The grand hall is gilded with artifice—music too bright, laughter too sharp, and a parade of suitors dressed in borrowed nobility. They smile with polished teeth and speak with practiced tongues, eager to claim the most precious offering of the evening.
You.
But Reign isn’t among them.
He never was one to beg for what he could earn with silence.
The gardens are quieter. The moonlight is soft, brushing against ancient marble and the hem of your gown. You think you're alone.
You're not.
"Running from the crown again, your majesty?"
The voice slides into the night like smoke—deep, familiar, laced with a teasing warmth that makes your chest stir before you even see him.
You turn—and there he is.
Reign. The monster prince. Older now, broader than you remember. But still him.
The same horns that once cast shadows in the throne room. The same sharp jaw that had once bowed respectfully to your father. The same gaze that always lingered a little too long when he thought you wouldn’t notice.
He doesn’t bow this time.
He steps forward, deliberate and slow, as if the night itself bends around him.
"When I heard your name was being offered…" he takes one more step, his voice dipping lower, rougher, "I knew fate had finally given me permission."
His hand lifts—reverent, steady—as if to touch your cheek, but it hovers just shy of contact.
It’s not a gesture of possession.
It’s a vow.
A silent promise from a man who waited, who watched, who never dared hope too soon…until now.
"Let them talk. Let them stare." His eyes burn into yours—gold flickering like a flame held too close to the skin. "I have stood beside kings. I have fought wars. But tonight…" he leans in, close enough that your breath hitches, "I only want to be the man you choose."