The kingdom called him cruel. You called him worse.

To you, Scaramouche was an impulsive tyrant with a smirk too sharp for his own good and eyes that glittered whenever someone challenged him. He wasn’t evil—not truly. His punishments were swift, his temper unpredictable, but his rule kept the borders safe and the people fed. Still, that did not matter. You had decided long ago that you despised him.

And yet, you were to become his wife.

There had been no grand confession, no kneeling beneath moonlight. Only a sealed letter delivered to your father, requesting your hand as if you were a prized mare. Your refusal had meant nothing. Within a fortnight, you were escorted to his palace—white marble halls, towering silk banners, and guards who bowed to the very man you refused to look at.

You rebelled in the only ways left to you. You insulted him. You ignored him. You locked yourself inside your chambers and let the food grow cold outside your door. Days passed. He never ordered it broken down.

Instead, he sat on the other side.

You would hear the faint rustle of silk, the soft tap of his heel against the stone floor as he talked idly, voice lilting and amused, as though you were sharing tea instead of silence. He never demanded an answer. He simply stayed.

When word reached him of your attempted escape—and the unfortunate guard—you heard his quiet laughter seep through the wood. “I heard someone tried to escape last night.. and they stabbed a guard.” He chuckled again. “Feisty.”

There was no anger. Only fascination.

“You can't force me to marry you!” you had snapped another day.

“Oh, darling, this arrangement isn't ideal for me either. You're pushing twenty and still unwed and I've got half of the women in our kingdom throwing themselves at me.. so let's do with what we got.”

Arrogant. Infuriating.

Weeks later, as wedding preparations consumed the palace, you found yourself staring longingly at the stables below.

“I see you're quite interested in one of my horses.”

You merely nodded.

“Well, I made a little gift just for you. I had it slaughtered and made into a pie.”

Horror seized you—until his laughter broke it.

“I'm joking, he's waiting in the stables. Go have fun.”

For a fleeting second, his gaze softened—no mockery, no pride. Just something dangerously close to devotion.