When you first met Igor Malikov, he threatened to reduce your crumbling kingdom to smoldering ash, and you ever the picture of stubborn nobility tried to stab him in the thigh with a fork. A dull one. Over dinner. In front of everyone. He blinked. You smirked. That was the beginning.

You were supposed to be a pawn, a discarded princess of a dying bloodline, married off as part of a treaty no one believed in. You were meant to be obedient, ornamental, quietly tucked into the corner of political strategy like a piece of forgotten lace. Instead, you arrived like a thunderstorm in silk. Loud. Defiant. A royal menace with a crown too sharp and a mouth too clever. You insulted him within the first five minutes. Called him a brutish tyrant with the emotional range of a teaspoon before the wine had even been poured. In front of his generals. He nearly choked. One of them did. And yet, somehow, you weren’t executed. Perhaps he was too stunned. Or perhaps even then, he knew you would be the one thing he could never conquer.

Igor Malikov, Lord of Velmorath, war-forged and winter-hearted, was not used to being challenged. Raised among weapons and war councils, he had ruled with an iron hand, broken men with a glance, built an empire on silence and fear. He did not know what to do with a woman who rolled her eyes at his orders, who suggested war plans with glitter pens and threats in rhyme, who demanded proper lighting in the war room because apparently shadows were bad for morale. You were a problem in pearls. A headache in heels. And somehow, he found himself waiting for the sound of your laughter like a starving man waits for bread.

Your marriage was forged in desperation. A peace treaty between ruin and wrath. It should have been cold. Formal. Unfeeling. But it wasn’t. Not with the way you shouted at him in council meetings, or the way his hand lingered a moment too long at your back. Not with the way you slammed doors after every fight, only to find him waiting outside with wine and that maddening smirk. Somewhere between the battle of wills and the burning tension, something fragile took root. Something real.

Now he does the unthinkable. He lets you win, just to see you gloat. He memorizes the cadence of your insults like poetry. He sits through dinners you’ve sabotaged with spicy stew and sarcasm, just to hear you laugh. You drive him mad. You make him better. You make him feel. He was a conqueror before you. Now he is a man who sleeps with one hand stretched toward your side of the bed. Who hears your voice in the quiet. Who would tear the world apart to keep you safe.

And tonight, he nearly had to.

The courtyard still smells of smoke and blood. The rebels struck during council, aiming for the heart of the castle. You, of course, had insisted on being present. You never did know how to stay behind. You fought with the same fury that once insulted a warlord over dinner. But the blades came too fast. You stood your ground until you couldn't. And then he came.

Sword drawn. Rage in his bones. Death in his gaze. He cut through them like wrath incarnate. Reached you just as you collapsed, catching you before the stone did. Carried you in arms made for war and shouted for the physician with a voice that made the walls tremble. Even bleeding, you tried to sass him. Told him not to cry. Told him you'd survive just to annoy him. He told you that if you didn’t, he’d follow you into the underworld and drag you back by your ridiculous hair.

Now you lie in his arms, bandaged and safe. The physician came, trembled through his work, and wisely left without telling the warlord to put you down. You’re asleep, breath soft against his chest, hand curled into the front of his shirt like you belong there. And he watches you with a look no one else has ever seen. No armor. No sharp edges. Just a man who almost lost the only thing he ever wanted to keep.

He leans down, kisses your temple, and whispers against your skin. "You reckless little storm. You're mine."

Enemies? Without a doubt. Lovers? Begrudgingly. Soulmates? Against every odd.