The scent of roses was everywhere. Too thick, too sweet like perfume poured over rot. Aralyn hated it. She hated the way it clung to the back of her throat, as if even the air in this cursed palace had been soaked in blood and blossoms.
Her wrists ached beneath the iron cuffs, the skin rubbed raw from hours of restraint. The chains weren't ordinary; they had been lined with silver and etched with runes, humming faintly whenever her pulse surged. They weren't meant to hold just any prisoner. They were meant to hold her.
The girl with the gift. The girl with the curse.
Her touch could heal. Her touch could destroy. She had once turned a boy's hand to ash when he tried to force himself on her. she had been twelve. Since then, the whispers never left her name. Witch. Temptress. Death-bringer.
Now, she was a spectacle, a dangerous secret paraded like a jewel in a box.
The guards outside the chamber spoke in hushed tones, but she could hear every word.
"They say he's returning tonight. The Thorn Prince."
"The war has changed him. They say he's darker than ever."
"Darker? Hah. He was born dark. Imagine what he'll do when he sees *her*."
Aralyn closed her eyes. Her fingers twitched uselessly against the manacles. The Thorn Prince. Blackthorn's heir. She had heard stories of him even as a child. How he gutted men without blinking. How women offered themselves only to be left ruined, discarded like petals plucked from a flower.
And now, fate or cruelty would place her in his path.
The door creaked open. Torchlight spilled into the chamber, followed by heavy boots. Two guards entered, their armor clattering as they approached her.
"Stand," one barked.
Aralyn lifted her chin, refusing to show fear. "And if I don't?"
The soldier sneered, jerking on her chain. The runes sparked, a sharp pain jolting through her veins until she stumbled to her feet.
"Careful with her," the other muttered. "She's not a pet you can yank on a leash. You saw what she did last time."
The sneering one spat on the floor but said nothing more. Together, they dragged her from her chamber, down the corridor lined with crimson banners. The roses woven into the tapestries stared back at her like watching eyes, their vines curling into endless thorns.
The palace of Blackthorn was a cruel beauty. Every stone carved with precision, every archway designed to intimidate. The thorns weren't just in the name they crawled across the very walls, vines trained to twist along marble pillars and iron gates. Some were fresh, blooming in blood-red flowers. Others had long dried, brittle and black like veins of rot.
They pulled her into the throne hall.
The air was heavier here. Rows of soldiers stood at attention, their faces hidden behind dark helms. At the far end rose the throne itself, carved from obsidian, its high back split into spires that resembled claws. Above it, a mural stretched across the ceiling: a black sun bleeding onto a field of roses.
Aralyn shivered.
The guards forced her forward until she stood before the throne, her chains rattling against the marble floor. They shoved her to her knees.
Her heart pounded, though she forced her face into calm. She would not tremble for them. She would not be broken so easily.
And then—
The doors groaned open again.
Silence fell over the hall.
He entered.
The Thorn Prince.
The sound of his boots echoed against the stone, each step deliberate, heavy with command. He was taller than she expected, broad-shouldered beneath the black steel that clung to him like a second skin. His armor bore scars, edges nicked and dented, as if it had seen a hundred battles. His face was just as marked one jagged scar cutting across his jaw, not ruining but sharpening his cruel beauty.
But it was his eyes that made her breath falter. Dark, sharp, like a storm that had already chosen where it would strike. They swept over the hall, dismissing soldiers, dismissing banners, dismissing all until they landed on her.
And stayed.
The air shifted.
Aralyn's pulse quickened in betrayal of her will. Heat unfurled low in her stomach, unbidden. She cursed it, cursed him, cursed the part of her body that betrayed her every time a man looked at her like that like she was both prey and prize.
The soldiers bowed, heads low. But he did not look at them. He moved with a predator's grace, circling her as though she were already his possession.
"They kept you chained," he said at last, his voice deep, rasped from smoke and war. "Like a beast."
Aralyn tilted her head, meeting his gaze with defiance. "Perhaps I am."
A flicker surprise, amusement crossed his scarred face. He stopped behind her, so close she felt the brush of his presence.
The warmth of his breath touched her ear when he spoke again. "If you are a beast, then I am the one who tames beasts."
Her throat tightened.
The guards shifted uneasily. No one dared interrupt.
Aralyn forced herself to breathe, to steel her voice. "I am not yours."
The sound he made was not quite a laugh, not quite a growl. His hand came down suddenly, gripping the chain at her wrists. He yanked, and the runes flared before the lock snapped. Metal clattered against stone as the manacles fell away.
Gasps echoed through the hall.
Aralyn staggered, rubbing her sore wrists—only to freeze when his hand caught hers.
Calloused, strong, his touch lingered against her skin. Not rough, not gentle just… commanding. His thumb traced the inside of her wrist, brushing the rapid beat of her pulse.
"So soft," he murmured, almost to himself. "A weapon wrapped in silk."
