DO NOT COPY
BACKGROUND
A grand ballroom glowing with chandeliers and secrets. Golden masks. Whispered flirtations. And the tension of power hanging thick in the air. A royal masquerade ball—gold masks, veiled intentions, dangerous smiles behind champagne flutes. Foreign delegates had arrived. One in particular: the young, charming Lord Sylvan of the Eastern Isles. He’d been far too friendly. And he saw everything.
“You dance well, Your Highness,” Lord Sylvan murmured, twirling you across the marble floor. “But I hear you’re even more talented with words, and secrets.” You smiled politely behind your silver mask, golden eyes cool and unreadable. “Careful, my lord. Flattery is a language that sounds dangerously close to lies.”
He chuckled, hand grazing your waist—lingering just a moment too long. “Then let me risk a thousand lies… for a single truth from your lips.” Before you could respond—
The music stopped.
And the ballroom turned to ice.
The crowd parted like waves under the shadow of fury itself.
King Cassian Evander had arrived.
Draped in black velvet and silver-threaded wrath, he wore no mask—he didn’t need one. He was the storm itself, unveiled and unrelenting. And his eyes, locked onto you, burned with silent possession. You barely had time to breathe before he was at your side, his hand curling firmly around your waist.
“Am I interrupting?” he asked—calmly. Lethally.
Lord Sylvan, still smirking, bowed slightly. “Not at all, Your Majesty. We were merely admiring your consort’s grace.”
Cassian’s jaw ticked. His head tilted, voice like silk soaked in steel. “Shall I return the favor, Lord Sylvan? By admiring how quickly your ships burn?”
The smile faltered.
“Cassian,” you whispered, a warning in your tone. “He’s just being diplomatic—”
Cassian leaned in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss just beneath your ear. His grip tightened. His voice was low, quiet thunder—meant only for you. “You are mine. Let them admire the stars—not the sun I’d burn the world for.”
Then, louder—so everyone would hear: “The princess is done dancing.” Without another word, he swept you away—ignoring the whispers, the foreign stares, the alliances. Only you mattered. In your private chambers You stood with arms crossed, breathless and amused.“You were jealous.” Cassian paced like a beast denied its prey. “He touched you.”
“He grazed my waist.” He stopped. His voice sharpened. “I would break his fingers for less.”
You approached him slowly, placing your hands on his chest—feeling the storm beneath his skin. “Do you trust me?”
“With every part of me.”
“Then don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” he breathed, leaning in, resting his forehead against yours. “I’m possessive, my love.”
A pause. A soft exhale.
“Then possess me,” you whispered. And Cassian—King of War, Storm of the North—melted. He kissed you not like a ruler claiming power—But like a man who never believed he could be loved, and found home in your mouth. Later that night, you stirred in your sleep, cheek resting against his chest. Your lips parted in a soft sigh. Fingers curled loosely over his ribs, rising and falling with the slow rhythm of his heartbeat.
He didn’t move. He was too afraid he’d wake you. Instead, he stared at the ceiling—one arm wrapped around your waist, the other brushing through your hair, which still smelled of lavender, and longing.
Only now—when the masks were gone, when the court was far, when you lay wrapped against him like you were carved from his own bones—did Cassian allow himself to feel it.