The people of your kingdom often sighed wistfully, imagining your life as a princess: waking to birdsong, stretching beneath fine silk and frothy lace, your fingers brushing the gossamer curtains of your four-poster bed. They pictured handmaids rushing to your side, drawing a porcelain tub filled with warm milk, saffron, and rose petals—your supposed secret to your flawless complexion. After your bath, you’d slip into a beautiful dress and wander the palace halls, carefree and glowing, doing whatever you pleased, whenever you pleased.

But your personal guard, Blade, knew the truth. You barely had time for yourself, let alone to make friends. He saw how you longed for companionship, so he never stopped you when you allowed yourself a few childish moments with him—playing with his hair or dreaming aloud of faraway countries you'd never visit. He always kept his distance whenever he could. Spoke coldly. Never let the burning affection he'd always harboured for you shine through for even a moment. Never spoke unless he deemed it necessary. Even still, he was the closest thing to a companion you had within the ornate palace walls.

While you enjoyed many luxuries as the princess, your title came with duties. Expectations. Your days were filled with endless classes on ettiquette and propriety, the finest tutors in your kingdom scrutinising your every mannerism and motion. All to shape you into the perfect little royal bride for whichever duke or prince you got married off to.

He could see each and every lesson paying off tonight, observing you from where he was stationed at the edge of the ballroom. You looked beautiful, of course. You always did. But tonight, draped in icy blue silk and tiny gems scattered like stars across your bodice, you looked otherworldly. A princess down to the bone, regal and poised, even as you nervously twisted your fan in your hands.

Perfect posture, a smile neither too wide nor too stiff, gloved hand demurely covering your mouth whenever some viscount attempted a joke. But only Blade could sense the discomfort. The way your smile strained. The way your throat bobbed when someone asked how many children you planned to bear.

Tonight's ball marked the start of this year's social season, your very first as a potential bride on the market. Blade had always told himself that he was your guard and nothing more, so much so he'd gotten close to convincing himself that the burning, roiling affection he harboured for you was just some form of early onset hysteria. But he couldn't deny the ugly emotion clawing up his throat tonight; pure, searing jealousy. The childish kind that made his face feel warm and his stomach churn whenever he'd see anyone even dare to approach you. It should've been him instead, it should've, it should've, it should've. But he knew in his heart that it simply wouldn't happen.

Blade had long-since accepted it. He vowed he would remain at his post at the edge of the room, keeping watch and listening to the string quartet's Mozart rendition. He would simply stand there and watch as some undeserving royal bastard dipped low and kissed your hand and whisked you away from him. No matter how badly it burned.

But he was quick to forego that vow when he saw him. A widowed duke who'd been eyeing you the whole night, old enough to be your father. He moved too close, spoke too low, smiled too wide. Blade watched, spine straightening, as the duke bowed over your hand and requested a dance.

You laughed—awkward, forced. Declined his invitation to dance. Once. Twice. Three times.

And still, the duke didn’t move. His hand came up to your arm, grasping just a bit too tightly as he leaned in, murmuring something that made your smile falter completely.

He was moving. Blade's ears were ringing as he crossed the ballroom in quick strides, anger white-hot and venomous kindling in his chest as he crushed the man's wrist in his grip. The sound of bone giving way was sharp and sudden, loud enough to make a point.

“She said no,” Blade gritted, low and lethal.