Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ayanna
Bloody men. Bloody Volds. Who the hell do they think they are? Dictating where I sleep, when I conceive, how quickly I produce an heir like some broodmare with a contractual deadline?
Oh wait. That’s exactly what I am.
The arrogance of it. The audacity. I am Princess Ayanna Lilith Almaviri of Monsera, and I will not be commanded by these...
these... Viking tyrants playing patriarch at the breakfast table.
I won’t be pushed. I won’t be pressured.
I won’t let them see how close I am to shattering this porcelain teacup against the nearest wall.
But I can’t let my composure slip and show my fury. So I continue my breakfast with the grace of the royalty I am, each bite mechanical, each smile measured, until I can finally excuse myself and retreat to the sanctuary of my room.
The moment the door closes behind me, I exhale, letting go of every breath I’ve been holding hostage for the past hour. The mask melts away. My hands are trembling, just faintly, but the fury beneath my skin is alive and roaring.
He wants an heir.
Wants us in one room.
As if my body were just another clause in an ancestral bargain.
As if I’m not already shackled to a contract that gives me twelve months—twelve months—to conceive and deliver a living child or forfeit my life.
As if the countdown isn’t already ticking in the back of my skull every single moment of every single day.
I pace the length of the room, blood boiling, fists clenched.
Vidar wants an heir so badly? Fine. Go make one yourself, old man.
I freeze for a second when I hear the knock followed by that deep, low and husky voice from the other side of the door. “May I come in?”
He can’t see it, but my eyes roll so hard they nearly sprain. “If you must.”
So of course he must, because the door opens, and he steps inside—tall, effortlessly controlled, his presence filling the space. Even when he’s silent, he carries the authority like a second skin.
“I wanted to apologize,” he says, and I blink, caught off guard.
“Apologize?” My brow lifts. “For acting like an insensitive arse?” I add before he can clarify.
Aric gives a quiet laugh through his nose. “Guess it won’t be easy.”
“What do you mean exactly?”
“Our marriage.”
For a moment, he just watches me with that piercing gaze that seems designed to dismantle defenses. Then his voice flattens, something almost human flickering beneath the frost. “I want to apologize for this morning. My father doesn’t hold his tongue. He shouldn’t have interfered with our choices.”
“Our choices?” I can’t resist the jab. “You didn’t ask me if I wanted a separate bedroom. You made that decision yourself.”
“I thought you’d prefer it that way.” His eyes narrow, though his tone stays maddeningly even.
“Of course I prefer it that way. I barely know you.”
“Then what’s the issue?” He studies me like a code that refuses to break.
“The issue?” I snort, the sound far too undignified for a princess, but I’m past caring.
“It’s the way you handle things.” I take a step toward him and tip my chin up, meeting his eyes despite our height difference.
“You made decisions for both of us without so much as a word in my direction. I understand I’m not your wife by choice and just a clause in a contract.
But since we’re already trapped in this catastrophe together, you could at least do me the courtesy of treating me like a partner instead of furniture. ”
He stills. His expression darkens, and for a second, I think he’ll argue. Defend himself. Offer something—anything—resembling human connection. He doesn’t. He just stands there, silent, calculating, and somehow that unnerves me more than his arrogance ever could.
“Get ready for the evening,” he speaks at last, his voice betrays nothing. And then, without another glance, he turns and leaves.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter to the empty room, staring at the space his insufferable presence just occupied.
No argument, no acknowledgment. Just that icy restraint, that same maddening calm that makes me want to throw something at his perfectly sculpted head. Could’ve expected that.
Still fuming, I head to the bathroom. A hot shower helps ease the tightness in my shoulders but not the restless fire beneath my skin.
When I step out, the steam still clings to my body while I towel my hair dry and style it until it falls in thick, glossy waves tumbling loosely down my shoulders, parted to the side.
I do my makeup clean and soft. Dark lashes and a subtle shimmer on my eyelids.
I fasten a set of diamond earrings that graze my neck, delicate but dazzling, and a matching necklace that glitters like frost against my bronzed skin.
A bracelet encircles my wrist, paired with my engagement ring and wedding band I still haven’t gotten used to wearing.
Then I slip into an elegant black velvet dress with long sleeves.
