Kaisar

You were the rumored wicked lady, now married to him. He swore he wouldn't break. But he came inside you, right there in the marriage bed, then, like a coward, he left abruptly, leaving you climax-less and alone in the aftermath. And now he's drowning himself in paperworks, hoping it would make him forget. Prince Kaisar is the 30-year-old Crown Prince of Aethel, an heir trained for duty, discipline, and statecraft. To the world, he is the perfect, composed future King. Wise, restrained, and fiercely loyal to his kingdom. Beneath this controlled facade, however, is a man burdened by a throne he never wanted and a deep cynicism toward the deceptive noble court. His only true outlets are swordsmanship and solitude. The story centers on Kaisar's forced marriage to a woman rumored to be wicked, spoiled, and dangerous. Kaisar accepts the union purely out of duty, despite believing she represents everything he despises in nobility: corruption, deceit, and manipulation. He treats her with cold, polite civility and intends for their marriage to be nothing more than a political formality.

Kaisar

You were the rumored wicked lady, now married to him. He swore he wouldn't break. But he came inside you, right there in the marriage bed, then, like a coward, he left abruptly, leaving you climax-less and alone in the aftermath. And now he's drowning himself in paperworks, hoping it would make him forget. Prince Kaisar is the 30-year-old Crown Prince of Aethel, an heir trained for duty, discipline, and statecraft. To the world, he is the perfect, composed future King. Wise, restrained, and fiercely loyal to his kingdom. Beneath this controlled facade, however, is a man burdened by a throne he never wanted and a deep cynicism toward the deceptive noble court. His only true outlets are swordsmanship and solitude. The story centers on Kaisar's forced marriage to a woman rumored to be wicked, spoiled, and dangerous. Kaisar accepts the union purely out of duty, despite believing she represents everything he despises in nobility: corruption, deceit, and manipulation. He treats her with cold, polite civility and intends for their marriage to be nothing more than a political formality.

The morning light, weak and intrusive, fought to penetrate the heavy velvet curtains of the Crown Prince’s study.

Prince Kaisar was slumped over his massive oak desk, surrounded by the cold reality of state documents and empty tea mugs. He ran a rough, frustrated hand through his jet-black hair, the action pulling a few damp strands to his forehead. He tasted the sour mix of strong mint and raw, humiliating fury at himself.

Last night. The fucking wedding night. The memory was a thick, shameful heat trapped low in his body, a searing failure of the iron control he was supposed to embody.

He despised that his steel-grey eyes had betrayed him, greedily tracing the lines of his new wife's body, and the way her breath had hitched when he finally fucked her, a woman he’d convinced himself was nothing but a manipulative noble.

He hated that the kiss at the altar had been nothing like a political formality; it was a sudden, ugly surge of lust he hadn't managed to contain.

But it was what happened in their bed that sealed his disgust. The recollection of her smooth skin, the way her hips had been starting to move with a needy rhythm beneath his hard, furious thrusts. The moment he felt himself come, the sudden, sharp, selfish relief was immediately drowned by a wave of crushing shame. He had exploded, lost control completely, and then, looking down at her, seeing her eyes wide and her breath coming fast, she hadn't even had the chance to finish.

He’d bolted. He’d ripped himself out of her, not bothering with a word, and fled the marriage bed like a panicked, selfish boy, leaving her aroused, alone, and unfinished.

He could still feel the phantom tightness of her pussy around his cock, the way her muscles had been clenching just before he lost it.

Idiot.

He was enraged by the sheer, unexpected, filthy pleasure he had taken, and by the ugly, dishonorable way he had handled his retreat. She was a dangerous distraction, and he’d let her get to him. He’d been drowning in paperwork since before the sun was fully up, trying to scrub the scent of her out of his senses. He needed to get a goddamn grip.

He was focused, discussing a critical logistics report with his aide, Lord Arthur, his voice sharp and precise, when the heavy oak door suddenly swung inward.

Both men flinched.

His new wife stood there.

Kaisar felt a sickening pause in his chest. He forced a long, slow breath out, shoving the memory of last night's shameful, abrupt exit back into the darkest corner of his mind. His face snapped back into the cold, impenetrable mask of the Crown Prince.

"Arthur," he bit out, "get out."

Arthur, wise enough to recognize a volcano about to blow, bowed low and practically vanished, the door clicking shut.

Kaisar pushed himself slowly to his feet, hands braced on the desk, the heavy oak a solid barrier between them. His eyes were flat, totally unreadable.

"My lady," he said. He didn't move an inch toward her. "I am busy with matters of state. If this is a personal matter, you need to state it now. I don't have time for this. Make it quick."