Chapter 2 Chapter 2

The Northwestern Palace was a fortress of ice and ambition.

Prince Aldric stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of his private study, staring out at the snow-capped mountains that bordered his kingdom. His reflection stared back—sharp cheekbones, cold eyes, lips perpetually curved in a sneer.

He was beautiful. He knew it. but compared to his uncle he was nothing.

He was powerful. He knew that too.

And he was trapped.

"The courier arrived, Your Highness."

Aldric didn't turn. "Speak."

The servant bowed low. "Word from the front lines. Your uncle's campaign has ended. He returns within the week."

Aldric's jaw tightened.

Julian.

His uncle. The Beast King. The man whose shadow he'd lived in his entire life.

"The war?" Aldric asked, his voice carefully flat.

"Victorious, Your Highness. The Western Kingdom's borders are secure. The people celebrate his name."

Of course they do.

Aldric's fingers curled against the windowsill.

Julian had never shown his face publicly—not in years. He ruled from the shadows, a ghost king who commanded armies and inspired terror without ever stepping into the light. His reputation preceded him: brutal, ruthless, untouchable.

And yet, despite never being seen, women threw themselves at him.

Women. Not just commoners. Princesses. Duchesses. Foreign dignitaries who wrote letters begging for an audience, for a glance, for a chance.

Aldric had seen the correspondence pile up. He'd burned most of it himself.

His uncle had never once responded. Never once acknowledged the desperate pleas from noble houses across the continent.

And that silence only made them want him more.

It's sickening.

Aldric turned from the window. "Anything else?"

The servant hesitated. "There are rumors, Your Highness. That your uncle may be... unsettled. Changed by the war. Some say he hasn't been the same since the battle of the Crimson Pass."

Aldric's eyes narrowed. "Unsettled how?"

"Wilder, they say. More unpredictable. His beast—" The servant stopped, catching himself.

Aldric's smile was cold. "You may speak freely. I won't have you executed for stating the obvious."

The servant swallowed. "His beast side may be... restless, Your Highness. The curse grows stronger with each passing year. They say—" He paused again. "They say he's looking for something."

"For what?"

"No one knows. But he's been searching. Relentlessly."

Aldric waved a dismissive hand. "My uncle's madness is none of my concern. He can search the entire realm for all I care. As long as he stays in his western lands and leaves me to rule mine."

"Of course, Your Highness."

"And the wedding preparations?"

The servant nodded. "Progressing as planned. The princess from Lunavelle arrives in two days."

Aldric's expression soured.

The princess from Lunavelle.

Sera.

Plain. Forgettable. A transaction dressed in ivory silk.

He'd seen her portrait. Unremarkable features. Dull amber eyes. A body that looked soft, unexciting, completely unworthy of a northern prince.

And yet—this was his fate. A treaty marriage to some minor noble's daughter while his uncle roamed free, untethered to any woman, any crown, any obligation.

It was unjust.

It was infuriating.

"Do you know what the princess looks like, Your Highness?" the servant asked carefully.

"I know she's plain," Aldric snapped. "I know she's beneath me. And I know that in two days, I'll be forced to pretend she's anything but a burden."

He strode to his desk and poured himself a glass of wine, drinking it in one bitter gulp.

"Leave me."

The servant bowed and retreated.

---

The door clicked shut.

Aldric stood alone in the vast study, the fire crackling softly in the hearth.

And then—a soft knock.

He didn't turn. "Enter."

The door opened slowly, and a figure slipped inside.

Celeste.

His favorite maid. His confidante.

She was beautiful in a soft, fragile way—dark hair, doe-like eyes, a mouth that trembled when she was nervous. She'd served him for three years. She'd shared his bed for two.

And tonight, her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen.

Aldric sighed. "What is it, Celeste?"

She approached him hesitantly, wringing her hands. "Your Highness..."

"Don't." His voice was cold. "Don't cry, Celeste. I hate when you cry."

She stopped a few feet away, tears already spilling down her cheeks. "I can't help it, my prince. I heard the servants talking. The princess is arriving soon. And once she's here—once you're married—"

"I won't forget you."

She looked up, hope flickering in her wet eyes.

"Do you promise?"

Aldric turned to face her fully. He crossed the distance and took her chin in his fingers, tilting her face upward.

"Celeste," he said softly, "you are my most trusted servant. You know my secrets. You share my bed. Why would I cast you aside for a woman I've never met?"

"Because she's your wife," Celeste whispered. "She's your princess. She'll have rights. Claim over you. What if she's beautiful? What if she's clever? What if she makes you—"

"She won't."

His voice was sharp, final.

Celeste flinched.

Aldric's expression softened—or at least, he made it appear soft. He stroked her cheek with practiced tenderness.

"The princess from Lunavelle is a nothing," he murmured. "A name on a treaty. A body in my bed that I'll tolerate only long enough to produce an heir. She means nothing. You understand?"

Celeste sniffled. "But what if—"

"There are no 'what ifs.'" He pulled her closer, his hand sliding to the small of her back. "You are the one I trust. The one I want. Do you think I would trade a real woman for a painted doll?"

Celeste's breath caught. "No, my prince. Of course not."

"Then stop crying." He wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. "I need you strong. I need you here. Do you know how much I want you?"

She nodded, pressing herself against him. "I know, Your Highness. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to doubt you."

"Good girl."

Aldric guided her to the chaise lounge by the fire. She sank onto it, her hand reaching for him.

"Stay with me tonight," she whispered. "Please. I need to feel that you're still mine."

Aldric smiled—a cold, practiced smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Of course, Celeste."

He lowered himself beside her, letting her curl into his chest, letting her believe she mattered.

Her hands reached to untie his belt with practiced ease.

The second the leather slipped free he moved.

One hard hand shoved her onto her back. The other yanked her thighs wide. He didn’t bother stripping her fully—just pushed the fabric aside, lined himself up, and drove in to the hilt in one brutal stroke.

Sera’s breath punched out of her. He didn’t give her time to adjust.

He fucked her like he hated the fact that he still wanted her.

Hard, fast, punishing thrusts that made the bed frame slam against the wall. His hips snapped with raw force, cock plunging deep on every stroke, the wet, filthy sound of him slamming into her cunt loud in the quiet room. He gripped her wrists above her head with one hand, the other clamped around her throat—not choking, just holding her there so she couldn’t look away while he used her.

“Take it,” he snarled against her mouth, voice rough with everything he refused to say. “Fucking take it.”

He pistoned into her without mercy, balls slapping against her ass, the thick ridge of his cock dragging over that swollen spot inside her until her legs shook. Sera’s moans turned broken, high, almost sobs. He didn’t slow. If anything he went harder, venting every ounce of frustration into the tight heat gripping him.

When she clenched around him he cursed low and filthy, pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in so deep her body jerked. He kept that ruthless pace until her cunt fluttered and she came with a choked cry, soaking his cock. He fucked her through it, chasing his own release, burying himself to the root as he spilled hot and deep inside her with a harsh groan.

He stayed buried for a few seconds, breathing hard, then pulled out without gentleness. Come leaked from her used hole onto the sheets.

He didn’t look at her face.

He just reached for his belt again.

Inside, his thoughts were elsewhere.

Two days.

Two days until I'm shackled to that plain, forgettable princess from Lunavelle.

Two days until my freedom dies.

He stared into the fire, his hand absently stroking Celeste's hair.

Celeste gave a victorious smile secretly, assured that she still could still feels the prince's want for her.

And in the back of his mind, a single, bitter thought echoed:

At least Julian isn't here to witness this humiliation.

At least I still have that.