She was thrust into my arms like a dagger wrapped in silk.
A princess scarred by chains of duty, her eyes spitting fire across the throne room as vows sealed our fate. I saw the wound there, raw and unhealed — the girl who craves choice but trembles at surrender's edge. And me? The prince consort bound by the same royal cage, protector by blood, predator by instinct.
Our wedding night shattered the lie of restraint. Torchlight danced on sweat-slick skin as I pinned her to the stone wall, her snark dissolving into gasps. She cursed my name even as her nails raked my back, limbs tangling in shadowed alcoves where no one could hear her break. Every thrust a battle — coercion laced with the ecstasy she pretends to hate.
But denial is a fragile throne. In candlelit halls wrapped in mist, her body betrays her every time, arching into the possession she resents. I tease her defiance, murmur how she'll beg for my ruin, and watch vulnerability flicker in those anguished eyes. This marriage was forced, our passion blurred consent into something darker, more consuming.
Royal legacy demands heirs, obedience, silence. Hers hangs by the thinnest thread — independence stripped, heart risked on the man who embodies her prison. Mine teeters too, obsessed with the lover beneath her fight. One full yielding, and everything fractures.
Yet she fights harder now, her heat pulling me under. Will I ravish her freedom away, or does her reluctant fire claim my soul first?
👍Vale a leitura