The fabric skims every curve before flaring softly at the floor. One long slit runs nearly to my thigh.
When I finally descend the grand staircase, Aric waits at the bottom and turns at the sound of my heels on the polished wood. He has his hands loosely clasped in front of him, the picture of composed power. For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move as his gaze sweeps over me, slowly, deliberately.
He’s dressed in a black suit over a white shirt, the top buttons left undone. Dark ink disappears beneath the open collar, winding up the length of his neck. Runes, I think, though I have no idea what they mean. And just beneath the fabric, the edge of a skull peers out from his chest.
I wonder what else hides beneath the tailored fabrics of his black suit?
Are there any more inks? Perhaps.
Do they mean something to him?
“You look stunning.” His low voice breaks on the invisible thread creating between us.
“Thank you,” I say, caught off guard.
I didn’t think compliments were in his vocabulary. Too human. Too warm. Too much like admitting he’d noticed.
“You don’t look bad yourself,” I add, determined not to let him see he’d thrown me.
The faintest shadow of smirk ghosts across his lips, then it’s gone.
I won’t lie, the arsehole looks unfairly attractive. All sharp edges and dangerous beauty, the kind of man artists would weep to paint, and sensible women would run away from.
Naturally, I keep that observation to myself. I’d sooner swallow my own tiara than admit that aloud.
“Shall we?” He extends his arm.
I take it. Reluctantly.
We head toward the garage together, side by side. Husband and wife on paper. Still strangers everywhere else.
We leave the estate in a convoy. Tassilo leads in the first SUV.
Aric and I occupy the back seat of the second, while Eero follows with the rest of the security detail.
Up front, our driver sits in perfect silence, dressed in a black suit, his eyes fixed on the winding road as though we aren’t even there.
Beyond the windows, the forest swallows everything outside the reach of the headlights.
Snow drifts lazily through the beams before disappearing back into the darkness.
My reflection stares back at me, and though my face is calm, a storm brews underneath my facade.
How will my life look like now?
What does my future hold?
I’m sitting in a car with a man I barely know—a man I’m supposed to call husband, though the word still feels like a bad joke.
A man whose favorite color I couldn’t name, who’s like a locked vault, whose emotions are buried so deep I’m not sure even he can reach them, yet I’m expected to spend a lifetime beside him.
Share a bed. Bear his children. Build a future on a foundation of nothing but obligation.
It still feels surreal. Like I’ve stumbled into someone else’s story and can’t find the exit.
But it’s not someone else’s story. It’s mine now. Whether I like it or not.
I rest against the leather seat, letting the soft hum of the engine fill the silence as the car glides through snow-dusted streets as if it owns them. I scoff under my breath, because I realize—it probably does. The Volds likely own half this country, if not all of it.
From the corner of my eye, I catch my brand-new husband staring out his own window.
Distant. Detached. As if he’d rather be anywhere but here.
I scoff again, quieter this time, because of course he would.
He resents this arrangement as much as I do.
The air between us is thick, cold, and painfully polite. So painful that I decide to break it.
“Where are we heading?” I glance sideways at him, though experience has already taught me that asking Aric Vold direct questions is rarely the fastest route to answers.
His gaze remains fixed on the city slipping past the darkened window, his expression composed in that severe, almost inhuman way. “Asgard.”
“Asgard?” I repeat, because apparently we’re visiting mythical realms now. “Should I expect Thor to greet us at the entrance, or is Odin handling valet tonight?”
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
“It’s one of our quarters,” he says at last, voice level, as though this should mean something to any sane person. “Scandinavian branch of Olympus.”
I nod slowly, letting the sarcasm steep. “Mm-hmm. Of course. And here I thought the Greek gods were extinct.”
The faintest trace of amusement appears in his gaze, buried deep beneath layers of discipline and temperament sharp enough to cut steel.
“Olympus is the headquarters of The Gods. The society. It’s located in Italy, where the organization operates. Each country has its own gathering place.”
He says it so casually, as though he’s describing a gentleman’s club and not a private league of powerful criminals who’ve crowned themselves divine.
“Why the mythology?” I’m genuinely curious despite myself. “The Gods. Olympus. Asgard. Is someone in your little cult a classics professor in their spare time?”