nothing so royal as truth

by somanyfeelings

Chapter 2

Notes:

additional tags added! this chapter is… pretty smut heavy. but there’s a plot too!

She shouldn't be here.

It's well past midnight, and the castle is quiet, and if anyone sees the princess slipping through the servants' corridors in her dressing gown, there will be questions she cannot answer.

She doesn't care.

Her mother's words are still ringing in her ears. A tournament to determine her husband, the winner claims her hand, Lord Driscoll is expected to prevail. She can't breathe in her chambers, can't think, can't do anything except find him.

She's spent her whole life being the spare: not important enough to matter, not free enough to choose. And now, the one moment when everyone is finally paying attention to her, it's only to give her away.

His quarters are in the east wing, far from the royal apartments. She knocks before she can lose her nerve.

A long pause. Then footsteps, and the door swings open, and Jack is standing there in a loose shirt and trousers, hair mussed from sleep, eyes widening when he sees her. She’s never seen him like this, unguarded, unprepared. He looks younger. More breakable.

"Samira—"

She wants to wrap herself around him and never let go. Instead, she pushes past him into the room. He closes the door quickly, turns to face her.

"What's happened? Are you hurt? Is someone—"

"There's going to be a tournament." The words come out flat, hollow. "For my hand. My mother announced will announce it soon."

He goes very still.

"A tournament," he repeats.

"Before the spring ends. So– A month, maybe a fortnight after that. Any knight may enter. The winner—" She has to stop, swallow. "The winner claims me as his prize."

The silence stretches between them. She watches his face, watches the understanding dawn, watches something shutter behind his eyes.

"Driscoll," he says quietly.

"He's the favorite. My mother's choice. His family has... arrangements with the other competitors." She laughs, and it sounds wrong, brittle. "It's all very civilized. Very political. I'm sure I'll be very happy."

"Samira."

"Don't." She holds up a hand. "Don't tell me it will be alright. Don't tell me we'll figure something out. I've been telling myself that for hours and I don't believe it anymore."

He crosses to her in two strides and pulls her into his arms.

She doesn't cry. She wants to, but the tears won't come; they’re stuck somewhere behind her sternum, a hard knot of grief she can't dislodge. She just stands there, face pressed to his chest, breathing in the smell of him.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs into her hair. "I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"I know. But I'm still sorry."

His arms tighten around her. She can feel his heart beating, steady and strong, and she thinks: six weeks. I have six weeks left of this.

"Will you enter?" she asks.

He doesn't answer.

She pulls back, looks up at him. His jaw is tight, his expression unreadable.

"Jack. Will you enter the tournament?"

"Samira..."

"It's a simple question."

"It's not." He releases her, steps back, runs a hand through his hair. "If I enter — if I win — your mother will never accept it. She'll find a way to invalidate the match. She'll make your life miserable. She'll—"

"So you won't even try?"

"I didn't say that."

"Then what are you saying?"

He looks at her, and she sees something raw in his expression. Fear. Desperation. Something deeper that neither of them has named yet.

"I'm saying I don't know," he admits. "I'm saying I need to think. I'm saying—" He stops. Shakes his head. "I'm saying I can't lose you, and I don't know how to save you, and I've never felt this helpless in my life."

The anger drains out of her. He's not refusing. He's not giving up. He's just... scared. As scared as she is.

"Come here," she says softly.

He does. Of course he does. He always does what she asks.

She takes his hand, leads him to the narrow bed in the corner. They lie down together, fully clothed, face to face on the thin pillow.

"I don't want to talk about it anymore," she whispers. "Not tonight. I just want—"

She doesn't know how to finish. What does she want? For time to stop. For the world to go away. For this moment to last forever.

"I know." He reaches out, brushes a strand of hair from her face. "I know."

They lie there in silence, listening to each other breathe. His hand finds hers, fingers interlacing. She can feel the callouses on his palm, the roughness of a life spent with sword in hand.

"What are you thinking?" she asks.

"That I don't deserve you." He says it quietly, matter-of-fact. "That you should have a prince. Someone who can give you the life you deserve."

"I don't want a prince."

"I know. You terrify me, Your Highness." His thumb traces circles on her palm. "You could have anyone. Anyone in the kingdom. And you want the broken knight with nothing to offer."

"You're not broken."

"Samira—"

"You're not." She shifts closer, fierce. "You're the only person who sees me. The only person who asks what I want instead of telling me. The only person who makes me feel like I matter. That's not nothing, Jack. That's everything."

He stares at her, something cracking open in his expression.

"I don't know what I did," he says roughly, "to deserve you looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm worth something."

"You are worth something." She reaches up, touches his face. "You're worth everything to me."

He closes his eyes. Turns his head, presses a kiss to her palm.

"Stay," he whispers. "Just for a little longer."

"I can't. If someone finds me—"

"I know. But just… a little longer. Please."

She stays.

They don't talk about the tournament. They don't talk about Driscoll or her mother or the impossible situation they're in. They just lie there, tangled together, breathing the same air.

At some point, she starts to cry. Silent tears, soaking into his shirt. He doesn't tell her to stop. Just strokes her hair and holds her tighter.

"I'm scared," she admits, barely a whisper.

"I know. I am too."

"I don't want to lose this."

"Neither do I."

She presses closer, burying her face in his neck. He wraps himself around her — arms, legs, everything — like he can shield her from the world with his body alone.

It's not enough. It will never be enough, but for now, in the dark, in his arms, it's all she has.

Dawn is blooming, pale and pink, when she finally makes herself move.

"I have to go," she says.

"I know." But instead of releasing her, he shifts, sitting up against the headboard. "Come here. Your hair."

Samira reaches back, touches the tangled mess of it. Hours of lying together, his fingers running through it, have left it hopelessly disheveled. 

She can't walk through the corridors like this. She frowns.

"Come here," he says again. "Let me help."

She sits on the edge of the bed, her back to him, and feels his hands gather her hair gently. He works in silence, fingers deft and careful, sectioning and weaving.

"Where did you learn to do this?" she asks.

"I have sisters." His voice is soft, sleep-rough. "Two of them. I’m the youngest. They used to make me practice on them before balls, before feast days. Said my hands were steadier than theirs."

"I didn't know you had sisters."

"They're back home. A village about a week's ride from here. Married, both of them, with children of their own now." His fingers keep working, gentle and sure. "I don't see them as often as I should. But I write when I can."

She tries to picture it: a young Jack, serious and focused, braiding his sisters' hair while they chattered around him. A grown Jack, stealing moments between duties to pen letters home, asking after nieces and nephews he's watched grow from a distance.

The image is— Painful. Perfect.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks, desperate for something easier.

His hands still for just a moment. Then they resume, steady and slow.

"I'm thinking," he says quietly, "that I'd do this every morning if you'd let me. I'm thinking that I want to learn exactly how you like it. Where you want the ribbon, whether you prefer it pinned or loose." He pauses. "I'm thinking that I want a thousand mornings like this. And I'm terrified I won't get them."

Her throat tightens. She doesn't trust herself to speak. She shouldn’t have asked.

He ties off the braid, smooths his palm down the length of it. "There. Your Highness."

She turns, and he's looking at her with that expression again, the one that’s a little hazy and a lot soft.

"Jack." She pulls back, cups his face in her hands. "Whatever happens. Whatever you decide about the tournament. I need you to know: this matters to me. You matter to me. More than I know how to say."

He stares at her, eyes bright.

"You matter to me too," he says quietly. "More than anything has in a very long time."

She kisses him. Soft, slow, full of everything she can't say, and then she slips out of his bed, out of his room, back through the servants' corridors to her own chambers.

The castle is still quiet. No one sees her.

She lies in her own bed as the sun rises, and she doesn't sleep, and she tries not to think about the weeks she has left.

Six weeks. It's not enough. It will never be enough.

 

---

 

The summons comes a day later.

Samira has been expecting it: her mother is nothing if not thorough, and there are details to discuss, expectations to set, a daughter to mold into the proper shape of a bride.

She dresses carefully. The pale blue gown her mother favors, the modest jewels, the hair pinned back in the style befitting a princess who knows her place. Armor of a different sort.

The queen's study is bright with midmorning light, papers spread across the desk, the weight of a kingdom in every stack. Her mother doesn't look up when Samira enters.

"Sit."

Samira sits.

The queen finishes whatever she's writing, sets down her pen, and finally raises her eyes. She looks tired, Samira realizes. There are shadows beneath her eyes, new lines around her mouth. The crown weighs heavy, even when she's not wearing it.

"The tournament preparations are proceeding well," the queen says. "Lord Driscoll's family has been most... cooperative."

"I'm sure they have."

Her mother's gaze sharpens. "You'll watch your tone."

"Apologies, Your Majesty."

"Don't." The queen waves a hand. "Don't be sullen. I'm not punishing you. I'm protecting you."

"By selling me to the highest bidder?"

