Page 3
Story: His Forbidden Princess
She passes me without acknowledgment, but I catch the slight flush on her cheeks. She knows I'm watching. She always knows.
"Vorex," Captain Merritt nods as he approaches. "Shift change in an hour."
I grunt in response. Words are weapons that can betray, and I've learned to use as few as possible.
"Princess seems agitated today," he continues, oblivious to my disinterest in conversation. "Heard she had quite the row with His Majesty."
This catches my attention, though I don't show it. Lirien rarely argues openly with her father. She's too clever for that, preferring to outmaneuver rather than confront.
"Not our concern," I mutter, though it's a lie. Everything about her is my concern.
Merritt shrugs and moves on. I return to my vigil, mind drifting back to the moment that sealed my fate.
Seven years ago. A state dinner celebrating the princess's sixteenth birthday. I was newly promoted to the royal guard, stationed along the wall, watching for threats while nobility danced and feasted. She was radiant that night, hair like burnished copper in the candlelight, laughing with a freedom she rarely displays now.
I spotted the assassin before anyone else—a serving man with eyes too sharp, hand too steady as he approached her table. When he drew the blade, I was already moving, throwing myself between steel and princess. The knife sliced across my jaw instead of plunging into her heart. I killed him with my bare hands, snapping his neck before the nobles had time to scream.
Blood dripped onto her white dress as I turned to check her for injuries. Her eyes—wide, impossibly green—locked with mine, and something passed between us. Something that hasn't broken in seven years.
The king made me her personal guard the next day. My reward and my punishment.
Now I stand outside the council chamber, a silent sentinel while she meets with advisors. I can hear the low murmur of voices inside but can't make out her words. I don't need to. I know her voice better than my own—the way it rises when she's passionate about something, the slight tremor she fights tocontrol when she's angry, the rare musical quality when she truly laughs.
Guards aren't supposed to listen. We're furniture—useful, necessary, but not worthy of notice.
But I listen. I watch. I memorize.
"Did you hear about the Westland prince?" A chambermaid whispers to another as they pass, not bothering to lower their voices around me. I'm furniture, after all.
"Arriving within the month, they say. For the princess."
"About time she was matched. Twenty-three and still unwed—the old king would never have allowed it."
"Handsome, I hear. Young too."
Their voices fade as they turn the corner, but the damage is done. A white-hot rage floods my veins, though my expression remains impassive. I've suspected marriage negotiations were underway—it's the logical next step for the crown princess—but hearing it confirmed is like a knife between my ribs.
The council doors open, and nobles file out. Lirien emerges last, her face composed but eyes stormy. Something happened in there. Something that upset her.
My job is to follow at a discreet distance as she returns to her chambers. To protect, not to care. To serve, not to want.
But God help me, I want.
I want in ways that would see me executed if anyone could hear my thoughts. I want to unwrap her from that court finery, to see if the freckles I've glimpsed on her nose continue down her throat, across her shoulders, over the swell of her?—
I clench my jaw, forcing the thoughts away. The scar there pulls tight—her scar, in a way. The physical reminder of the moment my soul was lost.
She moves faster than usual today, almost running by the time she reaches her chambers. The door slams behind her, and I take up my position outside, mind racing.
Something is wrong. I've guarded her long enough to recognize when she's plotting something reckless. It's in the set of her shoulders, the rhythm of her steps, the way her fingers twitched at her sides.
Hours pass. The palace settles into evening rituals. Servants deliver her dinner, then remove the barely-touched tray. Her lady's maid enters, then leaves earlier than usual, looking confused.
"She dismissed me," the woman mutters. "Said she'd prepare for bed herself."
Alarm bells ring in my head. In seven years, Lirien has never prepared for bed herself. It's not the princess way.
I should report my suspicions to the captain. That's protocol. That's duty.
"Vorex," Captain Merritt nods as he approaches. "Shift change in an hour."
I grunt in response. Words are weapons that can betray, and I've learned to use as few as possible.
"Princess seems agitated today," he continues, oblivious to my disinterest in conversation. "Heard she had quite the row with His Majesty."
This catches my attention, though I don't show it. Lirien rarely argues openly with her father. She's too clever for that, preferring to outmaneuver rather than confront.
"Not our concern," I mutter, though it's a lie. Everything about her is my concern.
Merritt shrugs and moves on. I return to my vigil, mind drifting back to the moment that sealed my fate.
Seven years ago. A state dinner celebrating the princess's sixteenth birthday. I was newly promoted to the royal guard, stationed along the wall, watching for threats while nobility danced and feasted. She was radiant that night, hair like burnished copper in the candlelight, laughing with a freedom she rarely displays now.
I spotted the assassin before anyone else—a serving man with eyes too sharp, hand too steady as he approached her table. When he drew the blade, I was already moving, throwing myself between steel and princess. The knife sliced across my jaw instead of plunging into her heart. I killed him with my bare hands, snapping his neck before the nobles had time to scream.
Blood dripped onto her white dress as I turned to check her for injuries. Her eyes—wide, impossibly green—locked with mine, and something passed between us. Something that hasn't broken in seven years.
The king made me her personal guard the next day. My reward and my punishment.
Now I stand outside the council chamber, a silent sentinel while she meets with advisors. I can hear the low murmur of voices inside but can't make out her words. I don't need to. I know her voice better than my own—the way it rises when she's passionate about something, the slight tremor she fights tocontrol when she's angry, the rare musical quality when she truly laughs.
Guards aren't supposed to listen. We're furniture—useful, necessary, but not worthy of notice.
But I listen. I watch. I memorize.
"Did you hear about the Westland prince?" A chambermaid whispers to another as they pass, not bothering to lower their voices around me. I'm furniture, after all.
"Arriving within the month, they say. For the princess."
"About time she was matched. Twenty-three and still unwed—the old king would never have allowed it."
"Handsome, I hear. Young too."
Their voices fade as they turn the corner, but the damage is done. A white-hot rage floods my veins, though my expression remains impassive. I've suspected marriage negotiations were underway—it's the logical next step for the crown princess—but hearing it confirmed is like a knife between my ribs.
The council doors open, and nobles file out. Lirien emerges last, her face composed but eyes stormy. Something happened in there. Something that upset her.
My job is to follow at a discreet distance as she returns to her chambers. To protect, not to care. To serve, not to want.
But God help me, I want.
I want in ways that would see me executed if anyone could hear my thoughts. I want to unwrap her from that court finery, to see if the freckles I've glimpsed on her nose continue down her throat, across her shoulders, over the swell of her?—
I clench my jaw, forcing the thoughts away. The scar there pulls tight—her scar, in a way. The physical reminder of the moment my soul was lost.
She moves faster than usual today, almost running by the time she reaches her chambers. The door slams behind her, and I take up my position outside, mind racing.
Something is wrong. I've guarded her long enough to recognize when she's plotting something reckless. It's in the set of her shoulders, the rhythm of her steps, the way her fingers twitched at her sides.
Hours pass. The palace settles into evening rituals. Servants deliver her dinner, then remove the barely-touched tray. Her lady's maid enters, then leaves earlier than usual, looking confused.
"She dismissed me," the woman mutters. "Said she'd prepare for bed herself."
Alarm bells ring in my head. In seven years, Lirien has never prepared for bed herself. It's not the princess way.
I should report my suspicions to the captain. That's protocol. That's duty.