18. 17 #2
The furniture was heavy, ornate. A four-poster bed loomed in the center, its frame carved with stags and laurels. The desk near the window was stacked with maps, sealed letters, and a dagger that looked more ceremonial than practical, but still sharp.
It was a room designed to impress. To intimidate. To remind her whose world she’d stepped into.
And she felt it in her bones.
Theodore’s hands gripped her waist from behind, fingers digging in with restrained fury.
He dipped his head, lips brushing the curve of her neck, possessive. Controlled. His hand settled on her, fingers splayed against her skin, and she felt it then, the rage coiled in his touch, the restraint it barely held.
It wasn’t love. It was desperation.
And it was dangerous.
“Theodore—”
“Shut up,” he snapped. “I don’t want to hear it.” His voice dipped lower, edged with rage. “I thought I could trust you. I gave you space. I waited. I held out hope you’d come back to me.”
Mabel’s gaze dropped to the fur rug beneath her feet, the silence between them thick with dread.
“We could’ve had everything,” he hissed. “You could’ve been mine. You still could be.” His breath brushed her neck, voice dropping to something venomous. “But would that ever be enough for you? Would I ever be enough?”
She didn’t answer.
He yanked her closer, grip bruising, voice dark and venomous. His hand caught her throat, just enough to make her struggle for breath. “Is this what it takes, Mabel? Must I break you to make you love me?”
She shoved against his arms, voice cracking. “Theo, stop.”
“I should kill him,” he muttered. “For touching you, for thinking you were allowed to be anything but mine.” His hand tightened. “I should kill you for letting him.” The edge in his voice cut through her like ice, sending a shiver down her spine.
His fingers clamped around her throat with possessive force, dragging her face toward his. His grip tightened, claiming, choking.
Her hands flew up, clawing at his wrist, nails scraping skin. Tears welled in her eyes as she fought for breath.
She met his gaze, eyes burning. And like a spark catching dry kindling, the flame bloomed in her palm. Her fingers locked around his wrist, heat surging through her skin.
It seared.
He shouted, yanking back, clutching his arm, eyes narrowing with fury and something darker.
She dropped to the floor, the fire in her palm dying out as she gasped for breath. Her hands rose to her neck quickly, tracing the sting his fingers had left behind. Her gaze never dropped.
“Yes,” she rasped dryly, slowly regaining her footing. “I slept with Lance. But you’ve been sleeping with whores behind my back this whole time. You chose their beds over mine.”
He stilled. Mabel could see the realization wash over his face. “You were there that night.”
“I was,” she admitted. “I saw the women you draped yourself with. And now you have the audacity to drag me here and threaten my life over a sin you are just as guilty of?”
His scoff was immediate, bitter. “It is not the same.”
“Is it not?” she snapped, stepping forward. “You betrayed me. You betrayed us. Don’t pretend your vows mean more than mine.”
“I am a man—”
“And I am a woman!” Her voice cracked, fury and heartbreak colliding. “I have wants. I have needs. I wanted you, Theodore. I could’ve loved you. You could’ve had me. You could’ve had everything.”
Her breath hitched, but she didn’t stop.
“I just wanted to feel something. I wanted to feel alive. Not owned. Not silenced.” Her chest heaved, eyes burning. “I wanted to taste freedom for once in my life.” She paused, a cruel smile on her lips. “And it felt good,” she seethed.
Theodore’s glare cut through her. He stalked toward her, each step measured like a predator circling prey.
Mabel didn’t move.
He stopped just short of her, towering above, hand sliding to the small of her back, fingers tracing the curve of her spine like he owned it.
She didn’t stop him.
“You fucking whore,” he spat at her, voice laced with venom.
His hand surged up, grabbing a fistful of hair along the nape of her neck.
With a forceful tug, he made her look up at him.
“You ruined our marriage before it even started all because you couldn’t keep your legs shut?
If you needed to be fucked so badly, all you had to do was ask.
You didn’t have to sleep with my fucking brother! ”
Mabel sucked in a breath as his fingers tightened in her copper hair, tugging her closer until his chest pressed flush against hers.
Fury radiated off him, hot and unrestrained, yet beneath it, she felt the same desperate pull he’d always had toward her, the hunger to simply touch her that he could never quite hide.
