Matt's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. "She is fine," he repeated, leaning against the mahogany doorframe with his muscular arms crossed. I continued wearing a path in the plush carpet of my royal office, the leather of my boots creaking with each agitated step. Through the tall windows, afternoon sunlight glinted off the ceremonial sword mounted on the wall—a reminder of battles won, though this one felt lost to my anxiety. Nicki, with her legendary right hook and take-no-prisoners training style, wasn't one to pull her punches for anyone, not even my mate. My fingers twitched at my sides as I fought the primal urge to bolt down three flights of marble stairs to the training hall and make sure Cassy wasn't sporting a black eye or split lip on my watch.
The handle on the office door twisted. Nicki strode in, sweat-damp hair sticking to her forehead, a grin splitting her face. Cassy hovered behind her looking exhausted and radiant, cheeks flushed, a bruise blooming along one jawbone in a shade that I suspected would deepen to purple-blue by dinner. The sight of her—alive, unbowed—cracked the vise that had cinched my chest all morning.
"Don't say it," Nicki barked, jabbing a calloused finger in my direction before I could even open my mouth. Her eyes flashed amber—a warning from her wolf. "She's a natural. Give her the credit she is due." I shot Nicki a withering glare that would have made lesser wolves cower, but stalked over to Cassy anyway. The triumphant smile lighting up her face didn't match the angry purple-red bruise blooming across her cheekbone like a violent sunset, already swelling beneath her delicate skin.
I was still reaching for her when she beat me to it, stepping into my arms with a nervous laugh that vibrated straight through my ribcage. For a second I was so grateful she was safe, I almost forgot to be angry about the bruise. Almost. I cupped her jaw with a gentle thumb—careful of the swelling—and tilted her face to the side, ignoring the stifled snort from Nicki.
"Been in a fight with a concrete wall?" I tried for a joke, but the words came out in a low rasp, the anger riding just under my skin.
"You're hilarious," Cassy said, rolling her eyes, but she leaned into my touch like she was starving for it. Her lips quirked up on one side, revealing the hint of a dimple that made my heart slam against my ribs. "But you should see the wall," she challenged, and there it was—that defiant spark that set my blood on fire. She shrugged, and my gaze locked on a bead of sweat that traced a torturous path down her throat, disappearing beneath the soaked black tank top that clung to every curve. My anger evaporated, replaced by a primal hunger that clawed at my insides. My wolf surged forward, desperate to claim what was ours.
"Woah there, tiger!" Nicki laughed, clapping her hands together with a playful snap. "Save some of that energy for later!" A pink flush bloomed across Cassy's neck, and I couldn't help but wink at her, delighting in how her blush deepened. The electricity between us was undeniable. "Hey, lover boy—don't you have that thing with the King and Queen in an hour?" Nicki sing-songed, bouncing on her toes. I groaned dramatically and shot a pleading look at Matt, who threw his hands up with an exaggerated grin. "Don't look at me, Your Highness—I just work here!"
I cleared my throat, squaring my shoulders with mock formality. "If you'll excuse us, the Crown Prince and his mate have royal obligations to attend to." My fingers found Cassy's, intertwining with hers as I guided her toward the door. Matt and Nicki's knowing laughter followed us down the corridor.
When we rounded the corner, Cassy's fingers tightened around mine. "I really like Nicki," she said, her voice still breathless from training. My chest warmed at the thought of her finally having an ally here.
"She's absolutely insane," I chuckled, guiding her through the vaulted corridors where afternoon light spilled across the marble floors. "But there's no one I'd trust more to have your back." As we moved deeper into the palace, servants and courtiers parted like water, bowing their heads while their eyes lingered on Cassy with undisguised curiosity.
When the apartment door closed behind us, Cassy sagged against the wall, her breath coming in shallow bursts. I watched her for a moment, wanting to give her privacy but unable to tear my eyes away from the way she clutched her side—whether from pain, nerves, or some secret only she knew, I couldn't tell. The bruise along her jawbone had darkened, a storm brewing beneath perfect skin.
She let out a ragged laugh, more exhale than sound, and then straightened. "I'm going to shower. I smell like I wrestled a pig in a sauna." She ducked into the bathroom without waiting for my response, the door clicking shut like a punctuation mark.
