Chapter 1 A Crown Sharpened To Bleed

• The gown weighed heavier than the crown.
• Stiff boning dug into Espen’s ribs, each breath a struggle beneath the red silk stitched by trembling maids the night before. It had been rushed, like everything else. No one expected the Rosewood princess to survive long enough to need a wedding dress.
• The whispers had said as much: He’ll kill her within a week. Or worse, ignore her.
• Outside the palace walls, bells tolled with mock celebration. Inside, the chill clung to stone like a curse.
• She stood alone in the corridor outside the grand hall, her hand resting on the cool marble archway. In her other palm, she clutched a velvet pouch—small, discreet, and humming with a pulse only she could feel.
• Not yet. Not yet.
• She tucked it into the bodice of her dress and fixed her face into the mask they all expected: wide eyes, soft lips, a woman who’d learned how to survive by being small.
• Let them underestimate me. It’s easier that way.
• The doors opened.
• And there he was.
• Prince Mikko Holden stood at the altar like a blade—cold, sharp, beautiful in the way a sword looks just before it cuts. His dark hair was tousled, like he hadn’t bothered to fix it for the ceremony, and his jaw was shadowed with scruff. His black uniform was custom-fitted, buttons glinting like onyx, a silver sword resting at his hip as if he were preparing for war rather than a wedding.
• Maybe he was.
• His eyes—storm gray and glacial—locked onto hers the moment she stepped inside.
• No welcome. No warmth.
• Only disdain.
• Espen smiled anyway.
• Let them think she didn’t notice.
• She moved forward, step by silent step, each one echoing against the high-vaulted ceiling. Every noble, every merchant, every stuck-up royal envoy turned to watch. Some leaned forward, whispering behind gloves and fans. Others exchanged coin.
• A bet, she imagined. How long before the princess snapped?
• Joke’s on you, she thought. I was broken long before this.
• When she reached him, he didn’t offer his hand. He didn’t even pretend to hide his disgust. He looked her up and down like she was something that had spoiled on his plate.
• “Charming,” Espen murmured beneath her breath. “Such enthusiasm. Should I be flattered?”
• He leaned in. “Save your quips. You’ll be back in your own coffin by winter.”
• “Lovely,” she replied, all honey and venom. “I do love a man with ambition.”
• A muscle twitched in his jaw.
• The priest began the rites.
• Espen didn’t hear most of it. Her attention drifted to the stained-glass windows above—the only color in the gray stone cathedral. A dragon curled in each pane, wings spread, flames licking toward the edges. Velhara’s sigil. Once feared. Now forgotten.
• Just like her.
• “Do you, Prince Mikko Holden…”
• “I do,” he said without looking at her.
• Espen’s lips twitched.
• “…and do you, Princess Espen Rosewood…”
• Liar, liar, liar, she thought. But said aloud, “I do.”
• A flicker of something crossed his face then. Surprise? Disgust? Or was it disappointment that she hadn’t crumbled under his hatred?
• He kissed her hand.
• Technically.
• His lips brushed her knuckles like one might touch a poisoned blade. The moment passed. The crowd clapped.
• And just like that, she was a wife.
• A political pawn. A walking treaty. A Rosewood bound to Holden.
• As the feast began, Mikko didn’t speak to her. Didn’t toast. Didn’t sit beside her. He took a seat across the long table and nursed a glass of blood-red wine with his mistress beside him, draped in black silk that shimmered like oil. Kimberlee.
• Of course.
• Espen met her gaze and smiled, slow and knowing. The mistress blinked first.
• Game on.
• She sipped from her goblet, but the wine tasted like ash. The magic in her chest pulsed once. Angry. Starved.
• By the time the celebration wound down, the sky outside had blackened to storm clouds and cold wind. The servants whispered about omens.
• Espen whispered to no one.
• She was escorted—not by her husband, but by a bored attendant—to the bridal chambers. They were beautiful, yes. Lavish. But cold. Empty. No fire in the hearth. No scent of warmth or musk or anything living. Just silk sheets and stone walls and silence.
• She sat on the edge of the bed and waited.
• Not for him.
• But for the inevitable.
• Footsteps.
• The door creaked.
• She rose to her feet, spine straightening, lips parted.
• But it wasn’t Mikko.
• It was one of his guards, smirking like he had something to deliver worth gold.
• “A message from His Highness,” the man said. “He’s spending the night in his own quarters. You’re not to disturb him.”
• She didn’t blink.
• Didn’t flinch.
• Only smiled that sweet, venom-laced smile. “How kind. Please thank him for his generosity.”
• The door shut again.
• She stared at it for a long moment, the stillness buzzing loud in her ears.
• And then she laughed.
• Not the broken, sobbing kind. Not the delicate princess kind.
• It was the rough, bitter, gods-fucking-damn-it-all kind.
• She laughed until her sides hurt and her throat burned and her voice cracked. Then she climbed into the massive bed—alone—and whispered to the pouch beneath her dress.
• “Not yet,” she told it. “But soon.”
• 🔥
• Across the castle, Prince Mikko Holden poured another glass of wine. Kimberlee straddled his lap, trailing fingers over his chest, her lips near his ear.
• “Why didn’t you go to her?” she purred. “You married the girl. Surely she’s expecting a royal fuck.”
• Mikko’s jaw tightened. “She’ll get nothing from me.”
• “You could make her suffer more if you made her want it first.”
• He didn’t answer.
• Because the truth—gods help him—was that for one moment at that altar, when Espen threw his insult back at him with a half-smile and fire in her eyes, he’d wanted her.
• Not because she was beautiful—though she was. Not because of the dress, or the crown, or the curves that wouldn’t quit.
• He wanted her because she hadn’t flinched.
• Because she didn’t beg or cry or try to please him.
• Because she’d looked him in the eye and bit back.
• He was used to being worshipped.
• He didn’t know what to do with something that might bite harder.