Chloe.
The engagement ceremony had been three days ago, and the wedding was in two.
Two.
Days.
I blinked slowly at my reflection as the final ribbon of my braided updo was pinned in place. I looked like a polished royal, poised and pristine in soft cream silk and pearls.
Inside? Screaming.
"Smile, darling," my mother cooed, sweeping into the room in her usual hurricane of lavender perfume and expectations. "You're dining with lords and foreign dignitaries tonight, not being sent to the gallows."
Same difference.
"I am smiling," I lied.
She pursed her lips and turned to the servants, adjusting the tiny pearl comb in my hair. "Add more powder. She's looking a little... flushed."
I was flushed. From rage. And the corset. Mostly the corset.
Across the room, Seraphina lounged on the chaise, holding her phone like it was the holy grail. "The press is going feral already. Someone just called you and Kieran 'the war bride and the warlord.'" She cackled. "I love it."
"Good for them," I muttered. "Let them try wearing seventeen layers of imported silk while being paraded like a prize horse."
"Technically," Seraphina said brightly, "it's eighteen. Also, you're not a prize horse. You're the mare who kicked the stableboy in the teeth."
That... was fair.
The dinner was being held in one of the smaller palace halls. And by small, I mean it only had two chandeliers. The long table glittered with cutlery, crystal goblets, and about seven forks per person, because apparently everyone was expected to eat their food in acts.
I was seated at the center—next to my betrothed.
Kieran of Caelorth, looking sinfully perfect in dark formal wear, a single silver clasp at his throat shaped like a dragon. His hands were gloved. His expression unreadable. His aura?
Murderous. And majestic.
"Chloe," he greeted with a nod.
I nodded back because my mouth had stopped working around him two weeks ago.
The hall filled slowly, nobles and foreign guests trickling in with fake smiles and real diamonds. The ambassador from Utharia bowed deeply. The ambassador from Bellmere leered.
By the time everyone was seated, I already wanted to stab my soup with a dessert fork.
"Princess Chloe," a voice drawled from across the table. I turned. Lord Maevrin of House Veltrane. Slimy, smug, and rich. He was eyeing me like I was on the menu. "I must say, your reputation precedes you."
"Really?" I said sweetly. "Funny, yours doesn't. Who are you again?"
A choked laugh escaped Seraphina two seats down. Lord Maevrin turned red, but continued like he hadn't just been verbally sucker-punched.
"Quite the temper," he murmured, voice oily. "They say Caelorth needed a lioness. I wonder how long you'll last, once the taming begins."
Kieran set down his goblet.
Slowly.
I didn't look at him, but the air in the room changed—like someone had drawn a blade under the table.
"I'm not one for taming," I replied, spearing a grape with surgical precision. "And Caelorth didn't need a lioness. It earned one."
Lord Maevrin opened his mouth.
And then he touched me.
Just—his hand brushing mine across the table. Innocent, maybe. But not really. Not with the way he smirked.
I froze.
So did the room.
And then—crack.
Lord Maevrin's chair snapped backward, with him in it. Kieran was standing. In one movement, he had flipped the man to the ground.
A gasp rose from the crowd. Cutlery clattered.
"Do not touch her," Kieran said quietly. Deadly.
Lord Maevrin sputtered on the floor, eyes wide with disbelief.
"I—I only meant—!"
"You meant to disrespect your future queen," Kieran interrupted, voice colder than Caelorth's winters. "And I don't take kindly to men who forget their place."
He turned his gaze to the rest of the table. "Does anyone else need a reminder?"
No one moved. Not even the chandeliers dared to sway.
I tried not to look smug. Failed.
Rhys, seated near the end, raised his goblet in silent approval.
Seraphina? She was recording.
I leaned toward Kieran as he sat back down. "You know, that was almost diplomatic."
"I was aiming for restraint."
"Then I'm terrified of what the opposite looks like."
He quirked a brow. "You'll find out if anyone else touches you."
I shivered. Not from fear.
The dinner carried on in tense, tiptoeing silence. Nobles were now very interested in their plates. The ambassador from Bellmere excused himself halfway through, muttering about urgent letters.
Good.
I glanced toward Seraphina, who gave me a double thumbs-up and mouthed, ICONIC.
At dessert, my mother leaned in. "You couldn't have stopped him?"
I blinked innocently. "What? I tried. He's just so... headstrong."
Kieran, who definitely heard, hid a smirk behind his wine.
By the time the meal ended, the story was already out. A servant "accidentally" dropped a linen in front of Seraphina and whispered, "He's trending already. 'Warlord fiancé flips noble.' Meme edits incoming."
I was still fuming from the disrespect, but gods, it felt good knowing my future husband could and would snap a man in half for brushing my hand.
The rest of the night passed in a blur. I barely remembered who I spoke to, what I ate, or what my mother whispered in my ear about royal impressions.
All I remembered was Kieran's hand at the small of my back as we left, his voice low.
"Are you alright?"
I nodded. "Thank you."
His eyes darkened. "For what?"
"For reminding them that I'm not just any princess."
His lips twitched. "You're my princess."
Fuck.
Dead. Buried. Married in two days.