Chapter 2: The Morning After the Insult
The morning light came through the stained-glass windows in long, bloody shafts, painting the marble floors crimson and sapphire. Gavin had always hated those windows. His father had commissioned them decades ago, back when the Blackthorn line still believed in divine right and golden futures. Now they just looked like wounds.
He'd slept like shit.
The bed was too large, too empty, too cold despite the furs piled atop it. He'd grown used to warm bodies beside him—soft curves, sleepy murmurs, the comfortable weight of another person in the dark. Last night, he'd had nothing but silence and the memory of Margaret Blackwood's words burrowing into his skull like parasites.
You're the king. You've never had to sacrifice anything.
He'd replayed that moment a hundred times before dawn finally broke. The way her voice had cracked on the word sacrifice. The way her eyes had burned with something that wasn't quite hatred. The way she'd walked away without waiting for his response, as though his answer didn't matter.
It mattered. He just didn't know what it was yet.
Gavin dragged himself out of bed, pulled on a loose tunic and worn leather breeches, and made his way to the dining hall without bothering to summon his usual retinue of servants. He didn't want to be fussed over this morning. He didn't want to be looked at, talked to, or acknowledged in any way.
He wanted coffee. Strong. Black. Enough to drown the taste of last night.
The grand dining hall stretched before him like a battlefield after the fighting had ended. Servants had worked through the night to reset the table—fresh linens, polished silver, crystal decanters filled with water and juice. The smell of fresh bread and roasted meats drifted from the kitchens, but Gavin's stomach turned at the thought of food.
The women were already there.
All eleven of them, seated along both sides of the long table in perfect, icy silence. They'd dressed with care—morning gowns in soft pastels and muted jewel tones, hair arranged in elaborate styles that must have taken hours. They looked like flowers again. Beautiful. Fragrant. Rootless.
None of them looked at him as he entered.
The silence was worse than shouting. Gavin had expected tears, accusations, maybe a few thrown goblets. He'd prepared for drama—had even looked forward to it, in a perverse way. Anything would have been better than this quiet, seething contempt.
He took his place at the head of the table, and the silence stretched like a wire about to snap.
Lady Cassandra sat with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes red-rimmed and fixed on her untouched plate. Lady Beatrice had positioned herself directly to his right, her burgundy lips pressed into a thin line, her fingers drumming against the tablecloth in a rhythm that suggested violence. Lady Victoria watched him with the same calculating patience as always, but there was something sharper in her gaze now—a blade hidden beneath silk.
And Margaret.
Margaret sat at the far end of the table, as far from him as the seating arrangement allowed. She wasn't looking at him either, but unlike the others, her avoidance didn't feel like punishment. It felt like self-preservation.
Gavin reached for the coffee pot, poured himself a cup, and took a long, scalding sip. The bitterness helped. It gave him something to focus on besides the weight of eleven pairs of eyes and the knowledge that he'd brought this on himself.
"Good morning," he said, because someone had to break the silence.
No one responded.
"Lovely weather we're having."
Lady Beatrice's fingers stopped drumming. "Is this a joke to you?"
Gavin set down his cup. "Everything's a joke to me, Lady Beatrice. You should know that by now."
"You humiliated us." Her voice was low and tight, the kind of voice that preceded either tears or violence. "You brought us here, paraded us around like livestock, and then announced to the entire court that you intended to fuck whoever caught your fancy while we sat in our rooms like good little wives."
"I didn't announce that part. I implied it."
"You—"
"I believe the exact wording was 'whoever has caught my attention and managed to keep it will grace my bed tonight.'" Gavin shrugged. "Hardly the same thing."
Beatrice's face flushed an ugly shade of red. "You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
A chair scraped against the marble floor.
Gavin looked up, and his breath caught in his throat.
A woman he'd never seen before was walking toward him—no, not walking. Striding. She moved like she owned the room, like the obsidian walls had been built specifically to frame her silhouette. Silver-blonde hair fell past her shoulders in loose waves, catching the morning light and scattering it like sparks. Pale green eyes fixed on him with an intensity that made his skin prickle. She wore deep emerald green, a gown that hugged her curves in ways that seemed almost accidental—as though she'd simply thrown on the first thing she found and happened to look like a goddess.
She hadn't been at dinner last night. He would have remembered.
The woman reached the head of the table, and without a word, without asking permission, without even acknowledging the shocked gasps from the other women, she pulled out the chair beside him and sat down.
Then she reached over, picked up his fork, and speared a piece of roasted potato from his plate.
Gavin stared.
The entire table stared.
The woman chewed slowly, thoughtfully, as though evaluating the quality of the cooking. Then she nodded once, as if reaching some internal conclusion, and helped herself to another bite.
