King Hanz watched the whole display and sighed. He had hoped his son would come back shaped, stronger, more focused — and, above all, over her. Instead, Nicolae returned a war hero with an obsession around his neck like a noose. It disgusted Hanz.
From the moment Nicolae was born the king had known the boy was... odd. Cruel at times, terrifyingly clever, able to charm people into handing him what he wanted. He bullied siblings, he strategized like a fox, and he had a temper that made generals nervous. Hanz had even felt a thin relief when the neighboring princess once bested him in public; he'd hoped humiliation would teach Nicolae restraint, force him to respect another human being.
It had taught him something — only not what Hanz intended. The lesson lodged, warped, and turned into worship. Nicolae didn't just respect Kaelani; he mimicked her. He tried to dress like her, to move like her, to earn from her the wrath and attention he craved. So Hanz sent him away, thinking discipline and distance would bend that energy into something useful.
Instead, the boy came back more entranced than ever. It was intolerable. Nicolae was a liability: too stubborn, too dangerous, already rumored to have nearly killed a man over an insult. Hanz knew he could not allow his son to wreck alliances or hand the kingdom to a man who followed a queen like a dog.
And yet—there was only one person who seemed to make him listen. Only Kaelani had that hold on him. In a kingdom of teeth and treaties, she had become the one who could tame his fury.
She was, in his private, begrudging way, the queen of his heart.
Hanz watched as his fifth son barreled toward the dais with that same wild light in his eyes. The king and queen both flinched when Nicolae stopped inches from them—too close for ceremony, too close for comfort.
"Hanz, I need to speak to you. Now." His voice had no pretense of courtly manners.
Ritchor, smooth as always and never more than two feet from their father, slid in with a patronizing smile. "Nicolae—are you quite all right? You look—perhaps you should—"
"Shut it, Ritchor. This is none of your damn business." Nicolae cut him off like a blade.
The queen gave a nervous, sugar-soft smile and leaned forward, trying to diffuse the heat with gentility. "Boys, lower your voices—"
"Keep out of this, Helen," Nicolae snapped, so sharp the queen's smile faltered.
Hanz's tone hardened. "Nicolae, you will not address the Queen like that. Take your anger out on me if you must, but never my wife."
Nicolae's mouth twisted into a contemptuous grin. "Which queen, Hanz? You have twelve—one for each month." The hall jerked; a few brittle titters rippled through the crowd.
Hanz's hand closed on his son's collar—not to strike, but with enough force to make his meaning plain. "Calm yourself. We will settle grievances in private."
Nicolae slapped the king's hand away and stood even straighter. "I have no grievances." His voice dropped, all fire and a steadier edge. "I want to ask your permission to court Kae."
The hall went thin with a new kind of silence. Hanz blinked, then let out a surprised, skeptical huff. "You're asking me for permission?"
Nicolae raised his hands, half-exasperated, half-showman. "Isn't it obvious?" His eyes were fierce. "I don't need your blessing. I'm doing this the right way because she deserves it. She ought to be treated as if she matters—because she does. She always has to me."
The words landed like an accusation and a confession at once. For a heartbeat the court saw him as more than a reckless son hungry for chaos—suddenly there was gravity to his madness. They had assumed he chased danger for the thrill. Now, hearing him say it plain, they caught a glimpse of something deeper: love, blunt and dangerous and ungovernable.
And that complicated things. A lot.
____________________________________________________________________________
The moon was only half full and the stars twinkled, the frogs croaked in the pond below and the crickets sang a tune that was full-blown Disney romance. But Kaelani wasn't there for romance—she was there to get in them trousers.
She eyed him like a steak and she was a hungry bear... wait, do bears eat meat or only honey? WHO CARES, focus Kaelani.
Kaelani was having a conversation in her head, trying to get this boy to take his shirt off at least. He was a virgin, a unicorn. It meant he had no STDs... yet—but she'd sure be willing to share! He was an unopened item and she needed to unbox.
He guided her to the railing where they sat on a bench. She had grabbed a champagne glass on the way there and chugged it, then threw the glass over the railing. He flinched and looked over, worried someone might step on the shards. Before he could say anything, she spoke.
"Let's cut to the chase. I'm impatient. I think you're hot and I want to sit on your face—or you could sit on mine, doesn't matter. What do you say?"
Darius froze for half a beat, then exhaled softly through his nose like a man praying for divine patience.
"I say," he murmured, smoothing his doublet, "that your candor is... unmatched, Majesty."
She grinned, leaning in like a cat about to pounce.
