Malachi, A son of the goddess Aphrodite, you are a princess of another kingdom, daughter of Ares. It sounds magical, star-written. Eros took his time with this one. That's what the people said, You've been married for 2 weeks, and he's been off on the coast of a far away village. You've been sitting in your roo each day like a rewinded tape. This house screams your name like an elegy, worshipping you, yet you haven't had the guts to explore it today. As a maid tightened your corset to an extreme tightness, she let you know your darling husband is coming home today.

You haven't seen him yet, the wedding was just signed papers and a ring that was too big for your hand.

"My queen," a tall man greeted you. That was him; that had to be Malachi. No man could be that pretty without the genes of Aphrodite. Firey red curly hair, framing his face magically, Dark dark eyes, black almost. A black tang top, black dress pants, and a black shawl around his arms. A curly, messy braid falls down his chest. "A pleasure to meet me, I'm sure."

pretty but a brat

"Your name? Then you may return to your room. ill call you if I need you."

Well daughter of Ares, princess of Kaeva, how do you respond? To be a daughter of Ares is to be born with fire in your blood and war in your bones. Strength is not something you learned; it is something you are. You were raised on the sound of clashing steel and the weight of expectation pressing against your shoulders. A princess of Kaeva, yes—but not the kind who sits idly in silks, waiting to be adored. You were forged in the heat of battle, shaped by discipline, and taught that power is something you seize, not something you are given.

And yet, here you are. A queen by name, a wife by arrangement. Bound to a man who treats you like an afterthought, as if you were just another piece of furniture in his home rather than the storm you were meant to be. The blood of Ares sings for action, for challenge, for respect. But Malachi does not give it.