"Who the hell are you?" Gavin demanded.
She swallowed, dabbed her lips with his napkin, and finally turned to face him. Up close, her eyes were even more striking—not just green, but the color of new leaves in spring, or the sea before a storm. They held his gaze without flinching.
"Lady Seraphina Voss," she said. "I arrived late last night. My carriage broke an axle about ten miles out, and I had to walk the rest of the way. The servants were very apologetic." She took another bite. "The potatoes are excellent, by the way. Compliments to your cook."
"You walked ten miles?"
"In heels." She gestured vaguely toward her feet. "Not ideal, but I've had worse."
Gavin found himself at a loss for words. It was an unfamiliar sensation, and he didn't care for it.
"You're eating my breakfast."
"You weren't eating it."
"I was about to."
She considered this, then pushed the plate toward him. "By all means. Don't let me stop you."
He didn't touch the plate. He was too busy trying to figure out what was happening. Around him, the other women had gone completely still, their earlier hostility replaced by something closer to bewilderment. Beatrice looked like she wanted to stab someone. Margaret had stopped mid-bite, her fork frozen halfway to her mouth.
"You're not surprised," Gavin said slowly. "By my terms. By any of it."
Seraphina tilted her head, studying him with an expression that was almost clinical. "Should I be?"
"Most women are."
"Most women are fools."
Lady Cassandra made a small, wounded sound. Seraphina ignored her.
"I heard about your little speech," she continued, reaching for his coffee cup and taking a sip. "The servants were gossiping about it when I arrived. Something about how you intend to keep sleeping with other women while your mate sits at home, barefoot and pregnant, waiting for you to grace her with your presence." She set the cup down. "Is that about right?"
"That's a crude summary, but yes."
"And the other women—" She gestured vaguely at the table. "They're horrified. Insulted. Ready to pack their bags and flee back to their fathers' estates."
"Some of them, yes."
"But they're still here." Seraphina leaned back in her chair, and a smile played at the corners of her lips. "They're still here because they want something. Power. Status. A crown on their heads and a palace to call home. They're willing to swallow their pride and accept your terms, even though it makes them feel dirty."
Gavin's jaw tightened. "And you? What do you want?"
"I want honesty."
The word landed between them like a stone in still water.
"I've spent my entire life surrounded by liars," Seraphina said. "Men who smile to my face and plot behind my back. Women who pretend to be my friends while sharpening their knives. Everyone wants something, and no one will admit what it is." She met his eyes, and there was something almost like respect in her gaze. "You, at least, are honest about what you want. You want a mate who'll belong to you completely while you continue to live exactly as you please. You want to have your cake and eat it too."
"That's not—"
"You want a wife who'll accept being second place to your appetites. Who'll sit in your palace and smile while you fuck your way through the kingdom." She shrugged. "It's selfish. It's cruel. It's the most honest thing I've ever heard a king say."
Gavin's hands had curled into fists beneath the table. He wasn't sure if he wanted to throw her out or kiss her. The feeling was disorienting, and he didn't like it.
"You think I'm cruel."
"I think you're a man who's never been told no." Seraphina reached for a piece of bread, tore off a chunk, and popped it into her mouth. "You've spent your whole life getting exactly what you want, and now you're terrified that someone's going to take it away from you. So you're pushing everyone away before they can get close. It's a defense mechanism. Textbook, really."
"You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough." She chewed, swallowed, and fixed him with those impossible green eyes. "I know your father died two years ago, and you've been running from his ghost ever since. I know you've never had a real relationship because you're too afraid of being controlled. I know you're smart—probably smarter than anyone gives you credit for—but you use that intelligence to sabotage yourself instead of building something."
Gavin felt the blood drain from his face. "Who told you—"
"No one told me anything." Seraphina's voice softened, just slightly. "I'm observant. It's a curse."
The silence that followed was different from the one before breakfast. This one was heavier. More dangerous.
Lady Victoria cleared her throat. "Lady Seraphina, I don't think—"
"I accept your terms," Seraphina said.
The words hung in the air like a blade suspended mid-swing.
Gavin blinked. "What?"
"Your terms. The ones you laid out last night. I accept them." She said it calmly, as though she were agreeing to a business arrangement. "I'll be your mate. I'll belong to you completely—no other men, no wandering eyes, no secrets. And you'll continue to do whatever, and whoever, you like. I won't complain. I won't cry. I won't make scenes."
The other women erupted.
Lady Beatrice shot to her feet, her chair toppling behind her. "This is absurd! She can't just—"
"She can." Lady Victoria's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "There's no rule against it. The king said whoever accepted his terms would be chosen. Lady Seraphina has simply... accepted them."