"By securing an alliance that will keep this kingdom stable for a generation." The queen stands, moves to the window, looks out over the courtyard. "Do you know how I met your father?"

Samira blinks. "I thought—"

"I was promised to the son of a northern lord. A strategic match. Excellent for the kingdom. My parents were thrilled."

"What happened?"

"Your father happened." The ghost of a smile crosses her face. "He entered a tournament. Won. Against my family's wishes, against all political sense. He was nobody, a second son with no lands, no fortune."

Samira stares at her. She's never heard this story. Her father never spoke of it. Her mother certainly never—

"I was furious with him," the queen continues. "For upending my life. For making everything complicated. For forcing me to choose between duty and—" She stops. Shakes her head. "It doesn't matter. The point is, I chose him. And I spent twenty years loving him, and losing him nearly destroyed me."

"Mother—"

"Love is a luxury, Samira." The queen turns, and her eyes are distant, lost in memory. "It ruins you. And you thank it for the privilege."

Something catches in Samira's chest. "Then why—"

"Because it was difficult. Terribly so. I do not wish that for you. This tournament— It is the practical outcome. Lord Driscoll is the finest knight in the region. His family has made generous donations to ensure the competition is... manageable. The outcome is all but certain."

"All but."

"Don't be clever, Samira. It doesn't suit you." Her mother picks up her pen again. "You will attend the tournament. You will smile. You will be the picture of a gracious princess. And you will accept whoever wins with dignity and grace. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Good." The queen bends over her papers. "You're dismissed."

Samira stands. Hesitates.

"Mother."

The queen pauses.

"Did you ever regret it?" Samira asks. "Choosing Father? Choosing love over duty?"

A long silence. When her mother speaks again, her voice is softer. Almost gentle.

"Every day." She looks up, and for just a moment, Samira sees something human beneath the crown. Something grieving. "And never. Both at once. That's what love does."

She looks down again. The moment passes.

"Go. I have work to do."

Samira goes.

She makes it to the corridor, around the corner, out of sight.

Then she leans against the cold stone wall and lets herself breathe.

Her mother has just told her, without meaning to, exactly how to escape this. If Jack enters — if Jack wins — the queen would have to accept it. Just as her grandparents accepted her father.

She has to tell him. She has to make him understand that it's possible, that there's a way out, that—

But she remembers his face in the dark of his chambers. The fear in his eyes. The way he said I don't know like the words were being torn out of him.

He's afraid. Not of losing, but of winning. Of what it would mean. Of ruining her life the way he thinks he'd ruin everything.

She can't force him to fight for her. She can only hope he chooses to.

Six weeks.

 

---

 

The time that follows is stolen. Taken. Moments snatched, hoarded like precious coins in a dragon’s lair.

They learn to speak in glances across crowded rooms. A tilt of his head means later. A brush of her fingers against her collarbone means tonight. A smile — small, private, meant only for him — means I'm thinking about you. I'm always thinking about you.

The bluebell field becomes their sanctuary.

They ride there at dawn, when the mist still clings to the grass and the flowers are heavy with dew. Sometimes they talk about everything, about nothing, about the lives they might have lived if the world were different. Sometimes they don't talk at all. Just lie side by side in the sea of purple and blue, shoulders touching, watching the sky lighten.

"If we lived here," she says one morning, "out in a cottage by the bluebells. What would our days look like?"

He considers, head tilted, a flower twirling between his fingers.

"I'd wake early," he says. "Make a fire. You'd complain about the cold until I brought you tea in bed."

"I don't complain."

"You absolutely complain. You're very spoiled, Princess."

She rolls onto her side, pretends to scoff but smiles instead, props herself up on one elbow. "What else?"

"We'd have breakfast. Something simple. Bread, cheese, whatever was in the larder. Then I'd go train, and you'd..." He pauses. "What would you do?"

"Healing work, maybe. If we lived somewhere small, somewhere without a proper physician. People would come to me with their ailments, and I'd help them."

"You'd be good at that."

"I know." She smiles more broadly, cheeky. "And then?"

"Then I'd come back in the afternoon, and you'd scold me for tracking mud through the house—"

"You would track mud everywhere."

"—and we'd have supper, and sit by the fire, and..." His voice softens. "And we'd go to bed. Together. Every night."

"That sounds perfect."

The bluebells sway around them, and for a moment, she lets herself believe.

 

---

 

At Evans' cottage, she teaches him to make a poultice.

It's a disaster. He's hopeless with the mortar and pestle, grinding too hard, turning the herbs to paste when they should be coarse. Evans watches from the corner with barely concealed amusement.

"You're a knight," Samira says, exasperated. "You have steady hands. How are you this bad at this?"

"My steady hands are for swords, not medicine." He frowns at the green mush he's created. "Is it supposed to look like swamp water?"

"It's supposed to look like herbs."

"Hm."

Evans snorts. Samira tries to maintain her stern expression and fails.

"Start over," she says, biting back a smile. "And this time, gently."

He starts over. She guides his hands, shows him the motion, stands close enough that she can feel the warmth of him. When Evans steps out to check on a patient, he turns his head and steals a kiss, quick and sweet.

"I'm a terrible student," he murmurs against her mouth.

"The worst."

"You should punish me."

"I should." She pulls back, trying to look severe. "Ten more poultices. Correctly this time."

He groans, but he's smiling.

 

---

 

They frequent the training yard at dusk, when everyone else has gone.

She sits on the fence and watches him practice, eyes growing hungry at the motions: she knows what those shoulders feel like under her hands. Knows the sounds he makes when she touches him. Knows every scar on his body and most of the stories behind them.

"You're staring," he says without turning around.

"I'm admiring. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Admiring is more dignified."

He laughs and sheathes his sword, crosses to where she's sitting. His hair is damp with sweat, curling at his temples, and she reaches out to push a strand back from his forehead.

"You’re sweaty," she says.

"I can’t imagine why. Are you opposed?"

"Not at all." She hooks her fingers in his collar, pulls him closer. "I like you every way."

He kisses her there, in the open, in the fading light. Anyone could see. Anyone could come around the corner and find the princess wrapped around a knight with nothing to his name.

She doesn't care.

For these few weeks, she doesn't care about anything except him.

 

---

 

She goes to the library, late at night.

She's researching herbal remedies, in theory. The book is just an excuse. An interesting one, to be sure, and one she’ll return to someday properly, but for now it is a reason to be somewhere that isn't her chambers, where she can accidentally encounter a knight who happens to be passing by.

He finds her in the back corner, in the window seat that overlooks the training yard.

"You're up late," he says.

"So are you."

"I couldn't sleep."

"Neither could I."

He sits beside her, close enough that their shoulders touch. The candle on the table gutters, casting shadows across his face.

"What are you reading?" he asks.

She shows him the book. He squints at the page.

"What have you learned?" he asks.

"Absolutely nothing."

"And why is that?"

"I was distracted."

"By what?"

"By waiting for you."

His hand finds hers in the darkness. Their fingers interlock.

They sit like that for quite some time.

 

---

 

There are kisses stolen in corridors. Glances exchanged across crowded halls. His hand brushing hers as they pass, so brief no one notices, but she always feels it for hours afterward.

She learns his habits: the way he takes his tea (not nearly sweet enough), the way he sleeps (on his left side, arm thrown over her waist), the way he says her name in the dark (like a prayer, like a promise, like the only word he knows).

He learns hers: the way she hums when she's concentrating, the way she steals the blankets, the way she reaches for him in her sleep like she's afraid he'll disappear.

Later, before she slips away, he braids her hair by candlelight. He always does, now. It's become their ritual: one last quiet intimacy before she becomes the princess again.

They build a world around the moments. In the spaces between duties. In the hours no one else claims.

It can't last. They both know it can't last, but for now, they let themselves pretend.

 

---

 

Life continues on. The tournament approaches.

There have been three seamstresses working for over two hours, and Samira is getting tired.

She stands on a low platform in the dressing room while these strangers circle her with measuring tapes and fabric swatches, discussing her body like she's not in the room.

"The waist needs to come in another inch. Lord Driscoll prefers a narrow silhouette."

"The neckline is too low. His family is traditional; she'll need more coverage."

"And the color? I was told black and silver, his house colors, but that will wash her out terribly—"

"Lady Driscoll will need to adjust. The house colors are expected."

Lady Driscoll.

The name hits her like a slap.

She's not Lady Driscoll. She's not anyone's lady. She's Samira, the princess who heals wounds and rides at dawn and has a knight who looks at her like she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, who strips her bare and worships every inch of her and never once makes her feel like she needs to be different.

But the seamstresses don't know that. They just see raw material. A body to be shaped and covered and presented to a man who will own it.

"Arms up, Your Highness."

She raises her arms. They drape fabric across her shoulders, heavy brocade that makes her skin itch. More pins. More adjustments. More talk about what he wants, what he prefers, what he expects.

