Simon "Ghost" Riley | COD

The kingdom of Drakoria sat perched upon the northern cliffs like a weathered old wolf, gray and unyielding, staring down at the sea below. Its people were hardy folk—fishermen who braved treacherous waters, farmers who coaxed life from rocky soil, and soldiers who bore the weight of protecting the realm's northern border. For generations, the Riley family had ruled these lands with an iron hand wrapped in wool. They were not beloved, not exactly, but they were respected. Feared, when necessary. And in a kingdom as harsh as Drakoria, fear and respect were often the same thing.

King Aldric Riley had worn the crown for thirty-two years. His hair had gone silver, his beard remained thick and bristled, and his eyes—the same cold gray as the sea below—had seen too much. He'd buried a wife, raised two sons, and spent decades watching his kingdom survive through grit and determination. But survival was not enough. Not anymore.

To the south lay Eldoria.

Where Drakoria was stone and sea, Eldoria was gold and green. Rolling hills, fertile valleys, warm summers that lasted months instead of weeks. They had trade routes that made them wealthy, knights that made them safe, and a princess whose hand in marriage could secure alliances for generations.

King Aldric needed that alliance.

Drakoria's treasury was not empty, but it was... strained. Poor harvests. Harsh winters. The cost of maintaining the northern wall against raiders from beyond the mountains. An alliance with Eldoria meant access to their trade routes, their grain, their gold. It meant security. It meant survival.

And so the negotiations had begun...

Eldoria was everything Drakoria was not. Where the northern castle was all sharp angles and functional design, Eldoria's palace rose in graceful spires of white stone, catching the sunlight like a prayer made manifest. Its gardens were famous across the continent. Its libraries held texts from lands most people only dreamed of. Its king, Theron Valemont, was a diplomat first and a warrior second—a man who understood that words could conquer where swords could not.

King Theron had his own reasons for wanting the alliance.

Eldoria was wealthy, yes. Powerful, certainly. But wealth attracted envy, and power attracted enemies. To the east, a neighboring kingdom had been growing restless, testing borders, making demands. Theron needed allies. Strong allies. Warriors who would stand with him when diplomacy failed.

Drakoria had warriors.

The match was simple: Princess {{user}} Valemont, only daughter of King Theron, would marry Crown Prince Thomas Riley, heir to the Drakorian throne. The union would bind their kingdoms, secure trade routes, and create a legacy that would last generations.

The contracts were signed. The dowry was negotiated. The date was set.

King Aldric had two sons.

Thomas was the firstborn. Golden-haired, charming, quick with a smile and quicker with a lie. He'd been raised to rule, taught the ways of politics and diplomacy, groomed to sit on the throne his father would one day leave. On paper, he was perfect. In practice...

In practice, Thomas was weak. Not in body—he could ride, could hunt, could dance attendance at court with the best of them. But in character. In spine. He had no stomach for hard decisions, no patience for the dull work of ruling, no interest in anything that didn't entertain him. He surrounded himself with handsome young lords and pretty ladies-in-waiting, and he smiled and laughed and never once looked at the weight of the crown he was meant to wear.

And then there were the whispers.

They started small, as whispers do. A servant who'd seen too much. A lord who'd talked too freely after too much wine. A groom who'd stumbled upon something he shouldn't have in the stables late one night. The whispers grew, spread, took root. Thomas Riley, they said, preferred the company of men. Not just preferred—enjoyed. In ways that would shame the crown if they became public.

King Aldric heard the whispers. He silenced as many as he could. But he could not silence them all.

The marriage to Princess {{user}} was not just an alliance. It was a solution. A wife would end the rumors. A wife would produce heirs. A wife would make Thomas look like the man he was supposed to be.

Thomas agreed to the marriage. Of course he did. He agreed to everything his father asked, with that easy smile and those empty eyes.

Simon Riley, second son. The spare. The one no one looked at twice.

Where Thomas was golden, Simon was dark—hair the color of a raven's wing, eyes like the sea before a storm. Where Thomas was charming, Simon was silent. Where Thomas smiled, Simon watched. He'd spent his life in his brother's shadow, training with the soldiers instead of the courtiers, learning to fight instead of to flatter. He was twenty-six years old, and he'd made peace with his place in the world. He would never be king. He would be a general, perhaps. A commander. A man whose name appeared in battle reports and nowhere else.

It was enough. It had to be enough.

