2. KAEL
Two
KAEL
I don’t believe in fairy tales. I believe in three things: my sword, my instincts, and the fact that most problems can be solved by hitting them hard enough.
I’ve built a kingdom on that philosophy.
Taken the throne at twenty-eight when my father decided he’d rather spend his remaining years fishing than ruling, handed me the crown and said, Don’t fuck it up, son.
Your mother and I will be at the lake house.
Inspiring stuff.
Seven years later, I haven’t fucked it up. Valdemar is prosperous, stable, and feared by every kingdom stupid enough to test us. I’ve fought two border wars, negotiated a dozen trade agreements, and broken the jaw of an ambassador who thought he could grab a serving girl at a state dinner.
I’m not a diplomat. I’m not charming. I’m not the kind of king who gives speeches. I’m the kind of king who shows up, handles the problem, and goes home to a night of smoking and drinking.
Sleeping princesses trapped in cursed towers? Not my thing.
And yet.
Yet.
Here I am. Standing at the tree line of the Thornhaven forest, staring at a tower wrapped in thorns so thick they block out the sun, because my mother looked me dead in the eye over breakfast and said, “Kael, sweetheart, you’re thirty-five and unmated and I love you but if you don’t at least try, I will haunt you from the afterlife. ”
“You’re not dying, Ma.”
“I will die. Eventually. And I will come back as a ghost specifically to nag you about grandchildren. Is that what you want? A ghost mother hovering over your bed every night asking when you’re going to settle down?”
So here I am. Being a good son. Humoring my ghost-threatening mother. Standing in front of a wall of monstrous, ink-black thorns that look like they were designed by someone who really, really didn’t want visitors.
Ronan, my second-in-command, stands to my left. He’s eyeing the thorns with the expression of a man who’s been asked to eat something he finds offensive.
“Cheerful place,” he says.
“Shut up.”
“Just saying, Your Majesty. If I was a cursed princess, I’d want better landscaping. Maybe some flowers. I don’t know, a water fountain.”
I growl, “Ronan.”
He raises his hands, smirking. “Shutting up.”
Jace, my youngest guard, stands to my right. He’s twenty-two, built like a brick shithouse, eager as a puppy, and about as fucking subtle. He’s staring at the tower with wide eyes and barely contained excitement.
“Do you think she’s really up there, Your Majesty? The princess?”
I grunt, shrugging. “That’s what they say.”
“And she’s been asleep for all these years?”
I grunt again, nodding.
“And her scent drives every alpha insane?”
“Jace,” Ronan calls.
“Yes, sir?”
“Less talking. More standing there quietly.”
He nods. “Yes, sir.”
I approach the thorn wall. Up close, the barbs glisten with something wet. Poison, if the reports are accurate. Because why the fuck not? Let’s add poison to the cursed thorns around the enchanted tower containing the sleeping omega princess. Really commit to this shit.
Hundreds of alphas have tried this. Strong alphas, powerful ones. Males who’ve conquered cities and commanded armies. They all walked in and stumbled back out, overwhelmed by a scent so potent it turned their brains to static.
I have no reason to believe I’ll be any different. I’m not that special. Just stubborn, single, and mildly afraid of my mother.
I reach for the thorns.
And they fucking part.
Not with some dramatic music and a beam of golden light. They just… move. The barbs retract. The branches curl away from my hands like I’ve spoken a magic word I didn’t know I had in me. And behind them, a path opens. Narrow, dark, leading to the base of the tower.
Behind me, Ronan whispers, “Holy shit.”
Jace makes a sound that might be a whimper.
“Stay here,” I tell them.
“My King, with all due respect…”
“Stay. Here. Both of you.”
I step through.
The thorns close behind me, and the world goes quiet.
The air inside is different. Thick. Warm.
Like stepping into a room where someone’s been sleeping for a very long time, I suppose.
And there’s a scent. Faint at first. A hint of something.
But with every step I climb up the spiral staircase, it builds.
Gets richer, deeper, and more complex. Sweet.
Warm. Something golden under, honey maybe, or sun-warmed skin.
And threaded through all of it, a current of heat that hits me right at the base of the spine and tugs.
What the…
My heart rate spikes. Not from the stairs, I’ve climbed mountains higher than this.
From something else. Something I don’t recognize, something that feels like the ground shifting under my feet.
