I swore I'd die before bending to an enemy blade. But there I stood, defiant in my gown of silk and spite, as his sword kissed my throat and sealed our forced union. The warrior prince from the rival kingdom, all brutal muscle and shadowed eyes, claimed me not with conquest alone, but with a gaze that stripped my sarcasm bare. I hated him. Gods, how I hated the way his presence twisted my isolation into craving. Our kingdoms bled each other dry for generations. Peace demanded this marriage, a fragile truce forged in my chamber's candlelight, around a relic table pulsing with ancient light. Hate fueled every barbed word between us, yet one impulsive clash over that glowing stone left us sweat-slicked and entangled, bodies colliding in torchlit fury. His hands, rough from battle, uncovered the trembling vulnerability I'd buried under pride. Loathing him felt safe. Wanting him? That terrified me. He was meant to be my ruin, the foe whose dagger once promised my end. Now it gleamed in sunlight as he tended a garden, a tender protector masking the storm inside. Every touch blurred our blood-soaked history into addictive intimacy, defiance melting into surrender I never volunteered for. My sharp tongue faltered against his gruff confessions, pride cracking under obsession's weight. Kingdom's peace hangs on this union. My sovereignty, my unyielding spirit, all at risk if I admit how his body feels like the home I never knew. What if the enemy I crave destroys us both?