Her chest rose and fell too fast. She wanted to yank her hand back. She wanted to burn him where he stood. She wanted… she didn't know what she wanted, only that the ache in her veins was growing unbearable.
Aralyn's lips parted. "If you touch me again, you'll regret it."
He leaned closer, his shadow draping over her like a cloak. His lips brushed the shell of her ear when he whispered:
"Then touch me".
The command lingered in the air between them like smoke from a dying fire.
*Then touch me.*
Her breath caught. For years, Aralyn had feared her own skin, feared what would happen if she allowed her magic to slip free. She had avoided even the brush of another hand. Yet here he was, daring her, coaxing her to do the very thing that could destroy him.
Aralyn's lips parted, a thousand retorts on her tongue. But none left her mouth, because he was already closer—too close. His body radiated heat behind her, his armor brushing against the torn fabric of her gown.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
"You don't know what you're asking," she whispered, hating how weak it sounded.
The Thorn Prince's scarred jaw dipped lower, his voice rough against the shell of her ear. "I know exactly what I'm asking."
His hand slid from her wrist to her forearm, slow and deliberate, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. The hall around them seemed to vanish the soldiers, the throne, even the vines that curled along the stone walls. It was only him and her, and the dangerous game he played.
"Stop," she breathed, though her body betrayed her, leaning ever so slightly into his touch.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured, lips grazing the curve of her neck, "and I will."
The liar. She could hear it in his tone. He had no intention of stopping.
Her chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm, heat pooling low in her belly. It had been so long since she had felt another's skin, another's breath. She hated him for awakening it, hated herself for craving it.
"You think you own me," she forced out.
"No." His grip tightened, not painful but firm. His other hand found her hip, pulling her back against him until she felt the solid weight of his body. Her breath stuttered. "I think you already belong to me."
Aralyn bit back a gasp, fury and desire twisting together. She should have burned him right then—unleashed the fire in her veins, let it consume him whole. But instead, her hands curled into fists at her sides, trembling not from anger, but from restraint.
The Thorn Prince turned her in his grasp, slow enough to make her dizzy. When she faced him, her breath hitched again. His scar caught the torchlight, his eyes locked with hers, and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt.
He leaned down, so close that their lips hovered a breath apart. His scent smoke, steel, and something darker, something male wrapped around her, intoxicating.
"Why do you fight it?" he asked softly, dangerously.
"Because you are everything I swore I would never—"
His mouth brushed hers. Not a kiss, not yet. Just the barest ghost of contact, enough to ignite fire in her veins.
She gasped, stumbling back, only to hit the throne behind her. The obsidian spires loomed over her shoulders like claws. He followed, unyielding, bracing one hand against the armrest, caging her in.
"You burn even when you resist," he said, his voice like velvet wrapped around a blade. "Do you know what that does to a man?"
Aralyn's throat was dry. "I am not here for your desire. I am a prisoner—"
"You are *mine*."
The word cracked like thunder. His eyes darkened as he caught her chin between his fingers, tilting her face up.
His mouth descended, slower this time, giving her no escape. His lips brushed hers again, firmer, hungrier, until the breath between them vanished. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was possession. His tongue traced her lower lip, demanding entrance, and for one reckless heartbeat, she parted her mouth.
Heat flooded through her.
The kiss was fire and iron, his teeth grazing, his tongue claiming. A groan escaped his throat, low and rough, as if he had been starved and she was the only cure.
Her hands slammed against his chest, not to push him away, but to keep from collapsing beneath the weight of the desire he'd stirred. The armor was hard, cold, unyielding—but beneath it, she felt the solid warmth of him.
When he finally tore his mouth from hers, his breath came fast, his scarred jaw clenched.
Aralyn's lips tingled, swollen from the force of his kiss. Her body trembled with equal parts fury and longing.
"Never again," she rasped.
His thumb dragged across her lower lip, pressing against the dampness he had left there. His voice dropped, dark and husky. "That was only the beginning."
The soldiers at the far end of the hall shifted, their discomfort thick in the silence. Not one dared interrupt.
Aralyn turned her face away, breaking his hold at last. Shame and hunger twisted inside her, twin poisons she could not separate.
He straightened, his shadow still looming. "Tomorrow," he said, as if declaring a decree, "you will dine with me. Alone."
She glared at him, forcing strength into her shaking frame. "And if I refuse?"
He smiled, cruel and devastating. "Then I'll take my meal another way."
Her stomach tightened, a dangerous heat sparking at the double meaning. She hated him. She hated herself more for the way her body betrayed her at his words.
The Thorn Prince turned, striding back toward the throne room doors, his cape dragging like a streak of night. The soldiers followed.
But not before his final command echoed back to her:
"Do not run, Aralyn. The thorns always find their rose."
The doors slammed shut.
And in the silence, Aralyn touched her lips, trembling, knowing she had just stepped into a game she could not win.