"Lord Driscoll mentioned he likes long hair. Yours is lovely, but perhaps some pieces to extend—"

"My hair is fine as it is."

The seamstress pauses, startled by the sharpness in her voice.

"Of course, Your Highness. I only meant—"

"I know what you meant." Samira forces herself to breathe. "Please continue."

They continue.

She stares at herself in the mirror while they work. The woman looking back at her is half-constructed, draped in someone else's colors, pinned into someone else's shape. Another layer is added — an overlay of silver lace — and more of her disappears beneath it.

She thinks about Jack's hands.

The way he unlaces her gowns slowly, reverently, like unwrapping something precious. The way he looks at her when the fabric falls away. Making sure she's comfortable. Making sure she wants this.

The way he says her name when she's bare before him. Like she's a miracle. Like he can't believe she's real.

No one has ever looked at her the way Jack looks at her.

Driscoll certainly won't. Driscoll will look at her the way these seamstresses do: assessing, calculating, determining whether she meets his specifications.

"Turn please, Your Highness."

She turns. More pins. More fabric. More pieces of herself covered up and smoothed over.

"The corset will need to be tighter for the final fitting. Lord Driscoll's mother specifically requested—"

"I don't care what Lord Driscoll's mother requested," she bites out.

Silence.

The head seamstress clears her throat. "Your Highness, I understand this is... difficult. But we have our instructions. The lady of the house has certain expectations—"

"I'm not the lady of the house yet." Samira's voice is sharper than she intends.

She shouldn't have said that so harshly. But the words are out now, hanging in the air, and all three seamstresses are staring at her, and she swallows.

"Never mind." She forces a smile. "Ignore me. Nerves. Please continue."

They continue, but they're wary now. More careful with their comments. The chatter about Driscoll's preferences fades into murmurs about stitching and hemlines.

Samira stands there and lets them dress her in another woman's life.

When the fitting finally ends, she returns, alone, to her chambers, a half-finished gown on a dress form behind her and a hollow feeling in her chest.

She walks to the mirror. Looks at herself, still in her shift, hair mussed from being pinned and unpinned, red marks on her skin where the fabric rubbed wrong.

This is what she looks like. Underneath all the layers. Before they turn her into someone else.

She thinks about the way Jack’s been holding her lately. Tighter than before. More desperate: he's trying to memorize her before she's gone.

She's losing him.

She can feel it happening, slow and inevitable, and she can't stop it any more than she can stop this wedding, this fitting, this life that's closing in around her like a cage.

But she can do something.

She can remind him — remind herself — who they are when no one's watching. Who she is when she's not being dressed up for someone else. Who he is when he's hers.

Tonight, she won't be Lady Driscoll, or the princess, or the woman in someone else's colors. Tonight, she'll be Samira. And he'll be hers.

 

---

 

She sends for him.

The note is simple, innocuous: The salve for your arm needs reapplying. My chambers, after evening meal. Come alone.

It's a flimsy excuse. His stitches healed weeks ago. But she needs to see him, needs to touch him, needs something she can control in a world that's spinning out of her grasp.

Her handmaiden is conveniently visiting family in the village. Samira made sure of it.

When the knock comes, soft and hesitant, her heart is pounding so hard she can feel it in her throat.

She opens the door. Jack slips inside, and she closes it behind him, turns the lock.

"Samira." His eyes scan the room, land on her. "Your salve excuse was—"

"Flimsy. I know." She leans against the door. "I needed to see you."

"You could have come to me. It's safer—"

"I don't want safe." The words come out sharper than she intended. "I've spent three days being lectured about safety. About propriety. About accepting my fate with dignity and grace."

He flinches. "Your mother?"

"She told me that love ruins you. And you thank it for the privilege." She stops in front of him, close enough to touch. "I've been thinking about that. About what I'm willing to be ruined for."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't look at me like that." His voice is strained. "Like I'm the answer. I'm not— I can't—"

"I'm not asking you to be the answer." She reaches up, touches his jaw. He shudders. "I'm not asking you to save me. I know you're still figuring out what you can give. That's not what tonight is about."

"Then what is it about?"

She holds his gaze. Everything in her is trembling with the desperate need to take something back, to feel powerful when the world keeps telling her she's powerless.

"I've spent my whole life being told what to do," she says quietly. "Sit here. Smile there. Marry this man. Be this kind of princess. I don't get to choose anything. Not my future, not my husband, not my own body. When I was young, they ignored me. I could do what I wanted because no one cared to stop me. But now—" Her voice hardens. "Now they’ve remembered I exist, and suddenly everyone has opinions about my life. My mother. The court. Lord Driscoll. Everyone gets a voice except me."

"Samira—"

"But here, with you—" She steps closer, and he steps back, and she follows until his back hits the wall. "Here, I want to be the one giving orders. And I want you to follow them."

His breath catches. She watches his throat work, watches the desire and duty battle across his face.

"You want me to—"

"I want you to do exactly what I say." She presses her palm flat against his chest, feels his heart hammering beneath her hand. "Nothing more, nothing less. Can you do that?"

He stares at her. His eyes are dark, his breathing ragged.

"Yes," he says roughly. "Whatever you need. I can do that."

Something settles in her chest. Something hungry and fierce and alive.

She’s wearing nothing but her thin nightgown, the fabric almost translucent under the candlelight. She should feel exposed, vulnerable, but the way he’s looking at her makes her feel so strong.

"You like this, don’t you?" she muses.

"Yes. I like everything about you. Every time I look at you."

"Flatterer."

"Truth-teller." His eyes trace the outline of her body through the fabric. "You have no idea, do you? What you do to me."

"Tell me."

He shakes his head. "There aren’t enough words. I would do anything, anything—"

"Good. Then do as I say." She lets her hand slide lower, traces the laces of his shirt. "First rule: you don't move unless I tell you to move. Understand?"

He nods.

"Say it."

"I understand."

"Second rule." She tugs at the laces, loosens them, spreads the fabric apart to expose his chest. His stomach clenches under her gaze. "You don't make a sound unless I tell you to. Not a word, not a breath, not a moan louder than a whisper. If you do, I stop. Immediately."

His jaw tightens. She can see how much that costs him already, the effort of holding still while she touches him.

"I'll give you two chances," she continues, trailing her fingers down his sternum, his stomach, the line of hair that disappears into his trousers. "Two sounds. After that, I stop and you leave. Understood?"

"Yes." It comes out strangled.

"Yes what?"

A pause. His throat works.

"Yes, Your Highness."

Heat floods through her. She didn't know she wanted that — the title, the deference — but hearing it in his wrecked voice makes her feel powerful in a way she's never felt before.

"Good." She rewards him by pressing closer, letting him feel the warmth of her body through her thin shift. "You're going to be so good for me, aren't you, Jack?"

He nods, eyes locked on hers, desperate.

"I asked you a question. You can respond."

"Yes," he breathes. "I'll be good. I'll be so good. Whatever you want."

"That's what I thought."

She takes her time with him.

She explores his chest, his shoulders, the scars she hasn’t yet gotten to examine properly. She traces the freckles with her fingertips, presses kisses to the ones she likes best — the one near his collarbone, the trio just below his nipple — and watches him struggle to stay silent. 

When she scrapes her nails down his stomach, catching in the coarse hair that trails down, he sucks in a breath and whimpers, barely audible, but she hears it.

"That's one," she says.

His eyes flash with something like panic. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Shh." She presses a finger to his lips. "That's talking. But I'll forgive it. This time."

She sinks to her knees.

His whole body goes rigid. She looks up at him, at his clenched jaw, his hands pressed flat against the wall, scrambling for purchase that isn’t there. He’s staring down at her like he’s not quite sure this is real.

"Remember," she says softly. "Stay still. Stay silent."

She unlaces his trousers, frees him. He's already hard, flushed and straining, and the sight of him makes her mouth water.

She wraps her hand around him, strokes once, and watches his stomach clench with the effort of not moving.

"You've been so patient," she murmurs. "So obedient. Bowing to Al-Hashimi when we both know who you really belong to. Holding back when all you want is to touch me."

A sound escapes him — half whine, half groan — and he immediately clamps his mouth shut, eyes going wide.

"That's two," she says.

He looks devastated. His whole body is trembling now, sweat beading at his temples, every muscle taut with the strain of obedience.

"Please," he mouths. No sound. Just the shape of the word on his lips.

"Please what?"

He can't answer. Can't make a sound without losing his last chance.

She watches him struggle, watches him try to find another way. His hands press harder against the wall. His breathing goes ragged, almost silent, controlled with visible effort.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he brings his palms together in front of his chest. A prayer gesture. His eyes lock on hers, pleading.

Please.

Something cracks open in her chest. This man, this knight, this soldier, showing his devotion to her in every way that matters. Begging without words. Surrendering everything.

"Good," she breathes. "That's very good, Jack."

