Chapter Text
I saw him across the courtyard for the first time in my life—and for one reckless, impossible second, I forgot how to breathe.
He stood in white and gold, sunlight catching in his hair like it had been woven there on purpose. Not just handsome. Not just beautiful.
Stunning.
The kind of stunning that makes the world feel slightly misaligned. Like everything before that moment had been practice for this one.
Prince George of Silvermere.
Our kingdoms had been circling each other for years—treaties, feasts, carefully worded letters written by hands that were not ours. I had expected arrogance. Polished charm. Something rehearsed.
Instead, when his eyes met mine across the marble steps, there was something startlingly real in them. Curious. Almost shy.
I genuinely couldn’t take my eyes off him.
And that was my first mistake.
—
The shouting began before I saw the blood.
It cracked through the courtyard like thunder splitting stone. The guards moved too late. Courtiers froze too long. My father’s voice—sharp, furious—cut through the air with a command I’d heard a thousand times.
But it wasn’t meant for me.
George was on the ground.
The white and gold were stained red.
For a heartbeat, I couldn’t understand what I was seeing. My mind refused to make sense of it. He had been standing. He had been smiling.
Now he was bleeding.
And his father—King Toto—was standing over him.
Knife at his throat.
The blade caught the sun the way George’s hair had a moment before. Bright. Merciless.
“Father,” I heard myself say, but I wasn’t speaking to my own.
My voice didn’t sound like mine. It sounded like someone younger. Smaller.
King Toto’s grip tightened in George’s hair, forcing his head back. George winced but didn’t cry out. Gods, he didn’t cry out.
Their kingdom prized obedience. Control. Perfection.
I had heard rumors.
I had never believed them.
“Stand down,” Toto ordered his guards, though none of them had moved.
George’s eyes flicked up.
Not to his father.
To me.
They were impossibly blue. And furious.
Not afraid.
Furious.
“Don’t,” he breathed. I don’t think anyone else heard it.
The knife pressed closer. A thin line of red welled beneath the edge.
Something in my chest snapped.
Protocol dissolved. Politics burned to ash.
I stepped forward.
Every instinct screamed that this was treason. That this was the beginning of war. That I was about to fracture everything my kingdom had spent decades building.
I didn’t care.
“You’ll kill him,” I said, and I hated how steady my voice sounded.
Toto’s gaze shifted to me, cold and assessing. “He has forgotten his place.”
George’s jaw tightened.
Forgotten his place.
Like he was a weapon. A symbol. A possession.
Not a person.
“He is your heir,” I said.
“He is mine,” Toto corrected.
The distinction was horrifying.
Blood slid down George’s neck in a slow, deliberate line. It soaked into the collar of his tunic. The courtyard was so silent I could hear it hit the stone.
I took another step.
Then another.
My father said my name sharply behind me.
I ignored him.
“Release him,” I said.
It wasn’t a request.
Toto’s eyes narrowed. “Or what?"
Or what.
I didn’t have an army at my back. I didn’t have authority here. I was a guest.
I was seventeen and reckless and utterly, completely unable to watch him die.
George’s breathing was shallow now. Controlled. Too controlled.
He still wasn’t looking at his father.
He was looking at me.
Like he was measuring something.
Like he was deciding whether I was worth the risk.
“Or,” I said quietly, “you lose more than a son today.”
A ripple moved through the courtyard. Subtle. Dangerous.
My father stepped forward at last, voice iron. “Max.”
A warning.
But it was too late.
Toto studied me for a long moment. The blade didn’t move.
Then, slowly—so slowly I almost didn’t trust my eyes—he eased it away from George’s throat.
Not entirely.
Just enough.
George didn’t move. Didn’t gasp. Didn’t scramble away.
He waited.
Only when Toto finally released his hair did George roll to the side, pushing himself up with visible effort. Blood ran down his neck, down his hand where he pressed against the cut.
He stood.
Unsteady.
But standing.
Our eyes locked again.
Up close, he was even more breathtaking.
And angrier.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
It wasn’t gratitude.
It was an acknowledgment.
A truce drawn in blood.
I swallowed. “You’re welcome.”
Behind us, kings were already speaking in tight, controlled tones about misunderstandings and discipline and appearances.
But none of that mattered.
Because George was still bleeding.
And I had just defied a king for him.
Which meant one thing was certain:
This was not the last time I would choose him over everything else.