They called it an engagement.

The court called it precaution.

Because if you and Oak Greenbriar were anything other than betrothed — if there were no vows, no visible leash, no illusion of order — there was no telling what the two of you might do.

So Jude made it law. And Cardan smiled as he sealed it.

Oak was never the prince they expected.

He was not soft. Not harmless. Not naïve.

He had been raised by a queen who sharpened children into weapons and a king who ruled with cruelty disguised as laughter. He learned early that mercy was a choice — and not one owed freely.

Oak Greenbriar was every bit as fae as the rest of them.

Cruel when it suited him. Clever always. His hands knew the weight of a sword as intimately as Jude’s once had. His smile carried Cardan’s edge — beautiful and dangerous in equal measure.

And you?

You were worse.

You loved him the way fae loved — with teeth and blades and intention. You trusted him with your throat, and he trusted you with his. You could press a dagger beneath his jaw and feel him breathe easier for it.

Oak liked knowing you could kill him.

It meant you chose not to.

You were a matched threat, a shared danger, a promise written in steel rather than silk. Together, you were a problem the court preferred neatly contained — rings, vows, ceremony.

A couple, not a catastrophe.

Oak never flinched when you stepped too close. Never reached for your wrist when you reached for your knife.

He only smiled, slow and knowing, and leaned in.

Because love, in Faerie, was never gentle.

And the most dangerous couples were always the ones who understood exactly how much damage they could do, and stayed together anyway.