She takes him in her mouth.

His whole body shudders, but he doesn't move. Doesn't thrust, doesn't grab her hair, doesn't do anything except stand there and shake while she works him with her lips and tongue.

She goes slow. Torturously slow. She wants to make this last, wants to feel his desperation build, wants to push him to the very edge of his control.

He's biting his lip so hard she imagines there’s blood. His fists are clenched, tendons standing out in his forearms. His chest heaves with the effort of silent breathing.

She pulls back, looks up at him. His eyes are wet.

"You're doing so well," she whispers. "So perfect. I'm so proud of you."

A shiver runs through him. She watches his cock twitch, watches him fight for control.

She takes him deep again, sets a rhythm, and brings one hand up to him, stroking the places her mouth can't reach. He's close; she can feel it in the tension of his thighs, the way his whole body seems to vibrate with need.

She pulls back just enough to speak against him.

"You can come," she says quietly. "But silently. In my mouth. Can you do that for me?"

He nods frantically, panting.

She takes him deep one more time, sucks hard, and feels him break.

His whole body seizes. His mouth opens in a silent moan, head thrown back, hands pressed so hard against the wall that his knuckles must be bruising. She feels him pulse against her tongue, hot and bitter, and she swallows it all, works him through it, doesn't stop until he's sagging against the wall, limp.

She sits back on her heels, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

He's staring down at her, shattered. Tears on his cheeks, chest heaving, looking at her like she's hung the moon and stars and planted every bluebell in every field.

"You were perfect," she says softly. "So good for me."

A hiccuped sob escapes him and then he's sliding down the wall, collapsing to his knees in front of her, pulling her into his arms.

"Samira," he gasps against her hair. "Samira—"

"Shh." She holds him, strokes his back. "I've got you. You did so well. I've got you."

He's shaking. She realizes, dimly, that this might have been more intense for him than she intended, that the control she took from him unlocked something deeper than just physical pleasure.

"Too much?" she asks quietly.

"No." His voice is wrecked. "No, it was— I've never—" He pulls back, looks at her with red-rimmed eyes. "No one's ever..."

"Ever what?"

"Made me feel like that. Like I was—" He swallows. "Like being good for someone was enough. Like I didn't have to do anything or be anything except what you asked."

Her heart clenches.

"You're always enough," she says. "Just as you are. You have to know that."

He shakes his head, looks away. "I don't. But when you — when I'm with you like this — I can almost believe it."

She cups his face, turns him back to her.

"Then we'll keep practicing," she says. "Until you believe it all the time."

A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Is that an order?"

"Yes. It's an order."

"Then I'll obey."

She kisses him, soft and slow, tasting herself on his lips. When she pulls back, his eyes are clearer, his breathing steadier.

"I should go," he says reluctantly. "Before someone notices—"

"Wait." She stands, crosses to her vanity, picks up a small pot of salve. Presses it into his hands. "In case anyone asks why you were here."

He looks at the pot, then at her, and laughs. "You think of everything."

She smiles.

He stands, tucks himself back into his trousers, straightens his shirt. He looks thoroughly debauched — flushed, disheveled, eyes still a little glazed — and she feels a fierce satisfaction at the sight.

He moves toward the door, then stops. Turns back.

"Samira."

"Yes?"

"Thank you." His voice is quiet, serious. "I know that wasn’t— I know it was for you as much as it was for me. But thank you anyway."

She shakes her head. "It was for both of us. I needed to feel like I could control something. And you needed—"

"To let go," he finishes. "Yes."

They look at each other across the candlelit room.

"We're quite a pair," she says softly.

"We are." He opens the door, checks the corridor. Looks back at her one more time. "Goodnight, Your Highness."

The title sends a shiver down her spine, even now.

"Goodnight, Sir Abbot."

He slips out into the darkness, and she closes the door behind him, and she leans against it, and she smiles.

Just over three weeks.

But tonight, at least, she felt like she had power over something.

Tonight, at least, she felt alive.

 

---

 

"Your footwork is sloppy," Jack says.

"My footwork is fine."

"Your footwork is—" He pauses, considering. "Adequate. At best. Try again."

They're in the training yard, early enough that no one else is around. He's been teaching her sword work for weeks now: basic forms, defensive stances, the kind of skills that might save her life someday.

She's not a natural. She doesn't have the reach, the strength, the years of muscle memory. But she's determined, and he's patient, and slowly she's improving.

Today, though, she's not interested in improving.

"Like this?" She lunges, deliberately dropping her shoulder the way he keeps telling her not to.

"No. You're still—" He moves behind her, adjusts her stance, his hands warm on her arms. "Here. Feel the difference?"

She feels the press of his chest against her back. The strength in his hands. The way his breath stirs her hair.

"Hmm," she says. "Show me again?"

He hesitates. She can feel the moment he realizes what she's doing.

"Samira."

"Sir Abbot."

"We're supposed to be training."

"We are training." She leans back into him, just slightly. "I'm learning all sorts of things."

His hands tighten on her arms. She can hear his breathing change.

"You're impossible," he says.

"And yet you keep coming back."

"I keep—" He makes a frustrated sound. "You're not focusing."

"I'm focusing on exactly what I want to focus on."

"Which is?"

She turns in his arms, faces him. He's trying to look stern, but his eyes are dark, and there's a pink flush high on his cheeks.

"You," she says simply. "I'm focusing on you."

"Samira—"

"You know, you say my name a lot when you're flustered." She traces a finger down his chest. "Have you noticed that? It's very endearing."

"I'm not flustered."

"You're very flustered." She grins. "Your ears are red."

"My ears are not—" He reaches up, touches his ear, and makes a strangled sound when he finds it warm. "That's— It's the exercise."

She grins, delighted. She’s discovering new things about him every day: the way he ducks his head when he’s embarrassed but still keeps his gaze on her anyway, the way his voice drops when he’s trying not to want her, the way his hands belie the nervous energy he can’t contain when he’s holding himself back. She wants to learn every tell he has.

"We've barely done anything," she teases, voice high.

"We've done enough."

"Have we?" She steps closer, backing him up. He goes willingly, too surprised to resist, until his back hits the wall of the equipment shed. "Because I feel like we're just getting started."

"This isn’t— We're in public— Someone could see—"

"It's dawn. No one's here." She presses against him, feels his heart pounding. "Unless you're worried about being caught?"

"I'm worried about—" He swallows. "About losing my mind. Which I'm definitely going to do if you keep—"

"Keep what?"

"That." He gestures vaguely at her. "All of that. The looking at me. The touching. The—"

"The wanting you?"

"Yes. That."

"Well." She rises on her toes, brings her mouth close to his ear. "I'm afraid you're going to have to endure it. Because I want you very much, Sir Abbot. And I'm not feeling particularly patient."

He whimpers, cheeks going pinker.

"The shed," he manages. "Inside. Now."

The equipment shed is cramped and smells like leather and oil, but it has a door that locks, and that's all Samira cares about.

Jack barely gets the latch closed before she's on him, pushing him back against a rack of practice swords that clatter against them, kissing him like her life depends on it.

"You," she says between kisses, "are very distracting."

"I'm distracting?" He laughs breathlessly. "You're the one who—"

"Shh." She bites his lower lip, feels him groan. "Less talking. More kissing."

"I just—" He's panting now. "What do you want? Tell me what you want."

"I want you to stop overthinking." She pulls back, looks at him. "I want to have fun with you. Can we do that? Just— Have fun?"

Something shifts in his expression. The worry lines smooth out.

"Fun," he repeats.

"Yes. Fun. You know: smiling, laughing, enjoying yourself? I've heard it's pleasant."

"I know what fun is."

"Do you? Because you often look like you're working on trade deals when we're together."

"I do not—"

"You absolutely do. You get this little furrow." She touches the spot between his eyebrows. "Right here. Like you're solving a very serious problem."

"The problem is you," he says, but he's smiling now. "You're a very complicated problem to have."

"Flatterer."

"I mean it. I never know what you're going to do next. It's terrifying."

"And thrilling?"

"And thrilling," he admits. "Mostly thrilling."

"Good." She shifts in his arms, deliberately pressing against him. "Now. The shed door is locked. We have at least an hour before anyone comes looking. And I believe you owe me a lesson."

"What kind of lesson?"

"Surprise me."

He obliges, grins — a real grin, boyish and delighted — and flips them around so her back is against the wall. His hands find her waist, her hips, the curve of her backside, and she gets a leg around his thigh, grinds against the hard length of him.

"First lesson," he says. "Always be aware of your surroundings."

"Is that so?"

"Mhmm." He kisses her neck, finds the spot that makes her shiver. "You were so focused on me, you didn't notice I was maneuvering you."

"Maybe I noticed and let you."

"Maybe." His hands find the laces of her training tunic. "Second lesson: layers are a liability. The more you're wearing, the longer it takes to—"

"To what?"

