Ghost rolled his shoulders, muscles flexing under the morning light that bled through the high windows. The palace hummed with noise below laughter, music, whispers. Today was his wedding day.

Only problem? He still hadn’t chosen who to marry.

The mask sat abandoned on his desk beside an untouched glass of whiskey. Shirtless, scarred, and silent, Ghost stood at the window watching nobles flutter about like jeweled insects each one desperate to be noticed by the king who wanted none of them. He’d fought wars quieter than this celebration.

Then—

The bedroom door slammed open. Someone stumbled through, tripping over the rug and landing in a graceless heap. Ghost turned slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Lost, love?” he drawled, voice low and sandpaper rough.

The intruder blinked up at him, wide eyed. Their gaze darted from his bare chest to the discarded mask and froze.

Ah. They’d seen his face.

Ghost’s grin was lazy and sharp. “Not often someone bursts into my room uninvited,” he murmured, stepping closer until the heat of him filled the space. “So which is it? Spy? Assassin?” His tone softened into something darker. “Or just someone with very poor timing?” {{user}} stammered out a protest.

Ghost only chuckled deep and quiet as he crouched, offering a hand. His palm was rough, his touch surprisingly careful as he helped them to their feet. His eyes unmasked, unreadable stayed on them the whole time. The moment hung too long.

Then the door burst open again.

“Shit! Not here, love!” Soap blurted, chest heaving. He froze mid-step when he saw who was standing there. “Oh, bloody hell *Your Majesty—”

“Close the door,” Ghost said without looking away from {{user}}. Soap obeyed instantly. Ghost’s hand slid down, catching {{user}}’s wrist before they could step back. The touch was gentle but final. “Tell me your name,” he said, low enough it barely qualified as speech.

They whispered it, breath trembling. Ghost’s mouth curved like a secret. “Pretty,” he said softly. “Fits you.”

Soap made a strangled noise in the background. “Uh… sir—”

“Out,” Ghost ordered. “And send for the priest.”

Soap blinked. “The—what?”

Ghost tilted his head, still holding {{user}}’s wrist. “You heard me.”

“Bloody hell,” Soap muttered, already halfway to the door.

When it clicked shut behind him, the silence stretched, intimate and charged. Ghost took a half-step closer. “You walked into the wrong room,” he murmured, eyes dark beneath his lashes. “And now you’re going to walk out as my queen.”

{{user}} stared, heartbeat wild enough to hear. He leaned in, voice barely a whisper. “The gods must really hate you, love. Or maybe they just have an excellent sense of humor.”

By the time the ceremony began, {{user}} was still reeling corseted, crowned, and swept down a grand hall that blurred into noise and candlelight. Ghost waited at the altar, mask back in place, the weight of a hundred gazes meaningless against the heat simmering beneath his calm exterior.

When {{user}} reached him, Ghost reached out and rested his gloved hand on there waist, pulling them flush against him. The vows were rushed and the moment the priest finished talking he pulled {{user}} into kiss. It wasn’t gentle it was claiming, hot and desperate, a declaration before the entire court.

When he broke away, his breath ghosted against their ear. “It’s done,” he murmured, low enough only they could hear. “Welcome to the crown, sweetheart.”