The Warrior King’s Prize (Obsessed #12)

Chapter 1

one

. . .

Fiona

I watch them come with the rising sun at their backs, these northern warriors with their gleaming weapons and battle cries that chill my blood.

My fingers grip the cold stone of the parapet until they ache, but I don't look away.

I can't. The man leading them—a giant astride a massive black stallion—is Lachlan Drummond, the warrior king who has conquered every territory from here to the highlands.

And now he's come for us, for me. My stomach twists with dread, but I straighten my spine.

I am Princess Fiona MacLeod, daughter of kings, and I will not tremble, even as our walls begin to fall.

"My lady, please! You must come inside immediately!" My lady-in-waiting tugs at my sleeve, her voice pitched high with terror.

I shake her off, my eyes locked on the approaching army. "Not yet."

The wind whips my hair across my face, golden strands caught in my lashes, but I refuse to blink.

I need to see it all, to burn every moment into my memory like a brand.

Our kingdom—my father's pride, our people's sanctuary—is about to be conquered by a man known for his ruthlessness.

A man who leaves nothing but submission in his wake.

The first crash against our outer gates sends a vibration through the stone beneath my feet.

Our soldiers, too few after the winter sickness ravaged our ranks, rush to reinforce the walls.

Their faces are grim, determined. They know what I know—we cannot win this battle.

Not against him. Not against the armies he's raised through conquest and blood.

Another crash. The wood splinters. I can hear it from here, a sound like bones breaking.

"Princess Fiona!" It's my father's voice now, desperate. "Come down at once!"

I turn to find him on the stairs, his crown slightly askew, his face pale with the knowledge of what's to come.

He's aged a decade in the past month, since the first messengers brought word of Lachlan's approach.

We both knew this day would arrive. The brutal warrior king has been consuming the smaller kingdoms one by one, and ours—weakened by plague and poor harvests—was always going to be next.

"Father—" I begin, but the words die in my throat as a tremendous roar rises from below.

The outer wall has fallen.

I race down the stairs, my skirts gathered in white-knuckled fists.

My heart hammers against my ribs, a desperate animal seeking escape.

I follow my father through the corridors of the castle that has been my home for all my twenty-two years.

Servants rush past with frightened faces, carrying whatever valuables they can save.

Guards stride with purpose toward the inner courtyard, where they'll make their last stand.

Their last stand before Lachlan Drummond.

"What do we do?" I ask my father as we enter the great hall. The room buzzes with panicked activity—lords and ladies gathering, knights strapping on armor, my father's advisors arguing in frantic clusters.

He turns to me, his eyes hollow with defeat. "I have one last duty to perform. To protect you, to protect our people." He takes my hands in his, and I'm shocked to feel them trembling. "Fiona, my lioness. You must be strong now."

"I am strong," I insist, though fear claws at my throat. "I always have been."

"Then be strong enough to survive what comes next."

Before I can ask what he means, the great doors to the hall crash open. A knight staggers in, blood streaming from a gash on his forehead. "They've breached the inner gate! They're—"

His warning is cut short by the appearance of mounted warriors behind him. They thunder into the hall, their horses' hooves striking sparks from the stone floor, their swords dripping red. And at their center, a figure that seems hewn from the very mountains themselves.

Lachlan Drummond.

He dismounts in one fluid motion that belies his massive size.

Six and a half feet of muscle and menace, clad in dark leather and steel.

His face is partially obscured by a beard, but I can see the hard set of his jaw, the cold appraisal in his eyes as they sweep the room.

When they land on me, something shifts in their depths—a flicker of interest, of hunger, that makes my skin prickle with warning.

My father steps forward, placing himself between me and the conqueror. "Drummond. You've won your victory. Name your terms."

Lachlan doesn't answer immediately. He removes his gloves with deliberate slowness, never taking his eyes from my face. I force myself not to shrink under his gaze. Instead, I lift my chin and stare back, letting him feel every ounce of my hatred.

"My terms," he finally says, his voice a deep rumble that seems to vibrate through the floor and into my bones, "are simple. Complete surrender. Your title, your lands, your castle—all mine now." His gaze intensifies. "And your daughter."

The room falls silent. I hear nothing but the ragged pace of my own breathing.