While Cassy's shower ran, I sank into the leather armchair by the window and pulled out my phone. The sleek black screen reflected my frown as I thumbed through the royal news app I'd been deliberately avoiding for weeks. Red notification bubbles clustered in the corner—thirty-seven unread alerts, all bearing Cassy's name. My thumb hovered over the screen, hesitating. I'd always maintained a strict policy of media blackout during times of tension, knowing how the endless cycle of speculation could cloud judgment when clarity was most needed. But seeing Cassy's face splashed across every thumbnail, her name trending at the top of every feed in bold crimson letters, made my resolve crumble like ancient parchment.
The news articles assaulted my vision like poison darts: "BLACKWATER ORPHAN: THE TRAGIC PAST OF OUR FUTURE QUEEN" screamed one headline over a grainy childhood photo of Cassy. Another featured side-by-side images of her in training clothes beside a polished royal portrait of my mother, with the caption "FROM RAGS TO RICHES: CAN SHE EVER TRULY BE ROYAL?" The worst came from The Silver Times, our kingdom's most respected publication: "ROYAL INSIDERS QUESTION CROWN PRINCE'S HASTY MATE CHOICE." My fingers trembled as I scrolled, knuckles whitening around the phone's edges until I heard the faint crack of the protective glass. I set it face-down on the table before I could follow through on the primal urge to hurl it through the nearest window.
The bathroom door creaked open, steam billowing out like a siren's call. Cassy emerged with her hair dripping rivulets down her shoulders, nothing but a towel clutched at her chest. My mouth went dry. The damning headlines about her unworthiness vanished from my mind, replaced by a hunger that made my wolf howl. I dug my nails into my palms. We had exactly twenty-seven minutes before we needed to be seated in the royal hall—my parents wouldn't tolerate tardiness, not today of all days. But the way water beaded on her collarbone made me wonder if royal protocol was worth following at all. I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood. Being Crown Prince meant always choosing duty over desire—but for once, I wasn't sure I could.
Finally Cassy spoke, her voice small. "Can you help me pick out an outfit?" She clutched the towel tighter, knuckles white against the fabric. "I have no idea what to wear to meet them." Her eyes dropped to the floor, shoulders curving inward. My desire evaporated instantly. In its place rushed a fierce protectiveness that nearly stole my breath. I crossed to her in three quick strides, gently lifting her chin with my fingertips until her gaze met mine. The vulnerability there made my chest ache.
I didn't say anything right away. I just traced the edge of the towel where it met the sharp line of her collarbone, the bruise on her cheekbone shadowed by the overhead light. "Anything you want," I said, softer than I'd intended, like it was a secret meant for her alone. "You're royalty now. You define the standard."
She snorted, a nervous flicker, but there was a relief in her eyes—like fairy dust, or maybe just the afterimage of sunlight drifting across an empty stage. I led her by the hand over to the wardrobe, its glossy black doors reflecting our twin ghosts as we rifled through the unfamiliar racks. The closet had been assembled for her from a dozen high-end boutiques, but her taste still ran closer to threadbare jeans and oversized hoodies than silk blouses or anything with a label. I pulled a dark green sheath dress—emerald, to set off her eyes and echo the Silvermoon colors. She looked at it, then at me, her lips parting in a silent question. "Too much?" she whispered, the words trembling in the space between us like a fragile thread.
I shook my head. "Not enough," I said, and her startled laugh was reward enough for the effort. She reached for the hanger with both hands, delicate fingers trembling, but she caught herself and squared her shoulders. "I'll get dressed," she said, voice steadier now. I let her walk into the bathroom alone, resisting the urge to follow and watch her transform from battered trainee to queen-in-waiting.
When she emerged, Cassy was a vision—bare legs still damp, green dress clinging to her like ivy, hair slicked back and crowned with nothing but her own defiant chin. That bruise stood out, a badge of war, and I couldn't help but reach for her, smoothing my thumb along the fabric near her hip.
My breath caught in my throat as I stepped toward her, the scent of her lavender shampoo mingling with the natural sweetness of her skin. "You look beautiful," I whispered, my voice rougher than I intended. My fingers brushed against the silken fabric at her waist, feeling the slight tremble beneath. "Ready to go?" I searched her face—the slight furrow between her brows, the nervous flutter of her lashes, the way she caught her bottom lip between her teeth.
"Nope," Cassy said, but a smile bloomed across her face like sunrise breaking through storm clouds. "But let's go anyway." She squared her shoulders, the emerald fabric catching the light as she moved.