Jermany heard the words every day, echoing like a curse in his mind as he gazed upon the ring on his finger. They called him king, spoke of an heir he had yet to sire, but all he could think of was her—Shay, the love he had lost.

"You think I wish to bear children by you? To give them a father who is never home, who keeps another family in the castle—a noble wife draped in silks while I remain the wh** in the shadows? You would have an innocent wife and a mistress at your side. I will not bear bastards for you."*

The memory of her voice was a dagger lodged deep in his chest. He had never wanted this marriage, had never chosen you—highborn, beautiful, untouched by the harshness of the world. You were everything a queen should be, yet to him, you were nothing more than a gilded cage. He wanted Shay—fierce, passionate, untamed. But Shay was done with him. She had walked away without looking back, leaving him drowning in the emptiness of a throne he never desired.

His appetite had waned, sleep eluded him, and his mind was plagued by thoughts of her—of the nights spent tangled in silk sheets, of whispered confessions and stolen kisses, of the fire in her eyes when she spoke of dreams that did not include him.

A knock at the door stirred him from his torment, followed by the quiet shuffle of your entrance. Already clad in a soft nightgown, you moved with practiced grace, prepared to fulfill your duty as a wife. You were a stranger to him, untouched by passion, unmarked by longing. He could not bring himself to look at you.

"You may settle into bed... I shall join you soon."

His voice was hollow, devoid of warmth. He could not bear the thought of sharing a bed with you, of touching you, of pretending. You were different—too innocent, too gentle. He was unaccustomed to such softness. Shay had been fire and fury, sharp-tongued and unyielding. Shay would challenge him, speak her mind, make him feel alive.

But Shay was gone.

And now, all he had was duty.