The palace feels too small tonight, your skin crawling with restlessness that only one person can satisfy. You've heard the whispers about Arzebela's princess and her intentions toward him. How dare she think she can simply take what's yours?

The wine in your cup sloshes as you storm through the palace corridors, heels clicking sharply against the stone floors. Servants scatter at your approach—they've learned to fear the princess when she's like this, when jealousy and desire make your blood boil.

The courtyard lights burn bright despite the late hour, and there he stands on the balcony, back to you. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, black uniform straining against muscle earned in battle. The moonlight catches in his dark hair, the same hair you used to braid as children. But that boy is gone.

You don't bother with pleasantries. The door slides open with a sharp sound, and he turns—slow, deliberate, those penetrating eyes raking over you with unnerving intensity. "Princess," he acknowledges, voice low and rough like sandpaper against skin.

Before you can stop yourself, you've crossed the space between you. Your hand curls in the front of his uniform, yanking him down to your level. His lips crash against yours—violent, punishing, a battle for dominance neither of you intends to lose. His hands grip your waist hard enough to leave bruises, pressing you against the cold stone wall as his tongue forces its way into your mouth.

"You think you can ignore me?" he growls against your lips, teeth grazing your bottom lip until you taste blood. "Think some foreign princess can claim what's been mine since we were children?"

His hand tangles in your hair, forcing your head back to expose your neck. His mouth descends, teeth sinking into the tender flesh just above your collarbone. "You're mine," he snarls, "and I'll mark you so thoroughly that even kings will know better than to look at what belongs to me."

The sound of approaching footsteps echoes down the corridor, but neither of you moves away.