"But she wasn't even here last night! She didn't hear the speech, she doesn't understand—"
"I understand perfectly." Seraphina hadn't raised her voice, but somehow it carried over the din. "The king wants a mate who'll be loyal to him while he's unfaithful to her. It's not complicated. It's just pathetic."
Gavin's head snapped toward her. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." She turned to face him fully, and there was no warmth in her expression now. "You're pathetic. You're so terrified of being vulnerable that you've constructed this elaborate fantasy where you get to have a wife without actually having to be a husband. You want the title without the responsibility. The commitment without the cost."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know exactly what I'm talking about." Seraphina stood, and now she was looking down at him—actually looking down, despite the fact that he was taller than her. "I know because I've spent my whole life surrounded by men like you. Powerful men who think their power gives them the right to take whatever they want. But here's the thing, Your Majesty—"
She leaned in, close enough that he could smell her perfume. Something clean and sharp, like winter air.
"You're not special. You're not unique. You're just another scared little boy hiding behind a crown." She straightened. "But I'll marry you anyway. Because I'd rather be your mate and hate you than spend the rest of my life being sold to some other alpha who's just as bad. At least this way, I get to choose my own cage."
She turned and walked toward the door, her heels clicking against the marble with each measured step.
Gavin sat frozen, his mind reeling.
At the far end of the table, Margaret's fork clattered against her plate. She was staring at Seraphina's retreating back with an expression that was impossible to read—something between awe and horror and desperate, aching hope.
Seraphina paused at the doorway and glanced back over her shoulder.
"One more thing," she said. "I'm not going to sleep with you. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever. If you want to continue your little parade of conquests, feel free. But don't expect me to be one of them." She smiled, and it was sharp as broken glass. "I accepted your terms, Your Majesty. That doesn't mean I have to make it easy."
She disappeared into the corridor.
The dining hall descended into chaos.
Lady Beatrice was shouting something about protocol and propriety. Lady Cassandra had dissolved into quiet, shuddering sobs. Lady Victoria was already on her feet, her eyes calculating, her mind clearly racing to catch up with this new development.
And Margaret—Margaret was still staring at the doorway, her expression unreadable, her hands trembling slightly in her lap.
Gavin didn't notice any of them.
He was too busy staring at the empty space where Seraphina Voss had stood, replaying her words over and over in his mind.
You're just another scared little boy hiding behind a crown.
No one had ever spoken to him like that. No one had ever dared. Even Marcus, with all his honesty, tempered his words with loyalty. But Seraphina—Seraphina had looked at him like he was nothing special, like he was just another man to be evaluated and dismissed.
It infuriated him.
It also, God help him, intrigued him.
He rose from the table abruptly, his chair scraping against the marble floor. The women fell silent, watching him with wide eyes.
"Breakfast is over," he said, his voice flat.
He walked out of the dining hall, his boots echoing against the stone, his mind a hurricane of thoughts he couldn't control.
She thought she could accept his terms and keep her distance. She thought she could live in his palace, wear his ring, bear his name, and never let him touch her.
She thought she had won.
Gavin smiled grimly.
They'd see about that.
He found her room without too much trouble. The servants had placed her in the eastern wing, the chambers meant for the highest-ranking guests. A room with tall windows facing the mountains, a fireplace carved from black marble, and a bed draped in furs that probably cost more than most houses in the lower city. Gavin didn't knock. He never knocked. He pushed the door open and stepped inside like he owned the place, because he did.
Seraphina was reading.
She sat curled in a velvet armchair by the window, her legs tucked beneath her, a leather-bound book open in her lap. The afternoon light caught her hair, turning it to spun silver, and for a moment—just a moment—Gavin forgot why he was angry. Then she looked up, and the calm indifference in her pale green eyes reminded him exactly why he'd stormed across half the palace.
"You again," she said, and went back to her book.
Gavin crossed the room in four strides. He snatched the book from her hands, snapped it shut, and tossed it onto the bed. Seraphina didn't flinch. She didn't even blink. She just folded her hands in her lap and looked up at him with the patient expression of someone waiting for a child to finish throwing a tantrum.
"Explain yourself," Gavin said, his voice low and dangerous. "What the hell was that at breakfast?"
"I would have thought it was obvious." She tilted her head, studying him like he was a puzzle she'd already solved. "I accepted your terms. In front of witnesses, no less. You should be thanking me."
"Thanking you?" He laughed, and it came out bitter and sharp. "You made a spectacle of yourself. You ate off my plate, drank from my cup, and then told the entire room that I'm pathetic. How exactly does that warrant gratitude?"
"The spectacle was your doing, not mine." Seraphina rose from the chair, and the movement brought her closer to him—close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her eyes, the faint freckles dusted across her nose. "You wanted to humiliate those women. You wanted to prove that no one would accept your ridiculous demands. You wanted to be right."