"So that's a yes?"
He shook his head, smiling as if she were a misbehaving child. "That's a polite refusal."
Kaelani groaned, tossing her head back. "Gods above, you're hopeless. All right then—new tactic."
"So," she leaned forward, cleavage first, lips curling in that famous smile that melted not only men but women too, "you're from Nubarra, right?"
"Yes," he replied smoothly, "my family has been in service to the throne for decades."
She leaned forward, cleavage first, lips curling in that famous smile that melted not only men but women, too.
"So that means you're my subject."
He leaned back slightly, chuckling, not at all fooled.
"Yes. I am your subject, Your Majesty. I fight for you, and so does my family."
Her eyes lit up, sharp and hungry.
"Good. Then as your queen, I command you to take me to bed."
Darius didn't even blink. "Forgive me, Majesty, but that's one command I'll have to decline."
Kaelani gasped in mock outrage. "Decline? You can't decline me! I'm irresistible. Men kill each other for a chance at this."
"Yes," Darius said politely, "roughly twelve. They were escorted out before dinner."
Her mouth dropped open, then curled into a laugh. "So you admit you've thought about it."
He arched a brow. "I admit no such thing."
"You're blushing."
"I assure you, it's just the wine."
"You haven't touched your glass."
"Then it's the moonlight."
She leaned closer until her breath tickled his ear. "What are you, a monk?"
"Merely a knight with priorities."
"My thighs should be your priority!"
Kaelani huffed, tossing her head back. "Fucks above, you're hopeless. All right then—new tactic."
And with that, she let out the most obviously fake gasp in human history. "Oh noooo!" she cried, clutching her pearls—or at least the neckline of her gown—and pitched herself sideways as though she'd been seized by the vapors.
Her trajectory was impeccable: she landed square in his lap with a dramatic "oof," draping herself across his thighs like she was some fainting noblewoman in an opera.
"Whoops," she said, clearly not sorry at all. "Look at me, clumsy little queen, just falling onto your sword—er, lap."
Darius didn't shove her off. He simply stood. The motion was smooth, practiced—he rose like a knight accepting a dance. Which, of course, meant Kaelani slid right back onto the bench with a very un-queenly grunt.
He straightened his cuffs. "Careful, Majesty. You'll bruise something valuable."
"My pride?" she said, hair wild, grin feral.
"Your gown," he replied serenely.
She narrowed her eyes. "I don't care about wrinkeling my stupid dress I'm trying to wrinkle you, Sir Virtue."
Darius, ever the gentleman, extended his hand to her.
"Your Highness, I will escort you back. There are those who wish to speak with you—I would not want to take up all your time."
Kaelani growled under her breath, frustrated. She took his hand and rose, thinking: Ten minutes. Ten. And already he wants to run back into the crowd. Is he really not charmed by me?
Unacceptable. Time to test the theory.
As they approached the heavy velvet curtain that separated the balcony from the dining hall, Kaelani suddenly gasped and clutched her ankle. "Oh no! My delicate queenly foot!"
Darius turned instantly, hand out to steady her. But Kaelani wasn't some stumbling noble—she was a professional hoe, and he had zero experience in this arena.
She twisted herself with all the grace of a drunken ballerina mid-performance, grabbed his shoulders, and committed to the fall. He tried to catch her, but her momentum dragged him down with her.
They both crashed to the floor, the massive curtain tearing loose from its hooks and collapsing over them in a heap of fabric and dust.
When the chaos settled, Darius was braced above her, one hand flat against the marble to keep from crushing her, the other firmly gripping her waist to keep her steady. Kaelani's arms, of course, were looped neatly around his neck like she'd planned this since breakfast.
She beamed up at him, eyes shining with triumph. "Oh, my hero, you saved me!"
Inside the hall, the music screeched to a stop. Every noble, courtier, and servant turned to gape at the sight of their Queen once again entangled in scandal—half under a curtain, wholly under a man, grinning like the cat that ate the canary.
A collective sigh rolled through the crowd. Oh. The Queen. Sexually harassing again.
"KAELANI!"
The feminine shout cracked across the hall like a whip. Emily stormed toward her, skirts swishing with righteous fury. Servants rushed in, peeling the curtain off the Queen and brushing Darius aside like he was just another piece of fallen furniture. He didn't resist—he was grateful, honestly, to be untangled from the overly zealous aristocrat. With a stiff bow and a muttered apology to the crowd, he excused himself and vanished. Gone. Poof. Escaped.