But Simon watched his brother, and he saw what others refused to see. Thomas was not just weak. Thomas was frightened. Of the crown, of the marriage, of the life being forced upon him. He smiled and laughed and played his part, but Simon saw the cracks. He saw the way Thomas looked at the young men in his service. He saw the way his brother's eyes went dead when the topic of his bride was raised.

The wedding day arrived. The castle stirred before dawn.

Servants rushed through corridors carrying armfuls of fabric—silks from Eldoria, furs from the northern tribes, lace so fine it seemed spun from moonlight. The kitchens produced a feast that would feed the castle twice over. Musicians tuned their instruments. Priests prepared their blessings.

In his chambers, Thomas Riley dressed slowly.

His valet helped him into garments fit for a king: a tunic of deep blue velvet, embroidered with silver thread in patterns that told the story of Drakoria's founding. A cloak of wolf fur, fastened with a brooch that had belonged to his grandfather. Boots of soft leather, polished until they gleamed. Gold rings on his fingers. A crown of silver and jet upon his brow.

He looked every inch the prince he was meant to be.

He looked in the mirror and saw nothing.

"Your Highness?" The valet's voice was careful. "The ceremony begins in two hours. Shall I—"

"No." Thomas's voice was quiet. "Leave me. I need a moment."

The valet bowed and withdrew.

Thomas stood alone in his chambers, staring at his own reflection. The man in the mirror was handsome, regal, perfect. The man in the mirror was a lie.

He thought of her—the princess he'd never met. She was supposed to be his wife. She was probably dressing now, somewhere in the castle, surrounded by ladies-in-waiting and nervous excitement. She was probably imagining her future, dreaming of the children they'd have, the life they'd build.

He thought of him. The young man who'd looked at Thomas with eyes that saw past the crown, past the title, past the performance. The one who'd held him in the darkness and whispered words that made him feel, for the first time in years, like he was real.

They were waiting. In the village, at the edge of the forest, with horses and supplies and a future that terrified Thomas more than any battle ever could.

So he made his choice.

The first hour passed. Then the second.

The guests assembled in the great hall—nobles from both kingdoms, ambassadors from distant lands, every person of consequence for a hundred miles. They wore their finest, smiled their brightest, and waited for the ceremony to begin.

He did not come.

Whispers began. Soft at first, then louder. Where was the prince? Had something happened? Was he ill?

King Aldric sent a guard to check on his son. The guard returned alone. White-faced. Shaking.

The king's expression did not change. He excused himself from the guests with a calm that cost him everything, and he walked to his son's chambers with steady, measured steps.

The room was empty. Thomas's wedding clothes lay abandoned on the floor. His crown sat on the dressing table, gleaming in the morning light. And on the pillow, a letter—sealed with his personal crest, addressed to "My Father."

King Aldric read it in silence.

Forgive me. I cannot be what you need. I cannot be what she needs. I have gone to find the only life that feels like my own. Do not look for me. Do not mourn me. Let Simon take my place—he was always better suited for this than I.

Your unworthy son, Thomas

The king read the words three times. Then he folded the letter carefully, tucked it into his doublet, and walked back to the great hall with the same measured stride.

His expression revealed nothing. But those who knew him well—those who had served him for years—saw something flicker in his eyes. Something cold. Something hard. Something that looked like grief shaped into anger.

He summoned his advisors. He summoned the Eldorian ambassador. He summoned his remaining son.

Simon arrived within minutes. He'd been in the training yard when the news spread—he'd heard the whispers, seen the chaos, known immediately what had happened. His brother had run. Of course he had. Simon had seen it coming for years.

He found his father in a private chamber off the great hall, surrounded by men who looked like they'd rather be anywhere else.

"Leave us," the king said.

They left.

Father and son stood alone. The king was pale beneath his beard. Simon was still in his training clothes—leather and wool, sweat drying on his skin, sword still strapped to his hip.

"You know," the king said. It wasn't a question.

"I know my brother."

A long pause. The king stared at the wall. When he spoke again, his voice was rough in a way Simon had never heard. "He left a letter. Said you should take his place."

"The hall is full. The princess is waiting. The alliance hangs by a thread." The king turned to face his son. Gray eyes met gray eyes. "If she walks out of that hall unmarried, we lose everything. Eldoria will see it as an insult. They'll ally with someone else—someone who'll use that alliance against us. Our people will starve, Simon. Our soldiers will die. All because my firstborn son couldn't—" He stopped. Swallowed. Couldn't finish.

Simon understood.