"To do this." He tugs the tunic over her head, tosses it aside. His eyes rake over her, dark with want. "Much better."

"Unfair. You're still fully clothed."

"Third lesson." He starts on his own laces, maddeningly slow. "Patience is a virtue."

"Patience is overrated."

"Is it?" He pauses with his shirt half-open. "Maybe I should take my time, then. Really test your—"

She grabs his shirt and yanks. Buttons scatter.

"That was my good training shirt," he says mildly.

"I'll make you another one."

"You're a princess."

"Fine, I'll have someone bring you another one." She pushes the ruined fabric off his shoulders. "Happy?"

"Entirely."

They barely make it to the table.

He takes her against the edge of it, her legs wrapped around his waist, both of them laughing when a practice sword clatters to the ground beside them.

"Very— Oh, very romantic," she gasps.

"I try." He shifts his angle, and she stops laughing, starts moaning instead. "Better?"

"Don't get smug."

"I would never."

"You're absolutely getting — Jack — getting smug—" The effect of her words is somewhat hampered by the way she moans, she knows.

"Maybe a little." He grins against her neck. "You bring it out in me."

She retaliates by clenching around him, and his smugness dissolves into a strangled whine.

"That's cheating," he manages.

"Fourth lesson," she says sweetly. "There's no such thing as cheating. Only winning."

"You're going to be the death of me," he laughs, actually laughs, bright and surprised, and something shifts between them. The desperation that usually underlies their encounters fades, replaced by something lighter. Playful. Joyful.

"Now," she asks, toying with the hair on the nape of his neck. "Are you going to finish what you started, or do I need to take matters into my own hands?"

"Your hands are otherwise occupied."

"I'm very resourceful."

"You certainly are." He tightens his grip on her hips. "Hold on."

"To wh—oh—"

He stops teasing. Drives into her hard enough that her back arches, and sets a rhythm that leaves no room for clever remarks. She holds on — to his shoulders, to his hair, to whatever she can reach — and lets him take her apart.

"Close," she gasps. "I'm close—"

"Me too. Come with me?"

"Yes— Yes—"

His hand falls to her, thumbing her clit hard until she gasps, muffles her cries against his shoulder, shaking with the force of it, and then he tugs himself out and follows her over the edge, keeps jerking his hips against his fist through the aftershocks, gentler now, until they're both spent and trembling.

"That," he says eventually, "was very educational."

She laughs, breathless and delighted. "Was it?"

"I learned several things."

"Such as?"

"Such as—" He sets her down carefully, steadies her when her legs wobble. "You're even more beautiful when you're laughing. Equipment sheds are surprisingly romantic. And I am, in fact, capable of having fun."

"Groundbreaking discoveries."

"I thought so."

She looks at him — flushed and disheveled, grinning like a boy, happier than she's ever seen him — and her heart clenches.

"We should do this more often," she says. "The fun part. The laughing."

"I'd like that."

"It suits you."

"What does?"

"Happiness." She touches his face, traces the laugh lines she's only just discovering. "You should wear it more often."

Something flickers in his expression, a shadow of the worry that usually lives there, but he pushes it away. Kisses her palm.

"I'll try," he says. "For you."

They're late to their respective duties that day. Samira's hair is a disaster. Jack's shirt is ruined beyond repair.

 

---

 

The tournament is a minor one. A local affair, nothing like the spectacle the betrothal tournament will be. But the stands are full, the banners are flying, and Samira is in the royal box, watching Jack prepare for his first pass.

She shouldn't be here.

Every time she looks at him, she sees him shaking against the wall, sees him on his knees, sees him mouthing please with tears streaming down his face.

She should have stayed in her chambers. Should have claimed a headache, a stomach ailment, anything.

But she couldn't stay away.

He wins his first match easily. His second. His third. She watches him move — the fluid grace of him, the brutal efficiency — and thinks about how that same body trembled under her hands. How he held himself perfectly still because she told him to.

The final match ends with his opponent yielding before the third pass. Jack wheels his horse, accepts the crowd's applause with a small nod.

And then he rides to the stands.

Samira's breath catches. Her hands tighten in her lap.

This is it, she thinks. He'll bow to me. In front of everyone. He'll—

He stops before Lady Al-Hashimi.

The ribbon drops. Al-Hashimi smiles, coy and practiced. Jack bows, low and proper, his face utterly blank.

The crowd cheers.

Samira doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Just sits there, frozen, watching the man who begged for her permission to come now kneel before someone else.

She knows why. She knows. The politics, the expectations, the careful fiction they've been maintaining. He can't bow to the princess without inviting questions, without drawing her mother's attention, without ruining everything.

She knows this.

It doesn't matter.

Samira has only ever been chosen as a last resort. A backup. A consolation prize.

And now, watching Jack kneel before Al-Hashimi, she feels it all over again. Second place. Second choice. Never quite enough.

The jealousy is a living thing inside her, hot and vicious, clawing at her chest. Only a few nights ago, he was hers. Completely, utterly hers. And now he's kneeling for another woman while Samira sits in the royal box and smiles and pretends she doesn't want to scream.

Al-Hashimi reaches down, touches Jack's hair briefly — a gesture of acceptance, of favor — and Samira's vision goes white at the edges.

She stands abruptly.

"Your Highness?" Her lady-in-waiting looks up, startled. "Is something wrong?"

"Headache," Samira says shortly. "I'm retiring early."

She doesn't wait for a response. Just descends from the box, walks briskly through the corridors, and doesn't stop until she's in her chambers with the door locked behind her.

She paces. Back and forth, back and forth, wearing a path in the carpet.

He had to, she tells herself. He didn't have a choice.

But he did have a choice. He could have bowed to no one. He could have taken his victory and left the field. He could have—

He could have entered the betrothal tournament and made this all irrelevant.

The thought stops her cold.

He hasn't said yes. She asked him, that first night, and he didn't answer. She's been so focused on the present, on stolen moments, on what they can have right now, that she's been avoiding the future.

But the future is coming, and if he doesn't enter—

She'll belong to Driscoll. And Jack will keep bowing to Al-Hashimi at tournaments. And nothing that happened between them will matter at all.

She crosses to her writing desk. Pulls out paper, ink, a pen.

Come to me tonight. After the feast. We need to talk.

She seals it, summons a servant, sends it to his quarters.

Then she waits.

 

---

 

He arrives late.

The feast ran long. Driscoll was in attendance, all false charm and proprietary glances that made Samira's skin crawl, and by the time the knock comes at her door, she's been pacing for over an hour.

She opens the door. Jack slips inside, and she can smell wine on him, see the flush of it on his cheeks. He isn’t drunk, not nearly, but it irks her anyway.

"Enjoy the wine?" she asks flatly.

"No." He runs a hand through his hair. "Driscoll kept toasting to your beauty. I needed something to get through it."

"Poor you."

He flinches at her tone. "Samira—"

"Don't." She holds up a hand. "I'm not in the mood to hear excuses."

"I wasn't going to make excuses."

"No? You're not going to tell me you had to bow to her? That it didn't mean anything? That I'm the one you really—"

"I was going to say I'm sorry."

That stops her.

He stands there, shoulders slumped, looking at her with tired eyes.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. "I know how it looked. I know how it must have felt, watching that. But I didn't know what else to do. If I'd bowed to no one, people would have talked. If I'd bowed to you—"

"People would have talked more. I know." She crosses her arms. "That doesn't make it easier."

"I know."

Silence stretches between them. He looks miserable, deeply, and part of her wants to comfort him. But a larger part is still burning with jealousy and frustration and the desperate need to reclaim what's hers.

"Kneel," she says.

He blinks. "What?"

"You heard me." She moves to her chair — the high-backed one by the fireplace, almost throne-like in the flickering light — and sits. "Kneel."

He stares at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he sinks to his knees.

Something settles in her chest. The anger doesn't disappear, but it shifts, becomes something she can work with.

"You bowed to her," Samira says quietly. "In front of everyone. Let her touch your hair like she had any right to you."

"I didn't want—"

"I didn't ask what you wanted." She leans forward. "I'm telling you what happened. You knelt for her. Made me watch. Made me sit there and smile while another woman claimed you."

His jaw tightens. "Yes."

"Is that what you want? To be hers?"

"No." The word is immediate, fierce. "You know I don't."

"Then prove it." She sits back, spreads her hands on the arms of the chair. "You knelt for her in public. Now kneel for me in private. Show me who you really belong to."

His breath catches. She watches his throat work, watches understanding dawn in his eyes.

"How?" he asks roughly. "Tell me how. Whatever you want."

"I want your mouth on me." The words come out steady, certain. "I want you to worship me the way you should have worshipped me in that arena. I want you to make me come on your tongue while you beg for the privilege."

A full-body shudder runs through him.

"Yes," he breathes. "Samira, yes. I will—"

"Ask properly."