Emily began reprimanding her immediately, voice rising and falling like a schoolmistress with a hopeless child. But Kaelani wasn't listening. She was staring off into space, mind spinning in horrified revelation.
Why. WHY is he not affected? No one is that chaste. No one. Unless... oh gods. Is he a eunuch? Did he lose his pecker in the war? Or worse— she froze mid-thought, inner voice dropping to a whisper— is he just... not... attracted... to... me?
Kaelani's brain went blue-screen. She stood there buffering while Emily waved her hand furiously in front of her face.
"Kaelani! Are you listening to me?"
Her trance broke only when a smooth, amused voice cut through the hall.
"Are you harassing the most prudish man in the empire?"
Kaelani turned, already grinning. "Well, if it isn't Matchstick."
Erich Drachenberg—the Third Prince—stood there with that flame of unnatural red hair perched on his twig-slim frame. He smiled, exasperated. "You're still calling me that, huh?"
"Of course I am," she purred. "Red hair on top, stick body underneath—what else should I call you?"
"Your Highness would suffice," he replied dryly, though the corners of his mouth betrayed amusement.
Emily groaned and rubbed her temples. "Erich, she's impossible. I can't get her to behave."
Erich shrugged lazily. "Then don't bother. She's more entertaining this way." His smirk sharpened. "Besides, Father wants to see you, Kaelani."
The Queen's confidence stuttered. Her hands, so often gesturing wildly in passion or drunken bravado, stilled at her sides. She straightened, posture sliding into something regal, hiding the flicker of anxiety that crawled up her spine.
"He wants to see me... alone?" she asked, voice carefully even.
Erich gave her a look, brow cocked as if her reaction were absurd. "No. I'll be there. The First Prince is there. Nicolae. The Queen, too. It's about state affairs."
Relief washed over her in a rush she dared not show. She let out a long exhale through her nose, then placed her hand on his offered arm with practiced grace.
Her chin lifted, her steps steady. Emily flanked her on the other side. Together, they walked toward the parlor—toward the wolves.
And Kaelani, though her blood simmered with nerves, let herself smile faintly.
Let them try.
____________________________________________________________________________
The King's Parlor.
An adjacent room where His Majesty disappeared during or after parties with his closest advisors and drinking cronies. It was, in Kaelani's expert opinion, the place where a bunch of men went to do dumb man shit—drink too much, smoke too much, argue about borders they'd never patrol, and probably vote on whose wife had the best tits.
Her being summoned there meant something. She just wasn't sure what that something was—only that it was important.
Emily was at her side, fussing like a mother hen, while Erich's arm guided her toward the door. Kaelani did not like being this close to the King. Not ever. And the fact that she'd glimpsed the fucking bobble-head First Prince in the room? That made her palms sweat and her butt itch.
She had a sixth sense for trouble, and let's be clear, ladies and gentlemen—this was one of those times.
Her nerves sizzled raw under her skin, her throat tightening, mouth dry. The memories lurked just beneath the wine haze, sharp and ugly. Every instinct in her screamed to bolt, to claw her way free.
But she didn't. She couldn't. She pulled every inch of her queenly pride up around her like armor, set her jaw, and forced her body to move forward one careful step at a time.
The heavy doors opened.
Kaelani froze in the doorway, eyes darting across the room like a hawk. Postures. Stares. The twitch of lips, the shift of shoulders — she read them all, trying to calculate what the hell she was walking into.
And then she saw him.
"Uncle!" she gasped, all suspicion dissolving as she bolted forward. She threw herself into his arms. "Uncle, wha—how did you get here? What is going on?"
Hakim Adebayo, her father's brother. By rights, the throne should have been his, but Nubarra was a matriarchy. Her mother had worn the crown, and Kaelani was heir by virtue of being born with a vagina — which suited her fine, really. Men still passed down names, but women passed down power. For five hundred years, Nubarra had flourished under that tradition. Until the civil unrest.
Hakim embraced her, his presence a rare comfort. "My child," he said gently, "I came because this matter is important."
She pulled back, unease prickling. "What matter?"
Everyone else in the room — the King, the princes, even the Queen — exchanged nervous glances. Hakim cleared his throat and led her to the couch in the center of the room. The others circled like vultures, waiting.
"My child, I am doing all I can to heal Nubarra. And I have made strides. But it has come to the point where the line must be secured. I cannot heal a country with no hope, no future. You are the symbol. The heartbeat of Nubarra. It is time you took a husband and produced an heir."
Kaelani went rigid, already disassociating. Still, he pressed on.
"You must secure the line. It is your duty as the matriarch of Nubarra."
