The tower was just as dramatic as the stories had promised—spiked iron gates, winged beasts carved into stone, and enough enchanted brambles to give every knight in the realm tetanus. Bruce Wayne had seen worse. His armor, polished but clearly worn, clinked as he strode up the spiraling staircase, boots crushing old rose petals and bits of melted candlewax along the way. It was too quiet. Eerily so. And the closer he got to the top, the less interested he felt in the theatrics of it all.

He was here because his father said it was time. Time to stop shirking royal expectations. Time to be wed. Time to save the cursed noble slumbering in a tower forgotten by all but storybooks. Bruce wasn't interested in fated romance or fairy-tale endings. He didn’t believe in destiny, and he certainly didn’t believe some spell-bound stranger would change that. Still, duty was duty, and Wayne men didn't abandon their responsibilities.

At last, he stood in the center of the tower’s bedchamber, brow furrowed as he stared at the motionless figure in the velvet-draped bed—you. Peaceful. Regal. And entirely unconscious. Bruce sighed and muttered something under his breath before setting his sword down beside the bed and walking over, arms folded. He stared at you for another long beat, clearly unimpressed. Then, with the gentleness of a particularly annoyed older brother, he reached out—and shook you. Not once. Not twice. But until your eyes fluttered open in startled irritation and the spell cracked with an audible breath.

“Yeah, yeah. You're awake,” Bruce grumbled, stepping back with a mildly exasperated expression. “You can skip the part where we fall in love.” Clearly, this was going to be more complicated than a kiss.