"No." The word escapes me before I can stop it.

Lachlan's mouth curves into something that might be a smile on another man. On him, it's a predator's assessment before the killing bite. "No?" He takes a step toward me. "You misunderstand, Princess. I'm not offering you a choice."

My father's hand tightens on my arm. "Surely we can reach a different arrangement. A tribute, an alliance—"

"I have no need for alliances with the conquered," Lachlan cuts him off, his attention still fixed on me. "Your kingdom falls today. The only question is whether it falls with unnecessary bloodshed or with a... more civilized transition."

He moves closer, and it takes all my will not to retreat. He towers over me, his shadow engulfing me completely. Up close, I can see the scar that bisects his left eyebrow, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes that speak of years squinting against highland sun and snow.

"What do you want with me?" I demand, hating the way my voice wavers.

His hand rises, and I flinch—but he only captures a strand of my hair that's fallen free, rubbing it between his fingers as if testing its texture.

"You will be my wife," he says simply. "Our marriage will legitimize my claim to these lands.

Your people will accept my rule more readily with their princess at my side. "

The hall spins around me. Marriage? To this brute, this conqueror who has brought nothing but fear and destruction? I want to spit in his face, to scream defiance until my throat tears.

Instead, I say, "And if I refuse?"

Lachlan releases my hair but steps even closer.

I can smell him now—leather and metal and male sweat, the scent of battle still clinging to his skin.

"Then I will still take you, Princess. But your people will suffer for your pride.

" His voice drops lower, meant for my ears alone.

"You've heard the stories of what happens to kingdoms that resist me beyond reason, haven't you? "

I have. Villages burning. Men slaughtered. Women and children... I swallow hard.

"You wouldn't," I whisper, but uncertainty gnaws at my conviction.

"To break your defiance? I would." His eyes hold mine, letting me see the truth in them. This man will do whatever it takes to get what he wants. And right now, what he wants is me.

"Why marriage?" I ask, desperately seeking some way out, some crack in his resolve. "Why not simply take the kingdom?"

"Because I want more than just this land." His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, a slow perusal that feels like physical touch. "I want you beneath me, Princess. I want your submission in my bed as well as in my kingdom."

Heat floods my face—shame, anger, and something else I refuse to name. Something that makes my knees weak and my breath short.

From the corner of my eye, I see my father's face crumple. He knows, as I do, that we've lost more than just a battle today.

"You have until sundown to prepare yourself," Lachlan says, stepping back at last. "We will be wed tonight, before your people and mine. A union of our kingdoms."

"A conquest," I correct him, finding my voice again. "Not a union."

He smiles fully now, a flash of white teeth in his dark beard. "Call it what you will, Princess. The outcome remains the same." His gaze sweeps over me once more, lingering at the curve of my waist, the swell of my breasts beneath my gown. "You are mine now."

I want to slap him. I want to run. I want to do a thousand things that would end with me dead or worse. Instead, I stand my ground and let my eyes convey every ounce of my loathing.

"I will never be yours," I tell him, the words a vow. "You may take my kingdom, you may even take my body, but you will never have me."

Lachlan laughs, the sound echoing off the stone walls like thunder. "We shall see, Princess." He turns and strides away, barking orders to his men as he goes. "Secure the castle. Treat the inhabitants with respect—they are to be my subjects now, not my enemies."

As he disappears through the doorway, my legs finally give out. I sink to the floor, my body trembling with delayed shock and fear.

My father kneels beside me, his face gray. "Fiona, I'm sorry. If there were any other way..."

I clutch his hand. "What do I do?" I whisper, allowing myself this one moment of weakness before I must face my fate.

He pulls me close, and I smell the familiar scent of him—ink and parchment and the mint leaves he chews when deep in thought. "You survive," he murmurs into my hair. "You endure. And when the time is right, you find a way to reclaim what is ours."

I nod against his shoulder, drawing strength from his words. But as I raise my head, I catch sight of Lachlan through the open doorway. He's watching me, his eyes dark with possessive intent.

A shiver runs through me, fear mingled with something I refuse to acknowledge. Tonight, I will become his wife. But I will never, ever be his queen.

No matter what it takes, I will find a way to destroy Lachlan Drummond before he destroys me.