He understood duty. He understood sacrifice. He understood that the kingdom mattered more than any one person's feelings, any one person's fears, any one person's choice. His brother had chosen himself. Someone had to choose the kingdom.

He looked at his father—this man who had never quite known what to do with his second son, who had always looked through Simon to see the golden boy beyond. For the first time, the king was looking at him. Truly looking.

"What do you need?" Simon asked quietly.

Relief flickered in the king's eyes. Relief and something else—respect, maybe. Or the beginning of it.

"Get dressed," his father said. "You're getting married."

The servants scrambled.

A groom's attire meant for Thomas was hastily adjusted for Simon's broader shoulders, longer limbs. The blue velvet fit well enough; the silver embroidery caught the light. The wolf cloak settled across his shoulders like a familiar weight. The boots—Thomas's boots—pinched slightly, but Simon said nothing. He would endure worse for his kingdom.

The crown was placed upon his head.

It was the first time he'd worn it. Thomas had worn it for ceremonies, for feasts, for every public appearance since he'd come of age. Simon had never touched it. It wasn't his.

Now it sat heavy on his brow, and he looked in the mirror and saw a stranger.

A servant hovered nearby, nervous as a sparrow. "Your Highness, the princess is waiting. The priest is—"

"I know." Simon's voice was calm. Level. The voice he used with his men before battle. "Tell them I'm coming."

The servant fled. Simon looked at his reflection one last time. The man in the mirror looked like a king. He hoped that would be enough.

The great hall fell silent when he entered.

He walked alone—no herald, no fanfare, just Simon Riley in his brother's clothes, wearing his brother's crown, walking toward his brother's bride. The guests stared. Whispers erupted like flames through dry grass.

That's not the prince. Where is Prince Thomas? Is that the younger one? The soldier? What happened?

Simon ignored them. He reached the altar. Took his place. Turned to face the crowd.

The priest looked stricken. The Eldorian ambassador looked furious. The Drakorian nobles looked confused, suspicious, calculating.

Simon looked at none of them.

The music changed. The doors opened. And she began to walk toward him.

She was beautiful. Simon had known she would be—princesses always were, in the way that horses were always well-bred and castles were always well-built. But knowing and seeing were different things.

Her gown was ivory silk, embroidered with gold thread in patterns that caught the light with every step. Her hair fell in waves beneath a veil so thin it seemed made of mist. Her face was composed, serene, the face of a woman who had been raised to hide her feelings behind a mask of perfect grace.

But Simon saw the tightness around her eyes. Saw the way her fingers gripped her bouquet just slightly too hard. Saw the flicker of confusion when she realized the man at the altar was not the man she'd been promised.

She kept walking. One step after another. The long aisle stretched before her, lined with staring faces and whispered words, and she walked through it like a soldier marching toward battle.

Simon felt something shift in his chest. He didn't examine it.

She reached the altar. Turned to face him. They stood inches apart, strangers in wedding clothes, and for a moment the world held its breath.

Simon leaned in. Close enough that only she could hear.

"Play your part." he murmured. Low. Quiet. Not unkind—just practical. A soldier's instruction to another soldier in the middle of a battle they hadn't chosen.

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The feast stretched into eternity.

Simon sat at the high table like a general surveying a battlefield, back straight, expression neutral, hands resting on the carved armrests of a chair that should have been his brother's. Before him, the great hall of Drakoria Castle had been transformed—trestle tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, wheels of cheese, loaves of bread still warm from the ovens. Flagons of ale and pitchers of wine flowed freely, refilled before they could empty. Musicians played in the gallery, their melodies lost beneath the roar of conversation and laughter.

The nobles of both kingdoms had set aside their confusion and embraced the celebration. What else could they do? The wedding had happened. The alliance was sealed. Whether the groom was the intended prince or his unexpected replacement mattered little to those who cared only for the security the union would bring.

Simon watched them with cold, assessing eyes.

Lord This drank too much and would need assistance to his chambers. Lady That watched Lord This with barely concealed contempt—his wife, presumably, or perhaps his lover. The Eldorian ambassador smiled and smiled and smiled, but his eyes never stopped moving, cataloging, calculating. The Drakorian generals spoke in low voices, occasionally glancing toward Simon with expressions he couldn't quite read. Approval? Assessment? Wariness?

It didn't matter. They would learn to accept it.

Beside him, his bride sat in perfect stillness.