Her chest burned. She lurched to her feet and began pacing, fists clenching, eyes wild. "I am so tired of this! I am sick of being hounded like a broodmare! Politics, peace, prosperity—blah, blah, blah—why is it always my womb that has to fix everything? Me shitting out a baby should have nothing to do with whether men stop stabbing each other!"
"But it does," the King's voice cut through, stern and cold.
Kaelani spun on him, daggers in her eyes. That charming mask, that false wit he always wore — she saw the coward beneath it.
"And why is that?" she hissed. "Because a bunch of men say so? Am I not the Queen? Do I not set the tone, the precedence? Then why the fuck am I expected to become a baby factory to heal a nation? It's a stupid way to stop people from being miserable!"
She spat the words at his feet.
The King leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing, voice soft but heavy as stone. "Kaelani, I have known you since the day you were born. Your parents were my closest friends. I promised them I would look after you. This—" his hand swept the room "—is what I am doing."
Her pulse thundered.
"Your uncle and I have decided," the King continued, "that you will marry First Prince Ritchor by the end of the year. Our houses will be joined, our countries united, and peace will return to your lands—"
But she didn't hear the rest.
Because before the words had finished spilling from his lips, a crack split the air.
Nicolae.
She had forgotten he was even in the room until his fist smashed into his brother's jaw. Ritchor slammed into the wall, blood spurting between his fingers as he clutched his face.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Nicolae roared, chest heaving, eyes blazing. "You would make her marry this son of a bitch? You know how I feel about her! Why not me? At least I would treat her with respect. Ritchor would destroy her!"
The room erupted. Guards stormed in, Nicolae fought them off like a rabid beast. Emily burst into tears. Ritchor staggered out, trailing servants and a crimson mess. The Queen swayed in her seat, pale and near fainting.
Chaos. Utter chaos.
And Kaelani — Kaelani stood in the center of it all, watching her world tighten into a cage. She could almost see the bars descending around her, piece by piece.
Her heart raced, her body burned, her mind shrieked. And her only thought, wild and defiant as ever, was this:
How the fuck am I going to fuck my way out of this mess?
____________________________________________________________________________
Kaelani was over it.
She ran from the scene, breath ragged, skirts flying, guards scrambling behind her. Somewhere in the distance Emily's voice rang out, "Wait, Kaelani! Wait for me!"
But Kaelani didn't stop. Didn't listen. Didn't care.
This was bullshit. And she wasn't sticking around for it.
She launched herself into the carriage, her guards clambering onto the outside like frantic barnacles. One even shoved onto the driver's bench. Emily, hair undone and face flushed, finally reached the door and tumbled in after her.
Before Emily could even protest Kaelani's mad dash, Kaelani buried her face in her hands and cried out, voice raw and bitter:
"Did you know? Did you fucking know they were planning this?"
Emily looked stricken, hurt carving deep into her features. "Of course I didn't! I barely even get out of the house, Kae. My father doesn't tell me shit. Why would he tell me something like this?"
Emily covered her mouth as soon as she realized she cussed, damn Kaelani was turning her into a heathen with a potty mouth.
She slid closer, wrapping her arms around her oldest friend. "If I had known, I would have told you. That's exactly why they kept it from me."
Kaelani lifted her head, smudged mascara streaking her cheeks. She wiped her eyes and thought.
Emily was right. They never told her anything. She was a minor princess, boring as bread in their eyes, invisible even in her own home. And that invisibility suited Emily's temperament. Kaelani had never thought much about it—until now.
She sighed, sinking back against the carriage cushions, exhaustion pressing down like stone.
She had been living here in this beige hellhole rent-free, drinking their wine, eating their food, and fucking whoever she pleased. Of course they were going to expect something in return eventually. And now... now they wanted to collect.
"Maybe..." she whispered bitterly, "...marrying that earwig wouldn't be so bad."
The words tasted like poison, but she pushed them out. "He doesn't love me. I don't love him. I could give him one baby, maybe two, and then go back to my life. Drinking. Fucking. Sleeping. People would leave me alone."
But she couldn't. God, she couldn't. Not with him. Not after what he'd done to her.
Her whole body stiffened, rage searing through the despair.
No. She refused.
Why did it have to be him? The King had other sons. At least one wasn't blonde. Erich would've been better—hell, a dead horse would've been better. She knocked hard on the carriage wall. It lurched forward, wheels clattering against cobblestones. She needed to get drunk. Fast.
And tomorrow, after the inevitable hangover, she'd write an SOS. She needed backup. She needed it now.