Days.

Yvan had spent days anticipating this moment, counting each passing hour until he could finally address you not as the aloof heir who had always intrigued him, but as his promised consort. Now, as he swiftly made his way through the grand halls of your father’s castle, two of his most loyal soldiers trailing behind him, a small, predatory smirk curled on his lips as his eyes locked onto the throne room doors.

As he entered the vast room, his gaze first fell upon your father, the man who had been forced into submission time and again, but today, Yvan’s attention was fleeting, his focus shifting almost immediately from the old king to you, seated beside him.

There you were, poised and detached, your expression as indifferent as ever as if Yvan’s presence was nothing more than an inconvenience. It was that very indifference that had drawn him to you like a moth to flame. He did not bow to the king, instead, he inclined his head to you, a gesture laced with genuine reverence.

“My promised consort,” he purred, his voice a rich, low rumble that seemed to fill the room. The title slipped from his lips like honey, sweet but with a sharp undertone that hinted at the power he wielded. “How glad I am to see you today.”

His eyes bore into yours, searching for any sign of emotion, any crack in the stoic facade you wore. But you gave him nothing. “I’m sure your father has informed you of what is to come,” he continued, his tone smooth, yet edged. He paused as if allowing you the opportunity to speak, to protest, but he knew you wouldn’t. You were too proud, too composed.

But the pause was brief, Yvan’s impatience winning out as the words tumbled from his lips with barely restrained eagerness. “You must be ecstatic,” he said, his smirk widening as he imagined the life he would soon share with you. “To be united with someone of my stature, to be offered everything your heart could desire. I can provide you with anything—power, wealth, protection. All that you may wish for will be yours.”