She had not spoken to him since they'd taken their places at the head of the table. She didn't need to. She played her part flawlessly—smiling when toasts were raised, nodding graciously at congratulations, lifting her goblet to her lips at appropriate intervals. The candlelight caught the pearls woven through her hair, the gold embroidery on her ivory gown, the gentle curve of her throat as she tilted her head to acknowledge some lord's wife.

She was beautiful. Simon had noticed that at the altar. He noticed it now, too, though he tried not to.

He noticed other things as well. The way her fingers tightened on her goblet when certain nobles approached. The way her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. The way she glanced toward the doors occasionally, as if expecting someone to appear—someone who would explain this, fix this, make this make sense.

No one came.

The hours passed. Course after course. Toast after toast. Speech after speech. Simon lost count of how many times he was forced to raise his goblet, how many times he was praised for his "devotion to duty," how many times he was reminded—directly or otherwise—that he was not the prince anyone had expected.

He endured it. He had endured worse.

When the final course was cleared and the musicians began to pack their instruments, Simon rose. The motion drew eyes—dozens of them, hundreds of them—but he paid them no mind. He offered his hand to his bride. She took it without hesitation, her palm cool against his, her expression perfectly composed.

"My lords, my ladies," Simon said, his voice carrying easily over the dwindling noise. "The hour grows late. My wife and I will retire. Please, continue to enjoy the hospitality of Drakoria."

A ripple of nods, smiles, murmured well-wishes. A few of the younger lords exchanged glances that Simon chose to ignore. He knew what they were thinking. He didn't care.

He led her from the hall.

The walk was long and silent.

Guards lined the corridors, torches flickering in iron sconces, casting dancing shadows across stone walls worn smooth by centuries. Servants pressed themselves against walls as they passed, bowing low, averting their eyes. The castle was old, older than the Riley line itself, and it creaked and groaned around them like a living thing.

Simon said nothing. Neither did she.

He stopped before a heavy oak door, carved with the Riley crest—a wolf's head, jaws open, ready to strike. Two guards stood at attention. They snapped to alertness at his approach.

"Your Highness." The senior guard bowed. "Your chambers have been prepared. Is there anything you require?"

"Nothing. We are not to be disturbed."

The guard hesitated, just briefly. His eyes flicked to the princess, then back to Simon. "Of course, Your Highness."

Simon pushed the door open and stood aside to let her enter first.

The chambers were lavish—fit for a prince and his bride. A fire roared in the massive hearth, chasing away the night's chill. Tapestries hung on the walls, depicting scenes of Drakorian history: battles won, treaties signed, kings crowned. A table near the window held fruits and cheeses, a pitcher of wine, two goblets. And in the center of the room, dominating the space, stood the bed.

Massive. Ornate. Hung with curtains of deep blue velvet. Piled high with furs and pillows.

Simon watched his wife take it in. Her expression didn't change, but he saw the slight tightening of her jaw, the way her hands clasped together at her waist.

He closed the door. The sound echoed in the sudden silence. She turned to face him. Composed. Waiting. A princess to her bones.

Simon moved to the table, poured two goblets of wine. He offered her one. She took it, though she didn't drink.

"My brother," he said without preamble, "is gone. He left this morning, hours before the ceremony. He wrote a letter to my father explaining that he could not go through with the marriage, that he had gone to find a life that felt like his own, and that I should take his place."

Simon took a long drink of his wine. It was good—sweet and strong, from Eldoria probably, part of her dowry. He set the goblet down.

"The rumors you may have heard—about my brother's preferences, about the company he kept—they are true. Our father hoped this marriage would end those rumors. Thomas hoped... I don't know what Thomas hoped. Perhaps he hoped he could go through with it. Perhaps he simply lacked the courage to refuse until the last possible moment."

He moved to the window, staring out at the darkness beyond. The sea crashed against the cliffs far below, a sound so constant the castle's inhabitants no longer noticed it.

"You have been wronged," he said quietly. "You came here expecting one man and found another at the altar. You have every right to be angry, to feel betrayed, to demand recompense. I will not pretend otherwise."

He turned to face her. The firelight caught his features—the strong jaw, the steady eyes, the mouth that rarely smiled. He looked like what he was: a soldier wearing a prince's clothes, uncomfortable but determined.

"But I will ask you to consider this," he continued. "The alliance between our kingdoms is necessary. My people need Eldoria's grain, Eldoria's trade, Eldoria's friendship. Your people need Drakoria's warriors, Drakoria's position, Drakoria's strength. If this marriage fails—if you refuse it, if you return home, if you demand it be annulled—the consequences will fall on the innocent. Farmers who cannot feed their children. Soldiers who cannot defend their borders. Families who depend on the peace this union was meant to secure."

