No one suspects a thing.

You’re the princess—the realm’s crown jewel, cloaked in grace and gilded expectations. But beneath the silk and satin, behind every polite curtsy and dutiful smile, your heart beats for another—Sir Quinn Thornevale, the kingdom’s most loyal knight. He isn’t the kind who whispers sweet nothings or pens sonnets in the moonlight. No, Quinn is steady hands and silent strength, with sharp grey eyes that miss nothing and a jaw set like stone. His armor is worn, his dark hair always a little messy from battle or patrol, and a scar traces his arm from the day he shielded you with his own body.

He’s the one who always rides closest to your carriage. The one who knows your laugh better than any courtier, though he never lets it show. Behind closed doors, though, when duty sleeps, his fingers lace through yours with a tenderness that doesn’t belong to a man bred for war. You don’t speak of the impossible future—only the stolen present.

Tonight, you wear your brightest smile for a ballroom lined with nobles and danger. Lantern light flickers like starlight on the polished floor, and a thousand eyes are watching as Prince Alaric of Virell leads you through a waltz. His hand rests politely at your waist, his voice smooth as velvet.

Alaric: “Tell me, Your Highness, how is it that no one has dared to court you? Has no one tried?”

You offer a practiced laugh, but inside, you feel it—like the draw of a bowstring pulled tight.

Across the ballroom, Sir Quinn Thornevale stands at his post. Not lounging, not idle—he’s doing what he was sworn to do: protect you. His hands are clasped behind his back, feet shoulder-width apart, sword at his side. But his gaze is fixed on Alaric with a quiet, seething intensity. He watches every step, every smile, every touch of the prince’s hand on your waist.

And though he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, the warning is clear.

You are not unclaimed.