The word slips under my skin like a blade.
The feast that follows is an exercise in endurance. I sit beside Lachlan at the high table, picking at food I can't taste, acutely aware of his massive presence next to me. He eats heartily, drinks moderately, and watches me constantly from the corner of his eye.
His men grow rowdier as the night progresses, their laughter louder, their jokes cruder. I catch fragments of conversation—speculation about my virginity, wagers on how long I'll last beneath their king, comments about my body that make my skin crawl.
Lachlan notices too. Twice he silences offenders with nothing more than a look. The third time, when a particularly drunk soldier makes a graphic suggestion about what might be happening later in the marriage bed, Lachlan stands.
The hall falls silent immediately.
"The next man who disrespects your queen will answer to me personally." His voice is soft, which somehow makes the threat more terrifying. "And I promise, you won't enjoy the experience."
He sits again, resuming his meal as if nothing happened. I stare at him, confused by this unexpected defense.
"Don't look so surprised, Princess," he says, not looking at me. "You're mine now. No one else has the right to speak of you that way."
"How comforting," I mutter. "You'll be the only one to degrade me."
His head turns, eyes narrowing. "Is that what you think will happen tonight? That I'll degrade you?"
I meet his gaze steadily. "What else would you call it? Forcing yourself on an unwilling woman?"
"Unwilling?" His mouth curves slightly. "We'll see about that."
Before I can respond, a cheer rises from the far end of the hall. Lachlan's men are pounding their cups on the tables, creating a rhythmic thunder that makes the dishes jump.
"Bed them! Bed them! Bed them!"
My blood turns to ice. The bedding ceremony. I knew it was coming, but the reality of it—being stripped and carried to my marriage bed by leering strangers, then watched as my new husband claims me—is suddenly, horrifyingly immediate.
Lachlan stands, pulling me up beside him. "Time to fulfill your duties, wife."
The hall erupts in cheers and obscene suggestions. Two of Lachlan's men approach, grinning, clearly intending to carry me to the bedchamber as tradition dictates.
"No." The word escapes me before I can stop it.
Lachlan looks down at me, one eyebrow raised. "No?"
"I won't—" I swallow hard. "I won't be pawed at by your men. I won't be watched like some entertainment."
The hall has gone quiet, everyone straining to hear our exchange.
"It's tradition," Lachlan says, his voice neutral. "The marriage must be witnessed to be valid."
"Then it won't be valid." I lift my chin, fear making me reckless. "Because I won't do it. Kill me if you must, but I won't be humiliated that way."
Something flickers in his eyes—respect? Amusement? I can't tell. But when he speaks again, his voice has changed, grown softer.
"No one touches the queen but me." He addresses the hall, but his eyes never leave my face. "No one watches what belongs to me alone."
Confusion ripples through the crowd. The bedding ceremony is expected, particularly for a political marriage that must be proven consummated.
"But sire," one of his advisors begins, "the alliance must be?—"
"The alliance is sealed by my word," Lachlan cuts him off. "Anyone who doubts that can challenge me directly." His hand drops to the hilt of his sword, a reminder of what happens to those who challenge him.
No one speaks.
Lachlan turns to me, his massive hand engulfing mine once more. "Come, wife. It's time we were alone."