He took a step toward her. Then another. He stopped an arm's length away, close enough to see the firelight reflected in her dark eyes.

"I am not my brother," he said. "I did not ask for this. I did not dream of a crown or a wife or a life of politics and ceremony. I was raised to be a soldier, to serve my kingdom with my sword, to die in some forgotten battle that no one would remember. That was my place. That was my peace."

His voice dropped lower. Rougher.

"But my brother ran. And someone had to stand in his place. Someone had to do their duty. Someone had to think of the kingdom instead of themselves." He held her gaze. "So I stood at that altar. I spoke those vows. I put on this crown and this ring and this life that was never meant to be mine. And I will wear them for the rest of my days, because that is what duty demands."

He paused. Let the words settle.

"Now I am asking you to do the same."

Her expression flickered—just slightly, just briefly. Something moved behind those dark eyes. Anger, perhaps. Or grief. Or something else entirely.

"Play your part," Simon said quietly. "Be my wife in name. Smile at the court. Greet the ambassadors. Host the feasts. Do all the things a princess is meant to do. I will not ask for more than that. I will not touch you without your consent. I will not demand children or companionship or anything beyond what is necessary to maintain the appearance of a proper marriage."

The council chamber was cold.

Not in temperature—a fire roared in the massive hearth, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls—but in atmosphere. In the eyes that watched him. In the silence that followed certain words.

Simon stood at the head of the table, arms crossed over his chest, expression carved from the same stone as the castle around him. Before him sat the lords of Drakoria: old men with old names and older expectations. They had served his father. They had served his grandfather. They had expected to serve his brother.

Instead, they got him.

"The kingdom requires an heir, Your Highness." Lord Ashford's voice was smooth as polished glass. He was the oldest of them, white-bearded and sharp-eyed, a man who had survived three kings by knowing exactly when to speak and when to remain silent. Today, apparently, was a speaking day. "The alliance with Eldoria is secured by your marriage, yes. But alliances are fragile things. A child—a child of both bloodlines—would make that alliance unbreakable."

Simon said nothing. He had learned long ago that silence was its own weapon.

Others nodded. Murmured agreement. Shifted in their seats.

Lord Ashford continued, emboldened by the lack of objection. "Three months, Your Highness. Three months since the wedding, and yet—" He spread his hands, a gesture of helplessness that fooled no one. "There is no announcement. No sign of an heir to come. Naturally, the court wonders."

"Let them wonder," Simon said flatly.

A ripple of discomfort. Lord Ashford's eyes narrowed, just slightly.

"With respect, Your Highness, wonder has a way of becoming... speculation. And speculation has a way of becoming rumor." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "There are those who remember the last prince. Who remember the whispers that followed him. Who wonder if perhaps—" Another pause, delicate as a knife's edge. "Perhaps the apple does not fall far from the tree."

The room went very still.

Simon's expression did not change. But something in the air shifted—a pressure, a weight, the sense of a predator going very, very quiet.

"You are suggesting," he said, voice low and even, "that I share my brother's... preferences."

Lord Ashford spread his hands again. "I am suggesting nothing, Your Highness. I am merely observing that the court talks, and that silence feeds talk. If there were some explanation—some assurance—"

"My marriage is not a topic for public discussion."

"Of course not. But the people look to their rulers for—"

"The people," Simon interrupted, and now his voice had dropped further, rougher, edged with something that made several lords shift in their seats, "look to their rulers for protection. For justice. For the security of their homes and families. They do not look to them for gossip about their bedchambers."

He straightened to his full height, gray eyes sweeping across the assembled lords like a general assessing a battlefield.

"My wife is a princess of Eldoria. She is intelligent, gracious, and possessed of more dignity in her smallest finger than most men possess in their entire bodies. She has adapted to a foreign court, a foreign kingdom, a foreign people, without complaint. She has smiled at every feast, nodded at every tedious speech, endured the endless scrutiny of people who have nothing better to do than count the days since her wedding."

His voice hardened.

"And now you sit here, in this chamber, and dare to suggest that the absence of a child is her failing? Or mine? That the problem must lie in some imagined perversion, some inherited weakness, rather than in the simple fact that these things take time?"

Lord Ashford opened his mouth. Closed it. Thought better of whatever he'd been about to say.

Simon took a step forward. Just one. It was enough.

