Chloe.
They say court gossip spreads faster than wildfire in a dry forest.
But this?
This was a damn inferno.
By midmorning, everyone from the castle seamstresses to the stable boys had heard the tale. Lord Varron had tried to touch the princess. The war prince had responded. Dramatically. Violently. Possibly murderously. (He lived, unfortunately.)
It was the first time in recorded Veylinthian history that a noble had peed himself in public and no one pretended it didn't happen.
"Are you seriously going to let him get away with that?" my little sister Seraphina demanded over breakfast, jabbing her toast in my direction. "You should've finished him yourself. Or at least slapped him with a glove."
"I don't own a glove dramatic enough," I muttered.
Across from me, my older brother Rhys—the Crown Prince of Veylinthia, eternal headache and flawless jawline—didn't even look up from his reports. "Frankly, I'm just relieved your war prince didn't rip the man's arm off. Progress."
"Progress is not having to explain to Father why there was blood on the floor," I said.
"And the tapestries," Rhys added helpfully.
Seraphina cackled. "I like him. He's like a really sharp paperweight. For your problems."
I sipped my tea, ignoring how my hands still trembled.
Because the thing was—
I didn't hate it.
I should have. It was a horrifying, brutal display. It had political consequences. It had social fallout. It was deeply unhinged behavior.
But a very small, very traitorous part of me had felt... safe.
Like someone had put a blade between me and the world and dared anyone to try again.
---
The memory replayed again and again in my mind.
It had been during the banquet toast. I was doing my royal duty—smiling, nodding, pretending to enjoy being a sparkly political pawn—when Lord Varron approached.
He had that grin. The kind of grin that said he thought his charm was a gift to womankind. Spoiler: it wasn't.
"Princess," he murmured, bowing with excessive flourish. "You look ravishing tonight."
I gave him a tight smile. "And you look exactly as I expected."
That didn't deter him.
"Tell me," he said, stepping closer than etiquette allowed, "do you ever grow weary of all these formalities? Surely someone of your... passion longs for a less rigid kind of companionship."
I blinked. Slowly. "That sounds like something a man says right before getting slapped with a fan."
His eyes glittered. "Then by all means, hit me."
And then—he reached for me.
It was subtle. Almost lazy. A hand extended toward my waist, like we were old lovers or a dance was about to begin.
The room didn't notice. Not yet. But I did.
I stiffened. My hand inched toward the dagger hidden in my skirts—not to use, but to remind myself I wasn't powerless.
And then... he never touched me.
Because Kieran moved.
I didn't see it. I felt it.
One second, Varron was reaching.
The next, he was slammed against the stone pillar with a force that rattled the chandeliers.
A collective gasp echoed across the ballroom.
Kieran had him by the throat, his fingers digging in like they were made to break bone. His face was impassive. Not angry. Not wild.
Dead calm.
The kind of calm that came right before war.
"You dare lay a hand on her?" he said, voice like a blade unsheathing.
Varron choked, legs flailing uselessly. Guests screamed. Goblets shattered. Someone dropped a harp.
I should've said something. Stopped him. Demanded restraint.
But I couldn't move.
Because Kieran wasn't human.
Not in that moment. Not with how the shadows wrapped around him. Not with how the air went cold.
And yet, all I felt was...
Safe.
"Kieran," I finally said, soft but firm.
He didn't look at me. Didn't blink.
"Kieran, he's not worth it."
A beat passed.
Then he dropped him.
Varron collapsed to the marble floor in a gasping, undignified heap. A puddle followed. That part made history.
Kieran turned to me at last. "Are you hurt?"
"No," I said. "But he definitely is."
He gave the faintest nod, like that settled things.
And gods help me, part of me wanted to kiss him right there.
---
That evening, I found myself in yet another diplomatic gathering. The nobles kept their distance. Their smiles were too sweet. Their bows too deep.
I was poison now.
Untouchable.
And at the center of it all stood Kieran.
I found him watching me from the shadows. Always just far enough to be polite. Always just close enough to intervene.
When I slipped out for air, he followed.
"You didn't have to do that," I said, once we were alone in the corridor.
"Yes, I did."
"Kieran, he was just—"
"Reaching," he cut in. "That's enough."
I sighed. "I've been in this court my whole life. Men like him never stop. That's how they win."
He stepped closer. "Then let them know you are not alone."
I blinked. "That almost sounded like a vow."
"It was."
We stared at each other. My heartbeat was everywhere—in my throat, my fingers, behind my eyes.
"Do all Caelorthian men vow vengeance over casual elbow contact?"
He gave the ghost of a smirk. "Only the ones worth marrying."
I rolled my eyes. "You're still terrifying."
"And you're still standing here."
Touché.
---
That night, I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.
A man had nearly died for touching me.
And somehow, I was more worried
about how Kieran's voice had dropped when he said the word 'mine.'
"I have a type," I whispered to the dark. "And it's apparently vengeance incarnate in a black cloak."