He swallows. She can see how hard he is already, straining against his trousers, but he doesn't touch himself. Doesn't move toward her. Just kneels there, waiting for permission.

"Please," he says, voice cracking. "Please let me taste you. I've been thinking about it, the way you taste, the sounds you make. Please, Samira. I want to be good for you. I want to show you—"

"Show me what?"

"That I'm yours." His eyes are bright, desperate. "Only yours. Whatever you saw today— It wasn't real. This is real. Please. Let me prove it."

She lets him wait. Lets him kneel there, trembling, while she considers.

Then she lifts the hem of her skirt.

"Come here," she says.

He crawls to her on his knees.

The sight of it — this knight, this warrior, crawling across the floor because she told him to — sends a bolt of heat straight through her.

"Hands behind your back," she orders. "You don't touch me with anything except your mouth. Understood?"

He clasps his hands behind him, biceps flexing with the effort in a way that is rather appealing. "Yes."

"If you do well—" She strokes a hand through his hair, gentle, proprietary. "I'll let you come. Eventually. But not until I'm satisfied."

"I understand." His voice is wrecked. "I'll be good. I promise."

"We'll see."

She guides his head between her thighs.

The first touch of his mouth makes her gasp. He's tentative at first, finding what makes her shiver, but he's attentive, so attentive, adjusting based on every sound she makes.

"Good," she breathes. "That's— Yes, right there—"

He mewls against her, and the vibration makes her hips jerk.

"Did I say you could make noise?"

He freezes.

"I'll allow it," she decides. "I want to hear how much you want this."

He makes a sound of pure gratitude and redoubles his efforts. His tongue works her, his lips, and she grips the arms of the chair and tries to hold on to some semblance of control.

She's close — embarrassingly close — when she pushes his head back.

"Stop."

He pulls away immediately, panting. His lips are slick with her, his eyes wild.

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No." She catches her breath. "I just wanted to see your face."

He's a wreck. Flushed and desperate, lips swollen, chin wet. His hips are moving in tiny, involuntary thrusts, grinding against nothing. He’s beautiful like this, desperate, looking up at her like she’s everything he’s ever wanted. The firelight catches the silver in his hair, the sheen of sweat on his skin, and she thinks: mine. 

"You're hard," she observes.

"Yes." It sounds like a confession.

"Are you going to come in your trousers just from this?"

He groans, drops his head. "I might. I'm sorry, I can’t— You taste so good, and you’re so pretty, Your Highness, and I—"

"Did I say you could drop your head?"

He snaps his gaze back up.

"Keep your eyes on me," she orders. "I want to watch your face."

"Samira—"

"Continue."

He buries his face between her thighs again, and this time she doesn't hold back. She grinds against his mouth, chases her pleasure, uses him exactly the way she wants to. He takes it all: every demand, every shift of her hips, working her with his tongue like his only purpose in life is to make her come, keeps his eyes on her all the while.

"Faster," she gasps. "Harder— Yes, like that— Don't stop, don't you dare stop—"

He groans against her, and she can see his hips jerking helplessly, and she realizes he's close, so close, about to come untouched just from serving her—

"Don't you dare come," she hisses. "Not yet. Not until I—"

She breaks. The orgasm crashes through her, and she's crying out, gripping his hair so hard it must hurt, and he works her through it, doesn't stop until she's shaking and oversensitive.

"Stop," she manages. "Stop, I can't—"

He pulls back, gasping. His whole body is trembling, sweat dripping down his temples, and she can see the wet spot spreading on the front of his trousers. He's so hard it must be painful.

"Please," he breathes. "Please, may I— I need—"

"Need what?"

"Need to come." He's panting. "Please, I've been good, I did what you asked, please let me—"

"You have been good." She strokes his hair, gentle now, soothing. "So good for me. The best."

A broken sound escapes him.

"Come here." She guides him up, pulls him close. Her hand finds the laces of his trousers, loosens them, wraps around him.

He cries out, hips jerking into her grip.

"You can come," she whispers. "You've earned it. Come for me, Jack."

She strokes him once, twice, and he shatters, burying his face in her shoulder, sobbing her name, spilling over her hand. She holds him through it, strokes him until he's shaking and spent, and then she holds him some more.

"I'm proud of you," she murmurs against his hair. "You were perfect. So perfect for me."

He shakes against her. She feels something wet against her shoulder and realizes he's crying, really crying, tears soaking into her dress.

"Shh." She pulls him closer, cradles his head. "I've got you. You're alright."

"I'm sorry," he chokes out. "I'm sorry I bowed to her. I'm sorry I can't give you what you deserve. I'm sorry—"

"Stop." She tips his face up, makes him look at her. His cheeks are wet, his eyes red-rimmed. He looks wrecked in the best way, broken open, utterly vulnerable. "You give me exactly what I need. Do you understand?"

He shakes his head.

"You do." She kisses his forehead, his cheeks, the tracks of his tears. "This. What we just did. The way you surrender to me, the way you let me have control. That’s what I need. That's what keeps me sane when everything else is falling apart."

"But the tournament—"

"We don't have to talk about that right now."

"Samira—"

"I mean it." She holds his gaze. "Right now, I just want to hold you. Can we do that? Can we just... be here, together?"

He searches her face for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nods.

They rearrange themselves: her in his lap, his arms around her, both of them disheveled and spent. The fire crackles. The candles burn low.

"I should go," he says eventually. "Before someone—"

"Not yet." She burrows closer. "Five more minutes."

"Five minutes."

Neither of them counts.

When he finally leaves, slipping out into the predawn darkness, she doesn't ask about the tournament. And he doesn't offer.

But the question hangs between them, heavy and unspoken, and the clock is ticking.

 

---

 

She can't do it again.

She can't sit in that box, smile plastered on her face, and watch him bow to Al-Hashimi. Not after what they've shared. Not after the way he sobbed in her arms, swearing he was hers.

So she sends word that she's unwell. A headache, a touch of fever, nothing serious but enough to keep her in her chambers.

Her mother's response is curt: Rest well. You'll need your strength for the weeks ahead.

The weeks ahead. The betrothal tournament. Driscoll.

Samira crumples the note and throws it into the fire.

From her window, she can hear the distant roar of the crowd. The tournament grounds aren't visible from here, but she can imagine it perfectly: the thunder of hooves, the crack of lances, Jack in his armor, fighting like he doesn't care if he lives or dies.

Fighting for glory that means nothing. Bowing to a woman who means less.

She paces. Sits. Paces again. Picks up a book and puts it down without reading a word.

The tournament will last most of the afternoon. He'll win — he always wins — and then there will be the ceremony, the feast, the endless parade of nobility congratulating themselves on nothing.

She won't be there for any of it. But she can be there for what comes after, so she slips out of her chambers.

 

---

 

The stables are quiet at this hour.

The grooms have gone to the feast, the horses drowsing in their stalls. The smell of hay and leather fills the air, familiar and grounding. Samira finds an empty stall near the back, settles onto a hay bale, and waits.

She hears him before she sees him: the uneven footsteps, the creak of the stable door, the soft whinny of his horse greeting him.

"Easy, boy." His voice is rough, tired. "Long day for both of us."

She stands. Steps out of the shadows.

He freezes when he sees her.

"Samira." He looks exhausted, still in his armor, drenched in sweat, a fresh bruise darkening his cheekbone. "What are you— You're supposed to be ill."

"I'm not ill."

"Then why—"

"I couldn't watch." She moves toward him, stops a few feet away. "I couldn't sit there and watch you bow to her again. So I didn't."

His jaw tightens. "I didn't bow to her."

She blinks. "What?"

"I didn't bow to anyone. After I won, I just—" He runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "I left. Took my horse and left before the ceremony."

"You can't do that. The tradition—"

"I don't care about the tradition." His voice cracks. "I couldn't do it, Samira. Not again. Not after—" He gestures vaguely, encompassing everything. "I kept thinking about your face. How you looked when I bowed to Al-Hashimi. Like I'd broken something."

"Jack—"

"I'm sorry." He steps closer, and she can see how wrecked he is, the bruises deeper than just physical. "I'm sorry I keep hurting you. I'm sorry I can't give you what you need. I'm sorry I'm not—"

"Stop." She grabs his arm, pulls him toward her. "Stop apologizing."

"But I—"

"I don't want your apologies." She's pressed against him now, his armor cold against her dress, her hands fisted in the straps of his breastplate. "I want you. I want you to stop thinking about what you can't give me and start thinking about what you can."

"What I can give you isn't enough."

"That's not your decision to make. My whole life, everyone has decided things for me. What I'm worth. What I deserve. Who I belong to. I am so tired of other people deciding. You don't get to tell me what's enough. I do."

He stares at her, something wild in his eyes.

"Samira," he says roughly. "I'm barely holding on here. If you keep looking at me like that, I'm going to—"

"Going to what?"

He doesn't answer. Just looks at her with that desperate, hungry expression, chest heaving.