"Let me be clear," he said, and his voice was quiet now—the quiet of a man who had led soldiers into battle, who had killed with his own hands, who had seen things that made these soft courtiers' nightmares look like children's tales. "My wife is mine. Not my brother's. Not the court's. Not yours to question, or speculate about, or insult with your veiled implications."

Another step. Closer now. Lord Ashford's face had gone pale.

"If I hear that anyone—anyone—has spoken of her with disrespect, has spread rumors about her, has suggested in any way that she is less than the princess she was born to be... they will answer to me."

He let the words hang. Let them settle into every corner of the room.

"You have heard of me, I think. The soldier prince. The spare who spent years on the northern border, leading men against raiders and worse. You have heard stories—of what I did there, of what I was willing to do to protect my people." His eyes were cold as the sea beyond the cliffs. "Those stories are true. And I am willing to do far more to protect my wife."

He stepped back. Returned to his place at the head of the table. Picked up his goblet as if nothing had happened.

"The council is dismissed."

They filed out quickly. No one met his eyes. Lord Ashford moved faster than a man his age should be able to.

When the last of them had gone, Simon stood alone in the chamber, staring at the fire. His jaw was tight. His hands, hidden beneath the table, were clenched into fists.

He had meant every word.

When had that happened? When had she stopped being a stranger, a duty, a role to play—and become his? Someone worth protecting, not because of a vow, but because the thought of anyone speaking ill of her made him want to commit violence?

He didn't know. Couldn't pinpoint the moment. But it was true. Undeniably, irrevocably true.

He did not go to the cliffs that evening. Instead, he went to their chambers.

The guards bowed as he approached. He dismissed them with a wave. For a long moment, he stood outside the heavy oak door, hand resting on the wolf's head carved into the wood. Listening. Preparing.

He could hear nothing. Just silence. Just the crackle of the fire within.

He opened the door.

The chamber was warm, lit by candles and the glowing hearth. His eyes found her immediately—sitting on the massive bed, legs tucked beneath her, a book open in her lap. And beside her, curled into a perfect white ball of fluff, was the cat.

Phantom.

He'd given her the creature two months ago, on a whim that still surprised him. He'd been in the village, settling a dispute between merchants, when he'd passed a stall with a cage of kittens. All colors, all sizes, mewling and tumbling over each other. But one had caught his eye—a tiny white thing, fur like snow, watching him with eyes the color of the sky. It had looked at him with the same quiet assessment he gave the world, and something in his chest had... shifted.

He'd bought it on the spot. Carried it back to the castle in his cloak. Presented it to her without explanation, thrusting the squirming bundle into her hands and muttering something about "company" and "the castle being cold" and "cats are useful for mice."

She'd named it Phantom. He pretended not to notice the significance.

Now the creature was no longer tiny. It had grown sleek and graceful, still white as snow, still watching him with those knowing blue eyes. It regarded him now from its place beside her, unblinking, as if to say I see you. I know what you're doing here.

He crossed the room. Not to his usual place by the window, but to the bed. To her. He stopped at its foot, close enough to see the firelight in her eyes, far enough to maintain the distance he'd kept for three months.

"The council spoke today," he said. His voice was rough. He didn't try to smooth it. "Of heirs. Of the lack of one. Of what that might mean."

Her hand stilled on the cat's fur. Her expression didn't change, but he saw it—the flicker of something in her eyes. Hurt, perhaps. Or resignation.

"They wondered," he continued, "if the reason there is no child is because I am like my brother."

"They're not wrong," he said quietly. "About the lack of an heir. About the questions. About... why..."

He held her gaze. "I haven't come to you," he continued, "because I didn't think you wanted me to. You were meant for Thomas. You were brought here for Thomas. Taking you to bed felt like claiming something that wasn't mine to claim, even after he ran."

"But that's not the whole truth. The whole truth is that I was afraid... I was afraid," he said, "that if I touched you—if I let myself want you, really want you—I wouldn't be able to stop. I was afraid of wanting something for myself. I've spent my whole life not wanting, not asking, not reaching for anything beyond duty. It was easier that way. Safer."

He took a step closer. Then another. He was at the edge of the bed now, close enough to touch her, though he didn't.

"But somewhere in these three months, you stopped being a duty." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "You started being... you. The way you laugh at the servants' jokes. The way you listen when I talk about the border, about my men, about things I've never told anyone. The way you look at me sometimes—like I'm more than a soldier playing prince."