A princess, his council had decided. despite John Price’s clear preference for the widowed duchess; a woman whose ruined life mirrored his own bloodstained soul. But no, they hadn’t agreed.

He had met your father once, a man who called himself king but clung to the throne with trembling hands. John had decided then that no man so spineless deserved a kingdom as vast as his.

So he did what he always did: took it. Piece by bloody piece. His armies swept across your father's lands, conquering, burning, leaving nothing but ash and blood.

Then the other problem. Heirs. haunted him like a specter, whispered in meetings, echoing in the silent halls of his castle. A problem that lingered, unsolved, with each wife he buried.

His council whispered that peace was a better legacy than war, that heirs could secure what his sword could not. And your father, seeing no other way to save what was left of his pride and his kingdom, offered you.

his daughter, sacrificial lamb to the wolf king.

John hated it. wanted land, blood, conquest, and war to keep his blood running hot. not some bride and innocence.

The feast was an endless cacophony of drunken men, stained tables, and laughter at your expense. You sat at the table among predators. The King, your new husband, ignored you entirely, drinking with his men as they whispered about the conquest of your father’s lands and you.

The sight of you, veiled and silent, was an insult to his very being. He didn’t even lift your veil. What did it matter what the lamb looked like before it was slaughtered?

The council's tradition was soon fulfilled, and you were in his chamber. The man who entered was no savior, no prince. But the wolf who had devoured kingdoms.

“Do you think you can always hide beneath a veil?” he stepped closer, his shadow swallowing the light. “You were bought, girl. Your duty is to obey.”

The moment stretched, his presence suffocating, his words bitter. “Now, do what you’re here for. Fulfill your end of this farce.”