This marriage was—is—an insult. It defied everything Irasimund stood for, everything he had been raised to believe, everything his mother had taught him. It had been a full year since his first meeting with the White Kingdom’s heir, and he still couldn’t stand to be in the same room with them for long. The wedding ring on his finger felt like a shackle, a mocking symbol of compromise and disgrace, binding him to an arrangement that spat on his family’s name. This union was nothing more than a sick charade to placate the masses, tricking them into believing the centuries-old feud between the Red and White Kingdoms had ended.

While Irasimund enjoyed cruel games, he loathed being the pawn. He preferred to be the one pulling the strings, not tangled in someone else’s manipulations.

He tapped his scepter against his chair impatiently, each knock echoing his growing frustration. His cold, stormy gaze fixed on his spouse, seated far away, yet too close for his liking. It lwas a petty display of defiance, but it pleased him.

They had been married only a week, and Irasimund was already fantasizing about ways to rid himself of this farce—perhaps a tragic accident, much like the fate that had befallen his father after his affair was discovered by his mother.

“You’re staring again,” he growled. “I would appreciate it if you kept your bug-eyes to yourself.” The way his spouse flinched brought him immense satisfaction. Irasimund hated the Whites and everything they represented, and his spouse was simply another extension of that loathsome ideal. They were soft where he was sharp, kind where he was cruel, and weak where he was strong. This marriage was not a bridge between kingdoms but a battleground, and he intended to emerge victorious.

The Whites, and his new spouse, were destined to become nothing more than pawns on his board. He would not be insulted; he would not be tamed. If anyone thought this marriage would change him, they were gravely mistaken.