His hand covers mine on the table, warm and unexpectedly gentle. "You will. Because beneath that hatred, you're starting to see the truth."
"Which is?"
"That I might be exactly what your kingdom needs." His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist, sending an unwelcome shiver up my arm. "What you need."
I pull my hand away, disturbed by the effect of his simple touch. "You'll never be what I need."
He smiles, knowing and confident. "We'll see."
The rest of the day passes in a blur of introductions and court business. I sit beside Lachlan through it all, watching him govern with an efficiency and clarity that surprises me. He listens more than he speaks. Considers before deciding. Shows mercy when least expected and firmness when necessary.
By evening, I'm reluctantly impressed, though I'd never admit it aloud. This is not the mindless brute I imagined. This is a man who built an empire through calculation as much as conquest, who understands that ruling requires more than just strength of arms.
As we retire to our chambers, I find myself looking at him with new eyes. Not forgiving the invasion, not forgetting the violence of his arrival. But seeing, perhaps for the first time, the man beneath the conqueror.
"You're staring," he observes as he closes the door behind us.
"I'm trying to understand you."
He raises an eyebrow. "And what have you concluded?"
"That you're more complicated than I thought." I move to the window, needing distance from his overwhelming presence. "Why did you really come here, Lachlan? Why my kingdom?"
He's quiet for so long that I think he won't answer. When he does, his voice has a quality I haven't heard before—something raw and honest.
"Because it was vulnerable. Because I need the port access for trade. Because uniting our territories creates a border that's almost impossible to breach." He pauses. "And because I'd heard stories of the golden-haired princess who rode like a man and spoke like a scholar. I was curious."
The admission startles me. "You knew about me before you came?"
"Of course." He moves closer, stopping just behind me. "I never go into battle unprepared."
"And am I what you expected?" I ask, not sure why I care about his answer.
His hand touches my hair, fingers tangling in the strands. "No," he admits. "You're more."
The simple words send a strange warmth through me. I should move away. Should maintain my hostility, my resistance. Instead, I find myself leaning back slightly, my body responding to his proximity in ways my mind hasn't yet reconciled.
"I still hate what you did," I tell him, needing to assert some control over this moment. "Coming here. Taking everything."
"I know." His arms slide around my waist, pulling me against the solid wall of his chest. "But you're beginning to see that there might be some benefits to this arrangement."
I should deny it. Should pull away and reassert the boundaries between us. But as his lips find the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, as his hands span my waist with possessive heat, I can't bring myself to lie.
"Perhaps," I whisper, and feel him smile against my skin.
It's a small surrender, insignificant compared to what happened between us last night. But somehow, it feels more dangerous—this willingness to acknowledge that the man who conquered my kingdom might be more than the monster I initially believed him to be.
That beneath the beast might be a king worth knowing.
six
. . .
Lachlan
I've conquered seven kingdoms,but none of them haunt my thoughts like she does. Two weeks since I made Fiona my wife, and I find myself seeking her out at all hours, inventing reasons to be in her presence. I watch her move through the castle—my castle now—with that stubborn grace that never falters, even in defeat. Her golden hair catches the light, drawing the eye of every man in the vicinity. Their gazes linger too long, their smiles too eager when she speaks to them. Each time, my hand itches for my sword. Each time, I must remind myself that kings don't slaughter their own men for looking at their queens. But God help them if they do more than look. The possessiveness I feel toward her is unlike anything I've experienced—a constant hunger that isn't satisfied even when I've buried myself in her body night after night. I want more than her flesh. I want her submission, her acceptance, her loyalty. I want what she still withholds, despite her begrudging physical response to my touch: her heart.
"The shipment from the eastern provinces has arrived, my lord." Callum stands before me in the council chamber, his face carefully neutral. "Including the items you requested for the queen."
