"You're thinking too loudly," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. His eyes open, finding mine immediately in the dim light. "What troubles you?"
I could lie. Could claim a simple sleeplessness, a mundane worry. But something in his gaze—direct, unflinching—pulls honesty from me like water from a deep well.
"I'm trying to understand how everything changed," I admit, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath my touch. "How you went from being my enemy to being..."
"To being what?" he prompts when I trail off, his hand sliding up my back to tangle in my hair.
I swallow, afraid to name what he's become to me. "Essential," I finally say, the word inadequate but safer than the one hovering on my tongue.
His smile is slow, knowing. He sees through my evasion but doesn't press. Instead, he pulls me closer, his lips finding mine in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens, his body rolling over mine with practiced ease.
"Show me," he whispers against my mouth. "Show me how essential I am to you."
And I do, my body arching into his, my hands mapping the terrain of his shoulders, his back, the dip of his spine. We move together with a synchronicity that still surprises me, as if our bodies were created to fit together despite all the reasons we should remain apart.
Afterward, as dawn begins to filter through the windows, I watch him dress for the day ahead. The warrior-king donning his armor piece by piece—not just the physical leather and steel butthe mantle of authority, the cold calculation that makes him so formidable.
Yet I've seen beneath that armor now. I've seen the vulnerability in his eyes when he speaks of his brother, the tenderness in his touch when he thinks I'm sleeping, the fierce protectiveness that overcame him during my training session yesterday. I've seen the man behind the conqueror, and that man is impossible to hate, no matter how convenient hatred would be.
"You have that look again," he observes, buckling his sword belt with practiced efficiency. "The one that says you're wrestling with something you don't want to admit."
"I have no such look," I protest, pulling the furs higher around me, suddenly self-conscious under his scrutiny.
He laughs, the sound warming me despite my confusion. "You do. Your eyebrows draw together, and your lips press into a line, like you're holding back words that want to escape." He leans down, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Whatever it is, don't fight it too hard. Sometimes surrender is the beginning of something better, not the end of something precious."
With that cryptic advice, he leaves me to prepare for the day, promising to meet me in the great hall for the morning meal.
I dress with care, selecting a gown of deep green that I know he favors, allowing my lady's maid to arrange my hair in a more elaborate style than I usually prefer. I tell myself it's because I'm finally embracing my role as queen, that it has nothing to do with the pleasure that lights Lachlan's eyes when he sees me adorned to my station. The lie sits uneasily in my mind.
On my way to the great hall, I pass a small antechamber where voices drift through the partially open door. I would have continued on, but I hear Lachlan's name and pause, unable to resist the pull of curiosity.
"The king is changed," says a voice I recognize as belonging to one of the older lords from my father's former court. "He's not the brutal conqueror we feared."
"It's the queen's influence," replies another voice, female and vaguely familiar—perhaps one of the castle stewards. "He looks at her like she hung the moon and stars."
"And she's good for the kingdom," adds a third voice. "Did you see how she organized the village shelters during the alert? My sister says the queen personally made sure her children had warm blankets and hot food."
"They say he was never meant to be king," the first voice continues. "That he was the second son, the warrior, thrust into leadership when his brother died. Perhaps that explains his conquests—a man trying to prove his worth through force."
"Well, he's proving it through governance now," the woman responds. "My husband says taxes are fairer under him than they ever were under the old king. No offense to your former liege," she adds hastily.
"None taken. Edgar was a good man, but not always a good king." A sigh, heavy with resignation. "Perhaps this conquest was a blessing in disguise. The princess—the queen now—she has her father's kindness but her mother's spine. Together with the warrior king... they might build something lasting."
I step away from the door, my heart pounding with confusion. These were my people, speaking well of the man who conquered them, suggesting that his rule might be better than my father's. More disturbing still is their perception of me as a partner in this new regime, a tempering influence on Lachlan's more aggressive instincts.
Is that how they see me? Not as a captive princess, but as a queen with real power? Not as a victim, but as a willing participant in the restructuring of our kingdom?
And are they right?
The question follows me into the great hall, where Lachlan rises at my approach, his eyes warming with appreciation as he takes in my appearance. He holds out his hand, and I take it without hesitation, allowing him to guide me to the seat beside his.
"You look beautiful," he murmurs for my ears alone. "Like a true queen."
"Your queen," I reply, the words no longer carrying the resentment they once did.
"Mine," he agrees, his fingers tightening briefly around mine. "But I am equally yours, Fiona. Never forget that."
The declaration, spoken so casually yet with such sincerity, steals my breath. Before I can respond, Callum approaches with a grim expression that immediately puts Lachlan on alert.