"Tell me," she says. "What are you going to do?"

"Whatever you want." The words come out ragged. "Whatever you tell me to. I'm so tired of fighting it. I'm so tired of pretending I have any control when it comes to you. Just— Tell me what you want and I'll do it."

She should be gentle with him. He's exhausted, emotionally raw, clearly at the end of his rope.

But she doesn't feel gentle. She feels fierce and desperate and so full of want she can barely breathe.

"Take off your armor," she says.

His hands move immediately, fumbling with straps and buckles. She helps where she can, and together they strip him down to his sweat-soaked shirt and trousers. His hands are shaking by the time they're done.

Even exhausted, even battered, he looks beautiful. Maybe more now than ever, raw like this, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

"Now what?" he asks.

"Now—" She grabs his shirt, yanks him toward her, and kisses him.

It's teeth and tongue and all the frustration at the world that's been building these last few weeks pouring out all at once. He groans into her mouth and grabs her hips and lifts her, and she wraps her legs around him as he carries her backward until her back hits the wooden wall of an empty stall.

"I need you," she gasps against his mouth. "Right now. Right here."

"Anyone could walk in—"

"I don't care."

"Samira—"

"I said I don't care." She pulls back, looks him in the eyes. "I'm tired of caring. I'm tired of being careful. I just want you. Please."

He makes a sound low in his throat and kisses her again, harder this time, more desperate. His hands are everywhere, on her waist, her hips, bunching in her skirts.

"Tell me what you need," he says against her mouth. "Anything. I'll give you anything."

"I need you inside me." She's already pulling at his trousers. "Now, Jack. I can't wait."

He groans, fumbles with her skirts, hikes them up around her waist. She's not wearing anything underneath — she came here planning this, wanting this — and when his fingers brush against her, he makes a choked sound.

"You're so wet."

"I've been thinking about you all day." She rolls her hips against his hand. "Thinking about this. Please, I need—"

He lifts her higher, pins her against the wall with his body, and pushes into her in one long stroke.

She cries out, not caring who hears. He's big, and the angle is overwhelming, and she's so ready for him it's almost embarrassing.

"Oh," he groans against her neck. "You feel— I can't—"

"Move." She digs her nails into his shoulders. "Jack, please, I need you to move."

"F—Fuck. Wait, I need—" He pants into her shoulder, laughing breathlessly. "I need a moment."

Finally, when he’s collected himself, he moves, and it’s desperate and frantic and a little bit rough, both of them chasing something they can't name. The wall creaks behind her. The horses shift in their stalls. She doesn't care about any of it.

"Harder," she gasps. "Please, I need—"

He adjusts his angle, hoists her higher, and drives into her so hard she sees stars.

"Like that?"

"Yes, Jack, yes— Don't stop—"

His hand finds the place where they're joined, circles her clit with a calloused thumb, and she's climbing, climbing, so close—

"I love you," he gasps.

She freezes.

He freezes.

The words hang between them, heavier than the air.

"What?" she whispers.

"I love you." He says it again, like he can't stop now that he's started. "I love you, Samira. I've loved you since the rainy day in the cottage. Maybe before. The bluebell field, the very first time. I love you, and I'm terrified, and I don't know what to do about any of it, but I couldn’t— I couldn't keep it in anymore."

She stares at him. His face is open, vulnerable, terrified of what she'll say.

"You love me," she repeats.

"Yes."

"You love me."

"Yes. I'm sorry. I know this isn't the moment you deserve, I know we're in a stable and anyone could walk in and I’m, uh— But I—"

She kisses him.

It's messy and desperate and she's gasping against him, and she doesn't care.

"I love you too," she says against his mouth. "I love you too."

He makes a plaintive sound and then he's moving again, driving into her with renewed purpose.

"Say it again," he begs. "Please, say it again."

"I love you."

"Again."

"I love you, Jack. I love you, I love you, I—"

She's close, so close, and he's pounding into her with abandon, and she can feel him losing rhythm, losing control—

"I need to pull out," he gasps. "Samira, I'm going to— I have to—"

"No." She locks her legs around him, pulls him deeper. "Don't. Stay."

"But if I— If you—"

"I don't care." She cups his face, makes him look at her. "If it happens, it happens. At least then they'd have to let us marry."

"You— Samira, we—"

"I want you." She rolls her hips, takes him impossibly deeper. "I want everything with you. Whatever happens. Give me everything, Jack."

He makes a broken sound and buries himself to the hilt.

"Come for me," she breathes. "Inside me. I want to feel it."

He shatters.

She feels him pulse inside her, hot and deep, and the sensation pushes her over the edge too, both of them coming together, crying out, clinging to each other like the world is ending.

He collapses against her, pinning her to the wall, both of them gasping for air.

"I love you," he says again, muffled against her neck.

"I know." She strokes his hair, feels his heart pounding against her chest. "I love you too."

They stay like that for a long moment, with her up against the wood of the stall, him still inside her, both of them shaking with the aftermath.

Finally, he pulls back. Looks at her with red-rimmed eyes.

"I meant it," he says quietly. "Every word."

"So did I."

He turns his head, presses a kiss to her palm.

She wants to ask him about the tournament. Wants to demand an answer, a commitment, a promise that he'll fight for her.

But she's tired. And he looks so fragile right now, so close to breaking. She doesn't want to push him over the edge.

So instead she says: "We should go. Before someone finds us."

He nods. Helps her straighten her skirts, tucks himself back into his trousers. They're both disheveled beyond repair; anyone who saw them would know exactly what they'd been doing.

At the stable door, he catches her hand.

"Samira."

"Yes?"

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Whatever he was going to say, he swallows it back down.

"Nothing," he says finally. "Just— I love you."

"I love you too."

She slips out into the darkness, and she doesn't look back, and she tells herself the hope blooming in her chest isn't foolish.

He said he loved her. He meant it.

Surely that means something. Surely that means he'll fight.

 

---

 

Some nights, when sleep won't come, she lets herself imagine it.

She would pack light. A single bag, the sturdy one she uses for herb-gathering outside the castle walls. A few dresses, plain ones, nothing gaudy. The healing supplies Evans has been teaching her to use. Coin enough to get them started, stolen from her own coffers. (Is it stealing, if it's technically hers? She decides she doesn't care.)

She would go to him at midnight. Knock on his door the way she did that first night, weeks ago, when everything was terrifying and new. But this time, instead of crying in his arms, she would say: Come with me. Right now. We leave tonight.

They would ride until dawn. Take the forest paths, the ones she learned as a child when she was still free to explore. No one would think to look for the princess in the woods. No one would expect her to know the way.

By morning, they'd be across the border. By nightfall, somewhere no one knew their names.

She imagines a cottage. Small, like the one in Evans' village, but theirs. A garden where she could grow herbs. A stable for their horses. A bedroom with a window that overlooks— What? Mountains, maybe. Or the sea. Somewhere beautiful. Somewhere far from here.

It's a beautiful dream. When she turns it over in her mind, it aches like a bruise pressed.

But she knows, even as she imagines it, that she could never ask him to run. He might do it; that's the terrible thing. If she asked, he might abandon everything. His position, his honor, the sisters only villages away, the memories of Diane, the only life he's ever known. He might follow her to the ends of the earth, because that's who he is.

And she imagines the other side too: spending the rest of her life watching him mourn what he'd given up. Watching the guilt eat at him. Watching him wonder, in quiet moments, if he'd made the right choice.

She won't do that to him. She won't make him choose between his honor and his heart.

So she lies in her bed, and she dreams of cottages and herb gardens and a life that will never be hers, and when morning comes, she locks it all away.

Some fantasies are too fragile. They shatter the moment they touch the air.

 

---

 

The days blur together.

One week becomes five days. The castle fills with visiting nobility, tournament preparations, the endless bustle of a kingdom preparing to marry off its princess.

Samira moves through it like a ghost.

She attends fittings for gowns she doesn't want to wear. She smiles at lords she doesn't want to meet. She sits through dinners where Driscoll watches her across the table with proprietary satisfaction, already counting her among his possessions.

And Jack—

Jack is pulling away.

She feels it like a tide going out. The dawn rides stop; he sends word that he's busy with training, with duties, with things that can't be named. When she sees him in the corridors, he looks through her, past her, anywhere but at her face.

She tells herself he's preparing. That he's focused on the tournament, on winning, on the fight ahead.

But he still hasn't told her he's entering.

She checks the list of competitors obsessively. Every morning, she finds an excuse to pass by the tournament office, to glance at the registry, to scan the names for his.

It's never there.

"You're distracted," her mother observes during one of their endless planning sessions. "Is something troubling you?"

"Just nervous," Samira half-lies. "About the tournament." The words are true enough. The reason is her deepest, darkest secret.

"There's nothing to be nervous about. Driscoll will win. It's all but assured."

All but, Samira thinks. All but.

