[Seraphine’s POV]
Music spills through the palace like spilled wine: loud, fast, and dizzying. The walls shake with the stomp of boots, the clatter of goblets, the shouts of lords celebrating another border victory.
I sit alone in my chambers, pretending to read by candlelight. The words blur. Every laugh, every barked toast, grates down my spine.
Victory nights are always the worst: men drunk on power, drunk on wine, drunk on the thrill of conquest.
I close the book. My fingers tremble.
A cheer erupts: something smashed, followed by roaring laughter. My stomach twists. I hate this place. I hate these nights. I hate how small they make me feel.
The knock comes sharp, too sharp. I freeze. “Who is it?”
The door opens before I finish.
Aldric steps inside. He shuts the door with deliberate calm, shutting out the revelry but not the tension. The smell of wine and smoke clings to him, threaded with leather and steel. His dark hair is mussed, his tunic unlaced.
His eyes—bright, too bright—fix on me.
“My queen hides from her own celebration,” he says, smiling crookedly. “Should I be offended?”
“I wasn’t invited,” I reply, keeping my voice neutral.
“You’re my wife. You’re always invited.”
“I prefer quiet.”
He laughs lightly, though there’s an edge to it. “You always prefer anywhere I am not. Do you hate my company that much?”
Yes. But he’s been drinking, and truth is dangerous in the dark.
“I’m tired,” I say softly. “That’s all.”
He steps closer, swaying only slightly. “You never smile at me. Never join my table. Never look at me the way a wife should.” His gaze sharpens. “Your eyes are always a blade.”
“It isn’t intentional.”
“Liar.” The word lands softly, almost teasingly, but the heat beneath it is real.
I stand, hoping distance will steady me. My abdomen aches faintly: fear, or something deeper.
He follows. “You look thin,” he murmurs, scanning me. “Worn. Are you ill?”
“Just sleepless.”
“Nightmares?” he asks. “Of me?”
“Of Eryndale,” I answer quietly.
He flinches, barely. “Those memories fade.”
“They haven’t for you.”
His eyes darken. “You think I dream of your city burning?”
“I think men remember the things they destroy.”
Something flickers in him—guilt or anger, I can’t tell. He steps closer until I feel the heat of him. His hand lifts. I brace but he only tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
His fingers graze my skin, lingering, and my breath stutters.
“You should smile sometimes,” he murmurs. “You were beautiful when you first stood in my hall with your crown crooked, refusing to bow.”
“I was terrified.”
“You looked challenging,” he corrects, brushing his thumb lightly along my jaw. “I like that.”
His touch slides lower, cupping the side of my throat. My pulse jumps under his thumb. His other hand finds my waist, warm and possessive.
My body stiffens instinctively. If he feels it, he ignores it.
“You avoid my bed,” he says. “You have for months.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’ve used that excuse for a month.” His grip tightens slightly. “You are my wife. It is your duty to warm my bed. To give me heirs.”
The word slams into me like a fist.
Heir. His son. His symbol. His weapon.
My skin feels too tight, and my heart pounds wildly. He pulls me closer, and panic spears through me. “No,” I say, breathless. “Not tonight.”
“It’s been too long,” he says, voice thick with wine and entitlement. “I’ve been patient.”
He moves to draw me against him, and something inside me snaps. I shove him harder than I intended. He stumbles back a step, more shocked than hurt, with his eyes widened, wine-bright and startled.
“What was that?” he asks softly. A threat curls in his voice.
I stand my ground, though my legs tremble. “I said no.”
“No?” He sounds almost amused. “You forget yourself.”
“I remember exactly who I am,” I say, voice shaking but steady. “And I am not a reward for your victories.”
His amusement vanishes.“You are mine by law,” he growls. “By right. You swore vows.”
“I swore at them with a sword at my back.”
His jaw clenches. “Every woman in this palace would kill to be queen.”
“Then give them the crown.”
His nostrils flare. “Careful.”
The warning hums with danger, and then his hand shoots out, gripping my arm hard enough to make me gasp. Pain lances up to my shoulder.
“You will come to my bed,” he says, voice low. “And you will stop fighting me like I’m your enemy.”
“You are my enemy,” I spit.
Before I think, I move. My hand flies and the crack of my palm across his cheek echoes through the room. Silence drops, deadly and sudden.
Aldric’s head turns with the blow. Slowly, he looks back at me. Fury blazes in his eyes, bright and clean now—no wine haze left.
My hand burns. My pulse shakes my whole body, but I do not lower my gaze. For a heartbeat, neither of us breathes.
He releases my arm abruptly. I stumble back a step, clutching the tender skin where his fingers bruised me. He takes one step toward me—
Then stops.
His jaw works. His breath comes sharp. A dozen emotions flicker through him: shock, fury, restraint, something darker beneath.
Without a word, he turns, strides to the door, and it slams behind him with a force that rattles every candle flame, every bone in my body.
I stand frozen for a moment—then my knees buckle. I sink to the floor, curling instinctively around my abdomen. My bruised arm throbs, each pulse a painful reminder of how close he came.
Of how close he will come again.
Tears burn my eyes, hot with fear and fury: there is no safety here. Not for me. Not for the life I carry. If he had pushed further—if he had pressed harder—one wrong movement could have ended everything inside me.
I press my palm to my abdomen, trembling. “I have to get you out,” I whisper.
The truth settles cold and sharp inside me. If I stay here another night… one of us will not survive him.