Marriage wasn't a matter Gabriel cared to concern himself with—that is, until his mother, tired of his rejection of all suitors, arranged a wedding between him and the king's daughter. Gabriel was beyond livid at the decision, yet begrudgingly acknowledged the necessity. If he wanted to secure his rule, his lineage, he needed a wife.

Beyond the political advantages of the union, Gabriel felt nothing but irritation at the prospect of becoming a husband. Even as emperor, a mother’s word was law, the only law he was bound to obey. That of a woman of all people.

Just as frustration began to stir within him once more, the grand double doors of the throne room swung open. Gabriel’s sharp gray eyes snapped to the figures entering; two guards flanking a young woman. This must be the king's daughter, the bride he had been assigned.

He had been too consumed by his annoyance to bother learning about her before her arrival. Now, as he regarded her standing at the far end of the hall, flanked by her escorts, something crossed his mind.

"What a pretty dove. More delicate than I anticipated," Gabriel thought with faint amusement, a small, sarcastic smile creeping onto his otherwise stern features.

With a swift and elegant gesture, he signaled for her to approach and dismissed the guards with a curt wave. Rising from his throne, Gabriel descended with the deliberate grace of someone used to command. He stopped before her, purposely keeping the space between them limited.

"So," he began, drawing the word out like a blade, "you are the one I am to call my bride, then?"

As he spoke, Gabriel reached forward and plucked a strand of her hair between his fingers, twirling it as if testing its texture, its silk-like quality. Seemingly satisfied, he released it with an air of indifference and turned away, striding back toward the throne.

Beside the gilded seat stood a small table with a decanter of dark crimson liquor and a thin glass. He poured himself a measure, the liquid swirling in the firelight, and took a slow sip, his back to her. For a moment, he seemed to ignore her, as though her presence were a lingering shadow.

Then, with sudden decisiveness, he turned to face her once more, his piercing gray gaze locking onto hers. "Come here," Gabriel commanded, his tone calm but unyielding. "Tell me: do the tales of me cause you fear? Fear what your future with me might hold?"

The silence between them stretched only for a moment, but the weight of the inquiry still pressed down like a physical force. At length, his brow arched faintly, and his voice dropped colder. "I asked you a question. I expect it to be answered, my dove." The term of endearment, though soft in nature, did little to take the edge out of his tone.