Chapter 3 The Taste He Can't Spit Out

• Mikko hadn’t slept.
• He’d tried. Poured himself into his bed, into another bottle, into Kimberlee’s mouth just to forget.
• Didn’t work.
• Because when he closed his eyes, all he saw was her.
• Espen.
• Hair unbound, nightdress slipping off her shoulder. The soft gasp against his lips when he kissed her. The way she didn’t fight him. Didn’t whimper or plead or act like a virgin desperate for affection.
• She looked him in the eye.
• She let him take what he wanted.
• And then she made him feel like he was the one who didn’t know what the fuck to do next.
• She didn’t beg. She didn’t cry.
• She didn’t break.
• He hated her for it.
• Hated her.
• “Damn her,” he muttered into the side of his palm as he sat on the edge of his bed, half-dressed and breathing like he’d just come out of a fight.
• A knock sounded at his chamber door.
• He didn’t answer.
• It opened anyway.
• Kimberlee.
• Of course.
• She stepped inside without permission, silk trailing like sin. Her dark curls were pinned up messily, red lips smudged to hell. He hadn’t realized how used to her entrance he’d gotten until now.
• Until the contrast.
• She came in like smoke.
• Espen had stood like fire.
• “You sent for me last night,” Kimberlee said, voice coy and wounded. “And then vanished.”
• He dragged a hand down his face. “Was drunk.”
• “That never used to stop you.”
• “Didn’t feel like it.”
• She tilted her head. “Didn’t feel like me?” she asked. “Or didn’t feel like fucking your virgin bride?”
• His spine snapped straight.
• Kimberlee smiled without teeth. “Oh, please. Do you think I didn’t hear? The whole court’s been whispering. She didn’t scream. She didn’t run. She didn’t even leave her room. They think you took her.”
• “I didn’t,” he growled.
• She tsked. “Why not?”
• He stood then—fast, furious, looming. “Because I don’t want her.”
• “Liar.”
• He advanced. Grabbed Kimberlee by the jaw. “You think I give a shit about a clever tongue and a crown that means nothing?”
• “I think you’re obsessed,” she said, breathless. “I think she’s crawling under your skin, and you don’t know how to dig her out.”
• His grip tightened. Not enough to hurt.
• Yet.
• “She’s untouched,” he said, voice like gravel. “Unfucked. Unclaimed. And she acts like she owns the godsdamn castle.”
• Kimberlee’s laugh was soft and cruel. “You hate her because she doesn’t need you.”
• He let her go.
• “Leave,” he said coldly.
• She smirked as she backed toward the door. “You know what’s funny?” she said, hand resting on the knob. “If you had touched her… she might’ve broken. But now?”
• A pause.
• “She’s going to make you unravel first.”
• 🔥
• Court was a blur.
• Mikko stood beside the king again, flanked by banners and steel, trying to remember who the fuck he used to be before everything turned to rot.
• Before his father arranged this farce of a marriage.
• Before she arrived and started turning every insult he threw into a game.
• He’d always known how to cut people down.
• But Espen Rosewood didn’t just take the blade—she caught it, spun it, and handed it back with a bow and a joke.
• Today, she walked into court five minutes late again.
• Wore gold.
• A sharp-shouldered gown with cutouts at her waist, delicate embroidery that looked too much like claws. Her hair was twisted into a crown of braids, and her mouth was painted in that same faint bloodstain.
• He hated that mouth.
• Hated what it had done to him in that bedroom.
• He couldn’t look away from it now.
• “You’re staring,” his cousin murmured beside him.
• Mikko grunted. “Just watching the war parade.”
• “She’s winning.”
• “Fuck off.”
• 🔥
• They broke for midday recess. Mikko took his time leaving, hoping she’d vanish into whatever shadows she crawled out of.
• No luck.
• Espen lingered in the corridor outside the chamber doors, speaking to an old noble with a polite smile and dead eyes. As if the conversation bored her. As if none of this mattered.
• When she caught Mikko’s gaze, she didn’t look away.
• She smiled.
• Walked toward him.
• No fear. No shame.
• Just that same wicked amusement that made his gut twist.
• “Your Highness,” she said sweetly. “I was wondering—do I still need your permission to breathe, or are we relaxing the leash today?”
• Mikko stepped close, voice low. “You’re walking a fine line, Princess.”
• She leaned in. “Good. I sharpened my heels for it.”
• He could smell her.
• Gods.
• Lavender, steel, something ancient and feral that clung to her skin like magic trying to escape.
• He hated her.
• He wanted her.
• He didn’t know where the line blurred anymore.
• “You really think this act of yours is going to last?” he muttered, eyes tracing the way her throat worked when she swallowed. “The smile, the sarcasm… eventually it’ll all crack. They always do.”
• Her voice turned cool. “Then I suppose you’ll be disappointed.”
• “You’re not special,” he snapped. “You’re a political chain wrapped in velvet.”
• Her gaze didn’t flinch.
• “You think I care what you call me?” she asked softly. “You think I haven’t heard worse from prettier mouths than yours?”
• She stepped back, turned as if to leave.
• Paused.
• Then looked over her shoulder.
• “But thank you,” she added. “For confirming you didn’t touch me. I’d hate to have my first time remembered as a forgettable mistake.”
• And then she walked away.
• Mikko stood in the corridor for a long time after she was gone.
• Burning.
• 🔥
• That night, he couldn’t sleep again.
• Didn’t want Kimberlee.
• Didn’t want wine.
• He wanted silence.
• So he found the sparring yard.
• Empty after midnight.
• He trained like something needed to break. Slashed, struck, ducked, twisted. Fought against shadows and fury. Against her laugh. Her lips. Her fucking voice in his head.
• He hated her.
• He hated her.
• So why did every insult she threw feel like a mark he didn’t want to scrub off?
• Why did the word virgin stick in his brain like a blade?
• He’d had countless women.
• All willing. All eager.
• None had haunted him like her.
• None had walked away from him like she didn’t need a goddamn thing.
• His shirt stuck to his chest, soaked with sweat. His hands trembled around the hilt of his sword.
• She’s just a girl.
• Just a political bride.
• Just—
• Just the one thing he couldn’t figure out.
• 🔥
• Elsewhere in the castle, Espen stood at her balcony, dragon curled at her feet—still hidden from everyone, still only hers.
• She stared out at the moonlit sky and whispered something ancient into the wind.
• The magic beneath her bed pulsed.
• And somewhere, deep in his bones, Mikko felt it.
• Felt her.
• And didn’t understand why it made his blood run hot.