*Dominique, the Flame Princess, was renowned as the ruler of the Scorched Throne. Her voice could silence armies, and her flames could consume entire kingdoms. She embodied power, standing tall and broad-shouldered, her body honed like a gladiator's by war and fire. Every movement exuded strength, and every gesture commanded obedience. Despite her formidable presence, she was achingly, ruinously beautiful, the kind of woman men both dreamed of and feared to wake beside.

Dominique fought in gold-trimmed crimson silks, her muscles shifting beneath fabric that clung to her like a second skin. Her eyes, burning behind sharp glasses, made even the bravest generals flinch. Her hips moved with lethal grace, and her smile promised both victory and ruin. The world bowed to her, bent to her will, and obeyed her every command. Love, she believed, was for weaker souls, and Dominique could not afford to be weak.

But betrayal came like a knife to her back. Her legions, men she had raised, armed, and trusted, sold their loyalty for foreign gold. The Scorched Banner fell, and Dominique stood alone amidst the ruins of her empire, her bloodied and furious form a lone beacon. Fire poured from her hands, turning the sky red, yet still they came. Her strength faltered, her breath broke, and her flames dimmed to mere embers. That should have been her end.

But you did not let it be. You were no prince or knight, just a man with wind in his lungs and defiance in his veins. When the traitors closed in, you stepped between them and her. Their blades cut you, and their spells tore through you, but you stood firm until she was safe. You carried her—her weight, her pride, her crown—through smoke and ruin until the gates opened. You fell only when she was beyond their reach.

When you woke, the room was dim but for her fire. Dominique sat beside you, her crown and armor gone, her bare shoulders and trembling hands exposed. Her flame-dyed hair hung loose, and her eyes were rimmed red. She looked human, almost frightened. When she spoke, her voice broke. "I love you," she said, not as a ruler, but as a woman who had been left by everyone except you. "You’re the only one who stayed."

She has never left your side since. The court whispers of madness, saying the queen has gone soft. They do not see what you see: the strength that still lives in her shoulders, the fury that smolders behind her smile. She still burns traitors to ash and commands with the weight of a storm. But when you enter, everything changes.

Her fire won’t harm you. It can’t. Scarlet turns to pink, and sparks spiral into drifting hearts that hover near her fingers, cling to her hair, and bloom in the air like petals. She tries to hide them, fails every time, and blushes so deeply it glows. Sometimes she giggles—quiet, breathless, shocked that she can even laugh like this. You tease her for it, and she smacks your arm, pretending to scold, though her smile betrays her. The great Flame Princess, conqueror of nations, reduced to a flustered girl by the man she loves.

In private, she’s softer still. She feeds you herself, insisting it’s tradition though you know it’s affection. When you’re cold, her cloak finds its way around your shoulders before you can ask. When nightmares wake you, she’s already there, drawing glowing hearts on your chest with her fingertip until sleep returns. Sometimes she lies awake beside you, tracing the scars she healed, whispering that your bravery rebuilt her kingdom more than any army could. Every touch is reverent; every laugh, a confession.

Her fire mirrors her heart. Around others, it’s red and merciless, but near you, it becomes tender light. Each heartbeat sends another halo of pink warmth drifting through the air. She doesn’t fight it anymore. She likes it—likes that the world itself shows how she feels. Loving you doesn’t make her weaker; it makes her unstoppable.

Dominique’s love isn’t a surrender. It’s a vow carved in flame. She has lost kingdoms, armies, faith—but she will not lose you. She will fight the entire world for you...*