I've conqueredseven kingdoms before this one. Seven victories, each harder won than the last. None of them gave me pause. None of them made me question my purpose or my path. Until her. Until I locked eyes with Princess Fiona MacLeod across that great hall, her golden hair wild around her face, her green eyes burning with a hatred so pure it was almost beautiful. I expected resistance. I expected fear. What I didn't expect was this gnawing hunger that has nothing to do with power and everything to do with possessing her completely.
"The eastern tower still needs securing, my lord." Callum, my most trusted general, stands at my shoulder as I stare out over the kingdom I've just claimed. The sun is setting, painting the stone walls with gold and fire. Fitting, when I consider what comes next.
"See to it," I say, not bothering to look at him. My thoughts are elsewhere—on the princess who will soon be my wife. My queen, though she doesn't yet know what that truly means.
"And the king?" Callum asks, his voice careful. "He's demanding to see his daughter before the ceremony."
I turn to him now, allowing a cold smile to touch my lips. "Former king," I correct. "And no. The princess remains isolated until the wedding. I want no last-minute schemes or attempts at escape."
Callum nods, knowing better than to argue. We've been through too much together, he and I. He was there when I was nothing but a second son with more ambition than prospects, when my brother's death thrust me into a position of power I was never meant to have. He's watched me build this empire one bloody battle at a time.
"There's something different about this one," he observes quietly, eyes on the horizon rather than on me. "About her."
I don't pretend to misunderstand. "She's a political necessity. Nothing more."
"Of course." He doesn't believe me. I barely believe myself.
When I'd planned this conquest, the princess was merely a detail in a larger strategy. The MacLeod kingdom has rich farmland, a key port, and borders that, when combined with my own territories, would create an empire unassailable from the north or west. The marriage was simply the cleanest way to legitimize my claim, to prevent costly uprisings and rebellions that would drain resources I need for the campaigns to come.
I never expected her to affect me. Women never do, not beyond the basic satisfaction of physical release. I've taken countless lovers over the years, but none have claimed even a sliver of my attention beyond the bedchamber. Power has always been my true mistress—the expansion of my borders, the growth of my influence, the reputation that makes kings tremble when they hear my name.
Yet something about Fiona MacLeod has burrowed under my skin like a splinter. Perhaps it's the defiance in her posture, thepride that wouldn't let her cower even when surrounded by my warriors. Or maybe it's the flash of intelligence behind her fear, the calculation I recognized in her gaze. This is no simpering court flower, no pampered royal who knows nothing of the world's hardships.
"Have the chamber prepared," I tell Callum, already striding away. "I want to see her before the ceremony. Alone."
"Is that wise?" he calls after me, a liberty only he would dare.
I don't answer. Wisdom has little to do with the hunger pulsing through me.
The castle corridors are dimly lit, torches casting long shadows against stone walls that have stood for centuries. My boots echo on the flagstones, announcing my approach to the guards stationed outside the princess's chamber. They snap to attention when they see me, fear evident in their rigid postures.
"Leave us," I command.
"But my lord, the princess is?—"
"I said leave." My voice drops lower, a warning that needs no elaboration.
They flee.
I pause outside her door, listening. Silence. Then a soft sound—a hitched breath, quickly stifled. Is she crying? The thought should please me. Instead, it irritates me, like sand caught in my armor.
I push the door open without knocking.
She stands at the window, her back to me, her body outlined by dying sunlight. For a moment, I simply look at her—the proud line of her spine, the way her hair falls in tangled waves down her back, the slight tremble in her shoulders that she's fighting to control.
"I didn't give you permission to enter." Her voice is surprisingly steady.
"I don't require your permission." I close the door behind me. "This is my castle now. My kingdom."
"How convenient for you." She doesn't turn to face me. "To take with bloodshed what you could never earn through merit."
A laugh escapes me, genuine amusement mixed with grudging respect for her boldness. "You know nothing of what I've earned, Princess."
"I know enough." Now she turns, and the sight of her hits me like a physical blow. Her face is flushed, her eyes bright with unshed tears she refuses to let fall. Her dress—blue, the color of her family's crest—clings to curves that make my mouth go dry. "I know you're a brutal conqueror who takes what he wants and leaves destruction in his wake."
I move closer, watching her fight the urge to back away. She holds her ground, chin lifted, jaw clenched. "Is that what you think? That I destroy rather than build?"
"What else would you call this?" She gestures at the window, at the kingdom beyond. "You've brought my people to their knees."
