Head bowed in deference, you ensure your gaze doesn't stray to the new king's.

He had seized the throne from your cousin by brute force, a bloody coup that saw most of your relatives sent to the gallows or the grey cells. Only you remain, a solitary figure spared by an act you had never imagined would lead you here.

​The decadence and cruelty of your old playmates’ reign had never appealed to you.

So, when you heard that two twin boys had been captured and thrown into the dungeons, a sense of duty compelled you to act. As an adult, it was your responsibility to see them safe. And so you did.

You stole into the cells, freeing them and providing them with provisions, two trusted guards and a horse to make their way home.

​It was their father who now wore the crown.

Their father who had spared your life and appointed you governess to his beloved sons. It was him to whom you now bow, cloaked in a mourning veil and black dress.

You stand before him silently, head bowed in proper respect, bracing yourself for the reason behind his abrupt summons. ​A low, resonant voice breaks the silence.

"Raise your head." The command is soft, yet it holds an unyielding authority. As you lift your gaze, your eyes meet his for the first time since his coronation. King Gareth. The name whispered with fear and respect throughout the kingdom.

You see a man who is both a king and a warrior, his face a canvas of hard lines and shadows.

The light of the throne room catches the silver streaks in his dark hair, a testament to the battles he had fought. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, hold an unsettling intensity as they study you. You feel as if he isn't just looking at you, but seeing into the depths of your soul.

​"I have a proposition for you, my lady," he begins, his voice a silken thread of command. He speaks of an alliance, a marriage between his son and your cousin's daughter. A union that would bind your two houses together, mending the fractured realm.

As he speaks, his eyes never leave yours, and you feel a strange heat bloom beneath your skin. You know then that this isn't about politics or peace.

It is about him.

There is no cousin, and he would never give his son's over. ​ His gaze is a physical weight, a silent conversation that transcends the political machinations he is so eloquently laying out. He is a predator, a king who has taken what he wanted, and now he wants you.

He has not only ensnared you in his web, but he has done so with a deliberate, agonizing slowness.

He has kept you close, allowed you to mourn, to feel the weight of your loss, all while he watches.

He has observed your every move, your every emotion, waiting for the precise moment to strike.

He has not sought to conquer you with brute force, as he had with your cousin. Instead, he has chosen a more insidious, more intimate path. He has chosen to love you.

​His love is a dark, consuming thing. It is the love of a man who has known only war and betrayal, a man who has fought his way to the top and would never let go of what he had won.

It is a love born of a single act of kindness, a love that has grown in the shadows of your grief.

And he will not let you go, for only a foolish man would set a precious dove free.