They call it a “guest suite.” I call it a prison with better interior design, and I should know—I helped design the very enchantments keeping her locked inside.
Years ago, when I was naive enough to think cages were about protection instead of control. Now I’m the asshole standing outside that same door at midnight, holding contraband like some lovesick teenager, wondering when I became the kind of man who locks away the only good thing in his life.
Through the bond, I feel her testing those enchanted windows for the dozenth time today. Crystal clear but cold as ice, designed to look out but never open. Perfect metaphor for this entire shitshow.
“Subtle,” she mutters through the stone. “Real subtle.”
The guards shift when I approach. They know better than to question me directly, but I catch their looks. The Dire Prince, sneaking around like a common criminal to visit his caged mate. Real inspiring leadership right there.
I’ve been listening to the castle gossip for five days straight. The maids think she’s asleep when they whisper outside her door, but sound travels in these stone hallways, and they love dissecting her existence.
“She’s dangerous,” one hisses.
“Did you hear her touch can heal? But only if she wants it to?”
“Maybe she cursed the Prince. That bond wasn’t natural.”
Natural. Right. Because nothing says cosmic destiny like political house arrest.
I slip through the servant halls—quiet, purposeful, uninvited but never unwelcome. Set down my worn basket of smuggled shit: hairpins, honeyed figs, a pressed flower that’s seen better days.
“Midnight snacks and smuggled contraband,” she says, eyeing the contents. “Someone’s feeling romantic.”
“You’ve been stuck in this room for five days. I figured you deserved something that wasn’t pity or politics.”
She looks up at me—really looks. I’m fucked. Exhausted. Dark circles, jaw clenched from biting back words all day in council meetings where they discuss her like she’s livestock. I look like someone who’s been at war and lost pieces of himself in every room he walked into.
“You look like hell.”
“Yeah.” I give her a tired half-smile. “Better than feeling it.”
I crouch beside her, unwrap the bandages on her wrist with hands gentler than they have any right to be. Moving like a soldier but touching like someone afraid of breaking the only precious thing left in his world.
“So,” she says. “How’s the royal popularity contest going?”
I don’t laugh. Can’t. “They don’t understand what you are.”
“I’m not a threat.”
“No,” I say, jaw flexing. “You’re a challenge. A reminder that they don’t control everything.”
“A reminder of what?”
I don’t answer because the truth is too raw. A reminder that some things matter more than crowns and politics and the careful dance of power I’ve been doing my whole fucking life.
She reaches up, touches my face, coaxes my eyes to hers. “Do you regret the bond?”
I stiffen. “I regret what it costs you. The way they look at you. The danger it puts you in.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Her hand flattens against my chest, right over my hammering heart. “Do you regret me?”
“They keep asking about the bond,” I admit. “If I’ve marked you. If I plan to.”
She glances down at her bare wrist. “And what do you tell them?”
“That it’s none of their business.”
“So… not no.”
“They want me to reject it,” I say. “To break it before it settles.”
“And do you want to?” Her voice goes soft, afraid.
“No.” Raw honesty. “But every time I defend it, I lose something. An ally. A vote. A piece of leverage.”
“So I’m a liability.”
I look at her sharply. “Don’t do that. Don’t twist it.”
“Then tell me what I am.”
I stand, pacing because I need to move or explode. “You’re the only thing that’s felt real since all this started. Maybe the only thing that ever has. But if I lose everything—if I can’t hold my position—I can’t protect you at all.”
She stands too, voice shaking. “You said you would protect me.”
“I am protecting you.”
“Then why does it feel like I’m locked in a cage while you make deals to save me from a world I don’t get to face?”
I step close, voice low but unflinching. “Because they would tear you apart out there. And I am not watching that happen.”
“You don’t get to decide what I can survive.”
“No,” I say. “But I’ll damn well make sure you have the chance to try.”
I reach for her hand—not demanding, not commanding—just steady. My palm’s warm against hers. Solid.
“Trust me,” I say. “I will mark you. I will protect you. But not while the walls are still this thin.”
She looks up at me—this man with fire in his blood and battles in his eyes—and her breath catches.
“Why me?” she asks, voice breaking despite herself.
I step closer, brush the side of her face, ground her.
“Because you look at me like I’m not just a weapon. And that makes me want to be more than one.”