"I am right."
"Are you?" She stepped around him, moving toward the window, her gown whispering against the marble floor. "You're so certain that no one could possibly want you for anything other than your crown. You've convinced yourself that you're unlovable, so you've decided to be unlovable on your own terms. It's a defense mechanism, Your Majesty. I told you that already."
Gavin grabbed her arm, spinning her back to face him. "You don't know a damn thing about me."
"I know you're afraid."
"I'm not afraid of anything."
"Then why are you here?" Seraphina's voice was soft, almost gentle, and somehow that was worse than shouting. "Why did you run across the palace to confront me? Why do you care what I think? If I'm just another woman, just another pawn in your little game, why does it matter?"
He didn't have an answer. Or he did, but it was one he couldn't admit, not even to himself. So he did what he always did when the world got too complicated—he got angry.
"You need to watch your words," he said, his voice dropping to something low and rough. "I'm the king. I don't have to tolerate disrespect from anyone, least of all a woman who showed up late to a competition she wasn't invited to."
"The competition was your idea."
"Watch. Your. Words."
He stepped closer, using his height and his presence to try to intimidate her. Most women crumbled when he did this—theatrics that had been perfected over years of dealing with sycophants and schemers. He loomed. He glowered. He made himself into something larger than life, something terrifying.
Seraphina didn't move.
She stared up at him with those pale green eyes, utterly unimpressed, as though she were watching a mediocre play and waiting for the intermission.
"Your Majesty," she said, her voice calm and steady, "you're going to have to try a lot harder if you want to scare me. I've faced down alphas twice your size, survived winters that would have killed a lesser woman, and watched my entire family fall apart because of men exactly like you. I'm not afraid of your temper."
Gavin felt something snap.
Not his temper—something deeper, something primal that had been building since the moment she'd walked into that dining hall and eaten from his plate. He kissed her. He didn't plan it, didn't think about it, didn't consider the consequences. He simply closed the distance between them, buried his hands in her silver-blonde hair, and pressed his mouth against hers.
She tasted like coffee and defiance.
For a moment, she didn't respond. Her body went rigid against his, her hands frozen at her sides, and Gavin braced himself for the slap he deserved. Then something shifted. Her lips parted, just slightly, and she kissed him back.
It wasn't gentle. Her mouth moved against his with the same fierce, unyielding energy she'd shown all morning—like she was fighting him, challenging him, refusing to surrender even as she gave in. Gavin felt his blood heat, felt his cock twitch against the confines of his breeches. He pulled her closer, one hand sliding down to grip her hip, the other tangling in her hair.
She bit his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood, and he groaned.
"Fuck," he breathed against her mouth. "You don't play fair."
"I told you I wasn't going to make it easy."
He lifted her.
It was an effortless motion—she weighed nothing, despite the curves that had been driving him to distraction all day. Her legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, her gown bunching around her thighs, and suddenly there was nothing between them but a few layers of silk. Gavin backed her against the wall, pinning her there with his hips, and ground his cock against her.
The seam of his breeches caught her clit through the thin fabric of her smallclothes. Seraphina broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, her head falling back against the wall, and the sound she made—half moan, half gasp—sent fire shooting through his veins.
"You feel that?" Gavin pressed his hips forward, grinding against her with deliberate, filthy pressure. "That's what you do to me. That's what happens when you open your mouth and challenge me. My cock gets hard and I want to fuck you until you forget every word you ever said."
Seraphina's eyes had gone dark, her pupils blown wide. Her hands were gripping his shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric of his tunic, but she still wasn't breaking composure. Even now, with his cock grinding against her cunt, she looked at him like she was in control.
"You're going to have to do better than that," she said, her voice breathless but steady. "I've had better kisses from dying men."
Gavin laughed, low and rough. "You're something else, aren't you?"
"I'm exactly what you asked for." She rolled her hips against his, and the friction made them both groan. "You wanted someone who wouldn't flinch. Someone who'd meet you head-on and give as good as she got. Here I am. The question is—" She paused, her lips curving into a smile that was pure sin. "—what are you going to do about it?"
He ground into her again, harder this time, savoring the way her breath hitched. "I'm going to show you who's in charge."
"You think that's you?"
"I know it's me."
Seraphina's smile widened. "You keep telling yourself that."
Gavin kissed her again—deep, punishing, his tongue claiming her mouth the way he wanted to claim her body. He liked her fire. He liked it more than he should have. And that was dangerous, because fire had a way of spreading, of consuming everything in its path.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushing against hers.
"I like your fire," he said. "But you need to be careful. Fire burns. And if you're not careful—" He thrust his hips against her, making her gasp. "—you're going to get exactly what you're asking for."