Chapter 6
six
. . .
Lachlan
I've conquered seven kingdoms, but none of them haunt my thoughts like she does.
Two weeks since I made Fiona my wife, and I find myself seeking her out at all hours, inventing reasons to be in her presence.
I watch her move through the castle—my castle now—with that stubborn grace that never falters, even in defeat.
Her golden hair catches the light, drawing the eye of every man in the vicinity.
Their gazes linger too long, their smiles too eager when she speaks to them.
Each time, my hand itches for my sword. Each time, I must remind myself that kings don't slaughter their own men for looking at their queens.
But God help them if they do more than look.
The possessiveness I feel toward her is unlike anything I've experienced—a constant hunger that isn't satisfied even when I've buried myself in her body night after night.
I want more than her flesh. I want her submission, her acceptance, her loyalty.
I want what she still withholds, despite her begrudging physical response to my touch: her heart.
"The shipment from the eastern provinces has arrived, my lord." Callum stands before me in the council chamber, his face carefully neutral. "Including the items you requested for the queen."
I nod, trying to appear as though these "items" are of little consequence. Just another practical matter requiring my attention. But Callum knows me too well.
"That's the third gift this week," he observes, his tone mild but his eyes watchful. "People are beginning to talk."
"Let them." I don't care what my men think of my growing obsession with adorning my wife like the queen she is. Like the woman who deserves everything I can give her.
"They say you're becoming... attached." Callum chooses his words with care, knowing he treads dangerous ground. "That she has more influence over you than is wise."
I laugh, but the sound is hollow even to my own ears. "Influence? She hates me still."
"And yet you seek to buy her affection with silks and jewels."
I rise from my chair, looming over him. Any other man would retreat. Callum merely raises an eyebrow, waiting.
"I don't need to explain myself to you," I say, but the words lack the bite they would have held a month ago, before Fiona.
"No." Callum sighs. "But perhaps you should explain yourself to yourself, my lord. This isn't like you."
He's right, though I'll die before admitting it. The man I was before Fiona—calculating, cold, driven by ambition rather than emotion—would look at me now with disgust. Would see my growing fixation on my wife as a weakness to be purged.
"Where is she now?" I ask instead of responding to his implied criticism.
"In the gardens with her ladies. And before you ask, yes, I've assigned guards to watch from a distance, as always."
The knowledge that she's being observed at all times should reassure me.
Instead, it needles at me—the fact that I can't trust her not to run, not to betray me at the first opportunity.
Two weeks of sharing my bed, my meals, my life, and she still looks at me sometimes as if calculating the quickest way to put a dagger in my back.
"Have the gifts brought to our chambers," I tell Callum. "I'll give them to her myself tonight."
He nods, turning to go, but pauses at the door. "The border reports came back. There's movement to the south—could be nothing, but—"
"I'll look at them later." I wave him away, my thoughts already turning back to Fiona.
Once he's gone, I move to the window that overlooks the gardens.
From here, I can see her—a flash of gold among the greenery, her blue gown making her easy to spot.
She walks with two of her ladies, her head bent in conversation.
Even from this distance, I can see the rigid set of her shoulders, the careful way she holds herself.
She never fully relaxes in my presence. At night, when I take her to bed, her body responds to me—arching, yielding, sometimes even meeting my thrusts with a hunger that matches my own.
But afterward, she withdraws again, building walls between us that I can't seem to breach with force or tenderness.
I watch as one of my captains approaches her, bowing deep. Too deep. His smile too familiar as he addresses her. My hand clenches on the windowsill, knuckles whitening with the strain of not storming down there to remind him exactly who she belongs to.
Fiona's response is polite but distant. No encouragement, no coy smiles. The possessive fury in my chest eases slightly. Still, I make a mental note to assign that particular captain to a distant outpost at the first opportunity.
Hours later, after a day spent dividing my attention between the business of ruling and thoughts of my wife, I find myself outside the seamstress's workshop where Fiona is being fitted for new gowns.
