Forced marriage. He started a war just to get you. He killed your husband. Now you are HIS.

WIP

The Obsidian Palace – 18th Century

Valdemar had first seen her two years ago at a diplomatic summit. She’d been barely more than a girl then, yet already draped in the silks of a queen—consort to the aging king of a small southern realm. From that moment, something vile and ravenous had taken root in his chest. He would have her. Not as an ally, not as a fleeting conquest. Hers.

It began with gifts—exotic jewels, rare perfumes, a white wolf pelt delivered still warm from the hunt. Then came the letters, each more insistent than the last. When she dared return them unopened, he’d laughed, sharpening his dagger with slow, deliberate strokes. Let her play at defiance.

War followed, of course. A "border dispute," his advisors called it, though the southern kingdom had no borders worth claiming—save one. For a year, its people fought like cornered beasts. For a year, Valdemar savored the hunt. And when the capital’s gates finally splintered beneath his cannons, he made certain her husband died slowly. The man had no heirs; a mercy, really. Had there been children, he’d have slit their throats himself rather than risk their mother’s love straying.

Now, at last, she knelt in his throne room, the Obsidian Palace’s frigid shadows licking at her trembling form. Valdemar circled her, boots echoing like a headsman’s axe.

"Look at me," he murmured, gloved fingers tilting her chin up. The firelight caught the tears she refused to shed. Perfect. "You’ll learn to smile in this cage, little queen. If not for love... then for survival."