My hands tingle. My jaw tightens. There’s a low hum building in my chest that I’ve never felt before, and my rut, dormant for years, so quiet I’d almost forgotten what it felt like, stirs.
Not now! Not here! What the fuck is happening?!
I reach the top and find a wooden door, ancient, heavy, slightly ajar. Light spills through the crack: golden, dim, the color of late afternoon in a room with the curtains half-drawn.
I push the door open.
And the world as I know it ceases to exist.
She’s on the bed.
Fuck. Me.
Her dark curls are fanned across the pillow like they were arranged by someone who gives a shit.
Her skin is fucking perfect, deep brown, flawless after all this time.
Her full lips are slightly parted. And long, thick lashes fan cheekbones that could cut a man’s heart out and he’d thank her for it.
She’s wearing a thin white nightgown. Almost translucent in the low light. And under it, curves that make my vision go sideways. Full tits rising and falling with each slow breath. The dip of a waist that flares into hips built for, don’t go there, don’t you fucking go there…
I’m fucking going there.
She’s goddamn magnificent. Years asleep and she looks like she was hand-crafted to destroy a man’s self-control. There isn’t a sculptor alive who could do justice to the shape of her body under that paper-thin gown, and I need to stop staring and start functioning like a rational human being.
I cannot stop staring.
Her scent.
It’s everywhere. Filling the room. Layered so thick I can taste it on my tongue. It’s not the overwhelming assault the other alphas described; it’s not scrambling my brain, or driving me to my knees. It’s doing something worse.
It’s calling me.
Like a voice I’ve been straining to hear my whole life and only just now tuned into the right frequency. Here. I’m here. Where have you been? I’ve been waiting. Come closer. Please. Come closer.
My hands are shaking.
My hands do not shake. I have held swords in battle with steady hands. I’ve signed execution orders without a tremor. I’ve stared down enemy kings with rock-solid nerves. My hands do not fucking shake.
They’re shaking now.
I cross the room. Each step feels heavy.
Inevitable. Like I’m being reeled in by something stronger than muscle and will.
I reach the bed, sit on the edge, and the mattress dips under my weight.
She shifts, barely, the tiniest turn of her head in my direction, like even in sleep her body knows I’m here.
Oh, fuck.
Mine.
The word detonates in my skull like a cannon. It’s not a thought or a choice. It’s a fact. Hard-wired, bone-deep, echoing through every cell of my body with a certainty that feels less like discovery and more like remembering.
Mine. She’s mine. She’s always been mine. I just didn’t know it until right now.
I reach out. My hand, massive, scarred, battle-hardened, trembles as I brush a strand of soft hair from her beautiful face.
My fingers graze her cheek where her skin is warm and impossibly soft, and the contact sends a jolt through my arm, up my shoulder, straight into the center of my chest. It settles there. Hot. Aching. Permanent.
Her gorgeous lips part on a soft exhale. Her arched brow furrows, like she’s dreaming and the dream just shifted.
I lean closer because my body will not let me do anything else, and walking away now feels like it might kill me.
My nose brushes her temple, and I inhale.
Deep. Slow. Honey. Jasmine. The warmth of sun-baked skin.
And under it all, something purely, devastatingly her, a scent I have no name for but that my body recognizes with a certainty that terrifies me.
Her scent fucking explodes; what was an invitation becomes a detonation.
The room floods with it. Honey, heat, jasmine, sex, and want so thick the air shimmers with it.
Her back arches off the mattress, her fingers claw at the sheets, her lips part on a sound that’s half moan, half gasp, half something that goes straight to the most primitive part of my brain and yanks.
My rut slams into me like a tornado. Years of dormancy obliterated in a heartbeat. Every nerve ending fires. My cock strains against my trousers so hard it’s painful. My vision narrows to her, only her, nothing else exists. The room could be on fucking fire and I wouldn’t notice.
Her eyes fly open.
Deep brown. So beautiful it doesn’t look real. Like someone poured chocolate into her irises and added lightning for good measure. Wild, unfocused, blazing with years of pent-up heat that just found its outlet.
She stares up at me. I stare down at her.
My heart hammering. Her chest heaving. Her scent falling off her in waves. My hands still shaking.
And Princess Rosalind of Thornhaven, the sleeping beauty, the cursed omega, the fated mate I didn’t believe existed ten minutes ago, opens her perfect, gorgeous mouth and says:
“Who the fuck are you?”