I pause in the doorway, unnoticed, watching as she stands on a low platform while an elderly woman pins fabric around her.
"This blue brings out your eyes, Your Majesty," the seamstress says, clearly nervous to be in the presence of her new queen.
Fiona smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "It's lovely. The king is... generous."
"He wants you to have the finest of everything, it seems." The seamstress risks a small joke. "We haven't been this busy since the last royal wedding, and those gowns were far less elaborate."
I expect Fiona to make some cutting remark about my attempts to buy her loyalty. Instead, she's quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful.
"He's not what I expected," she finally says, so quietly I almost miss it.
The seamstress glances up, surprised. "My lady?"
Fiona shakes her head, the moment of vulnerability passing. "Nothing. Are we nearly finished? I promised to meet my father before dinner."
The mention of her father tightens something in my chest. I've allowed him to retain some dignity—private quarters, freedom to move about the castle, regular time with his daughter.
It's more than most conquered rulers receive.
More than he deserves, perhaps, given how poorly he protected his kingdom.
But I know that taking away what little remains of his status would only drive Fiona further from me.
"Your Majesty." The seamstress is the first to notice me, dropping immediately into a deep curtsy.
Fiona turns, her expression shifting rapidly from unguarded to wary. "My lord," she says, offering a curtsy that's just shallow enough to remind me she doesn't truly accept my authority. "Have you come to inspect your investment?"
"I've come to escort my wife to dinner," I correct, stepping into the room. "And to see if the new gowns please you."
"They're beautiful," she admits, running a hand over the rich fabric. "Though I don't need so many."
"A queen should dress like a queen." I move closer, noting how the seamstress hastily gathers her things and retreats to a far corner, giving us the illusion of privacy. "I have more gifts for you in our chambers."
Fiona's eyebrow arches. "More? You'll bankrupt the kingdom trying to dress me."
"I doubt that." My fingers reach out to touch the fabric where it drapes over her shoulder, deliberately brushing against her skin in the process. "Though I confess, I prefer you wearing nothing at all."
Color floods her cheeks, but she doesn't look away. "Is that all I am to you? A body to warm your bed and display your wealth?"
The question stings more than it should. "If that were all, I wouldn't waste time talking to you, would I?" I step back, offering her my arm. "Come. Your father awaits us."
She places her hand reluctantly on my arm, allowing me to lead her from the room.
We walk in silence through the corridors, servants and guards bowing as we pass.
To anyone watching, we must look like the perfect royal couple—the warrior king and his beautiful queen.
Only I can feel the tension in her fingers where they rest against my forearm, the careful distance she maintains between our bodies.
"You've been avoiding me today," I observe as we round a corner.
"I've been busy."
"With what, precisely? Planning another escape?"
She stiffens beside me. "I don't know what you mean."
I stop walking, turning to face her fully.
"Don't lie to me, Fiona. It insults both of us.
" I lower my voice, aware of the guards posted at the far end of the corridor.
"My men reported seeing you speaking with a stable boy this morning.
The same stable boy who was caught trying to smuggle a message to the northern border last week. "
Her face pales slightly, but she maintains her composure. "He was asking about exercising my horse. Nothing more."
"Is that so?" I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger against her cheek. "Then you won't mind if I have him questioned more thoroughly."
"No!" The word bursts from her, too quick, too desperate. She catches herself, attempting to recover. "I mean, there's no need. He's just a boy, barely sixteen."
"Old enough to conspire with my wife against me." My hand slides to the back of her neck, firm but not painful. "What were you planning, Fiona? To slip away during a ride? To meet someone beyond the walls? Tell me now, and perhaps I'll be merciful."
Her eyes flash with that defiance I've come to crave and dread in equal measure. "There is nothing to tell."
I lean closer, until our faces are inches apart. "Then you won't object to being accompanied by six of my personal guard the next time you leave the castle. For your protection, of course."
She pulls away from my touch, anger radiating from her in palpable waves. "Am I your wife or your prisoner?"