But now, with his breath crowding her and his grip refusing to let her move, the truth settled cold and certain in her ribs.
Those hands were claiming. Steering. Shaping every moment to his will.
A touch that masqueraded as affection but had always been something far more than possessive—something that wanted control, not closeness.
“Do you know how much he’s taken from me?
” Theodore’s voice was low, almost steady, but the look in his eyes made Mabel’s stomach twist. “He took my mother from me.” He dragged a hand to his collar and yanked the fabric down, exposing the jagged scar that carved across his chest and climbed his neck. “He almost took my life.”
Mabel’s breath hitched. She couldn’t fathom how anyone survived a wound like that. The worst of it bloomed where his neck met his shoulder, then split into cruel, branching paths over his skin.
He stalked forward, forcing her spine against the stone wall with nowhere to go.
“And now,” he seethed, fury simmering beneath every word, “he thinks he can take you too. Take what’s mine.”
Her heart hammered against her ribs, but her voice held steady. “I am not yours.”
His fist crashed into the wall beside her head, the impact cracking through the air. She flinched, a startled cry slipping out as she jerked away from the blow.
“You’re mistaken, Princess.” His laugh was cruel, the sound scraping down her spine. “You’ve been mine since the moment that contract was signed.” He leaned in, shadow swallowing her whole. “You will always be mine.”
Then, he moved.
His mouth crashed into hers, a collision of breath and fury. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a claim. Possession laced with longing, twisted into something brutal and raw.
She gasped, eyes wide, fury flaring. But his hand was already in her hair, fingers tight at the base, tilting her head with practiced force.
She didn’t yield. Her hands shoved hard against his chest, enough to break the stolen kiss. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, gaze locked on his.
He smiled again, innocent, like he hadn’t just tried to set her on fire.
Mabel didn’t move. She watched him—watched the way his smile faded, the way the heat in his eyes cooled into something harder.
He didn’t speak right away.
Instead, he looked at her as though he were trying to remember who she was. Or maybe who he was supposed to be.
“All this fighting …” His breath brushed her ear, low and poisonous. “When we both know how this ends. As you said yourself, Princess—you don’t have a choice.”
His tone sharpened into something colder. “And when our wedding night comes, you’ll learn quickly where your place truly is.”
Mabel’s throat tightened. She forced the words out anyway. “You will not touch me—”
He snapped. “Grow up, Mabel.” His voice cracked like a whip. “This isn’t about love. It never was. It’s about the North. What we were born for. What we were trained for.”
He released her so abruptly she stumbled into the wall, palms scraping stone. Theodore paced a few steps away, dragging both hands through his golden hair. His shoulders rose and fell too fast, like he were fighting the urge to break something—or someone.
Mabel watched him, pulse thundering, unsure if he was about to scream or collapse.
Then he turned.
His hair hung in wild strands around his face, and a smile—thin, strained, wrong—pulled at his mouth.
“I can’t afford to fail,” he whispered, almost to himself.
“And I won’t let you be the reason I do.
” He stepped toward her again, slow and cynical, eyes locked on hers with a frightening clarity.
“So,” he whispered, “let’s start over. Maybe this time you’ll look past my anger.
” His gaze darkened. “And maybe this time, I won’t underestimate you. ”
This wasn’t the life she wanted. She didn’t want the crown.
She didn’t want him. But she’d always known it would be her only choice.
From the moment her father arrived in Moorthwyn with the news, she’d felt it settle in her bones—that it would end with Theodore.
That her future had already been decided.
But then Lance happened. Unexpected. Electric. A breath of air in a world that had never let her breathe. He was the closest thing to freedom she’d ever touched. And now, she couldn’t bear the thought of feeling anything less.
But the crown didn’t care about her wants. Her dreams. Her heart. It demanded sacrifice. And that truth twisted something deep inside her.
She’d told Lance she chose him. That she wanted him.
But now Theodore stood before her, offering her something she hadn’t expected—grace. A chance to rewrite the ending. A chance she hadn’t given him.
Slowly, she stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Inches apart. She felt the heat of him. The weight of everything between them.
Her hand settled on his chest. Her gaze met his.
And though it hollowed her out, she whispered, “Okay.”