She clings to those words like a lifeline.

Three days before the tournament, she corners him.

He's in the training yard, running through forms with a practice sword. Alone, at an hour when the other knights are eating supper. She watches from the shadows for a moment, awed by the fluid grace of his movements, the grim set of his jaw, the way he fights like he's trying to exorcise something.

"You're avoiding me," she says.

He doesn't startle. Just finishes his form and lowers his sword.

"I'm not avoiding you."

"You haven't spoken to me in days."

"I've been busy."

"Busy." She steps into the yard, arms crossed. "Too busy to send word? Too busy to meet me at dawn? Too busy to even look at me when we pass in the corridors?"

He doesn't answer. Just stands there, sword hanging at his side, not meeting her eyes.

"Jack." She moves closer. "What's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not—"

"You are." She's in front of him now, close enough to touch. "You told me you loved me. You held me in that stable and said it like it meant something. And now you can barely look at me. So either you lied then, or you're lying now. Which is it?"

His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps in his cheek.

"I didn't lie," he says quietly.

"Then why are you acting like you want nothing to do with me?"

"Because I'm trying to—" He stops. Shakes his head. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"Samira—"

"The tournament is in three days." She grabs his arm, forces him to look at her. "Three days, Jack. And I've checked the registry every single morning, and your name isn't on it. So I need you to tell me: are you going to fight for me or not?"

The silence stretches between them.

She watches his face, the struggle there, the fear, the desperate wanting that he's trying so hard to suppress. He looks like a man at war with himself. Like every word costs him something.

"I can't," he finally says.

The words land like a blow.

"You can't," she repeats flatly.

"I'm sorry. I know that's not what you want to hear, but I— I've thought about it constantly. I've run through every scenario. And I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because if I enter that tournament, I ruin you." His voice cracks. "Don't you understand? I'm a knight with nothing. No lands, no title, no fortune. If I win — if I somehow win — your mother will spend the rest of her life making you pay for it. The kingdom will whisper about the princess who threw herself away for a nobody. You'll be a cautionary tale, Samira. A joke. Is that what you want?"

"I want you."

"You want a fantasy." He pulls away from her grip. "You want the version of this where love conquers all and nothing else matters. But that's not how the world works. Not for people like us."

"People like us?"

"Princesses and broken knights." His laugh is bitter. "We don't get happy endings. We get stolen moments and secret meetings and the slow realization that it was never going to work. I'm trying to spare you that."

"By pushing me away?"

"By letting you go." He finally meets her eyes, and she sees it there: the devastation, the resignation, the terrible certainty that he's doing the right thing. "You deserve better than me, Samira. You deserve someone who can give you the life you were born for. Not a man who has to sneak into your chambers like a thief just to hold your hand."

She stares at him.

"So that's it," she says slowly. "You've decided. For both of us."

"I'm trying to protect you."

"I didn't ask for your protection."

"I know. But I'm giving it anyway." He steps back, putting distance between them. "In three days, Driscoll will win that tournament. You'll marry him. You'll be a proper princess with a proper husband, and eventually— Eventually you'll forget about me."

"I won't."

"You will." His voice is gentle now. Resigned. "You'll have to. And it's better this way. Cleaner. A sharp cut instead of a slow bleed."

She's crying. She doesn't remember starting, but her eyes sting, and her cheeks are wet, and she can't seem to stop.

"You're a coward," she whispers.

He flinches.

"Maybe," he says. "But at least you'll be safe."

He turns and walks away, and she lets him go, and something inside her cracks clean in half.

 

---

 

She doesn't sleep that night.

She lies in bed and stares at the ceiling and replays every word, every look, every moment of their conversation in the training yard. She dissects it, searching for some crack in his certainty, some hint that he might change his mind.

She finds nothing.

In the morning, she goes to his quarters.

She shouldn't. She knows she shouldn't. He made his position clear, and she should respect that, should accept it, should start preparing herself for the life that's coming.

But she can't. Not yet. Not without trying one more time.

His door is unlocked. She pushes it open without knocking.

The room is sparse like she remembers — a narrow bed, a wooden chest, a small table by the window. No decorations, no personal touches, nothing to indicate that a human being lives here except—

A book on the table. Old, leather-bound, the spine cracked with age.

She crosses to it without thinking. Opens it.

And there, pressed between the cover and first page, is a bluebell.

She's still staring at it when the door opens behind her.

"Samira." Jack's voice is rough with exhaustion. "What are you—"

He goes very still.

"You weren't supposed to see that," he says.

She turns to face him. "When— When is this from?"

He’s silent for a long moment, looking down at his feet when he answers: "The very first day."

Her eyes widen. "The first— You kept this, Jack. You pressed it in a book and carried it with you. Why?"

He doesn't answer. Just stands in the doorway, looking at her with an expression that breaks her heart.

"Why?" she repeats.

"Because I wanted something to remember you by." The words come out softly. "I knew I would want to remember that day. And I was right. So now, when this is over, when you're married to Driscoll and I’m— Somewhere else, anywhere else, I’ll to be able to look at it and remember that for a little while, I had something beautiful."

"You still could. If you'd just—"

"I can't."

"You won't." She drops the book back down onto the table, and he flinches at the sound. "There's a difference. You keep talking about what you can't do, what's impossible, what's not allowed. But the truth is you won't. You're choosing this, Jack. You're choosing to let me go."

"I'm choosing to protect you."

"You're choosing to give up! You're choosing to be a coward because it's easier than fighting. Because if you fight, you might lose, and that terrifies you more than losing me does."

"That's not—"

"Isn't it?" She steps toward him, fury propelling her forward. "You've already decided you're not good enough. You decided it before we even started. And instead of letting me prove you wrong, you're running away."

"I'm not running—"

"You're not entering that tournament!" She's close enough to touch him now, and she wants to, wants to beat her fists against his chest until he understands. "The man I love is going to stand there and watch while someone else claims me, and he's going to call it protection. He's going to tell himself it was the noble thing to do. And I'm going to spend the rest of my life married to a man I despise, wondering what would have happened if you'd just been brave enough to try."

He's crying. She's crying. They're both standing there with tears tracking down their faces, and neither of them moves.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"Don't." She steps back, wraps her arms around herself. "Don't apologize. I don't want your apologies."

"Then what do you want?"

"I want you to fight for me!" Her voice cracks. "I want you to stop being so goddamn noble and just— Fight. Be selfish. Be reckless. Be anything except this— This martyr who's decided that my happiness matters less than your fear."

"Your happiness is all I care about."

"Then why are you destroying it?"

He doesn't have an answer.

She looks at him, this man she loves, this man who's breaking her heart, and something inside her goes cold.

"You told me you loved me," she says quietly. "In the stables. You said it like it was the truest thing you'd ever spoken."

"It was."

"Then I need you to understand something." She meets his eyes. "If you don't enter that tournament — if you let Driscoll win without a fight — I will marry him. I'll do my duty. I'll be the princess everyone expects me to be. But I will never forgive you. Do you understand? I will spend the rest of my life loving you, and hating you, and mourning what we could have had."

He flinches like she's struck him.

"Samira—"

"Goodbye, Jack."

She walks past him, out the door, down the corridor.

She doesn't look back.

 

---

 

The morning of the betrothal tournament is grey and cold.

Samira dresses mechanically. The gown her mother chose, deep red silk, embroidered with gold, the colors of their house. The jewels befitting a princess about to be claimed. The hair pinned up in an elaborate style that took her handmaiden an hour to complete.

She looks beautiful. She looks like a bride.

She feels like a corpse.

This is what being a princess means, she thinks. This is what being the spare was always leading to. Years of being ignored, and now, finally, she's useful. Finally, she has value.

She's never felt more worthless in her life.

"You look perfect," her mother says when Samira arrives at the royal box. "Driscoll won't be able to take his eyes off you."

"How fortunate for him."

The queen's gaze sharpens. "Watch your tone."

"Apologies, Your Majesty." Samira takes her seat, folds her hands in her lap. "I'm simply... nervous."

"There's nothing to be nervous about. This will all be over soon."

Yes, Samira thinks. It will.

She stares out at the tournament grounds, the lists freshly raked, the stands filling with spectators, the banners snapping in the wind. Somewhere out there, Driscoll is preparing. Polishing his armor, checking his lance, counting down the minutes until she belongs to him.

And Jack—

She doesn't know where Jack is. Doesn't want to know. He made his choice. Now she has to live with it.

The herald steps forward, trumpet raised.

"My lords and ladies! Her Majesty's court welcomes you to this most auspicious occasion: the tournament for the hand of Her Royal Highness, Princess Samira!"

The crowd cheers. Samira doesn't move.

"The competitors shall now be announced!"

One by one, the knights parade onto the field. Lord Driscoll, resplendent in black and silver, waves to the crowd with practiced ease. Lord Hancock, young and eager. Sir Thomas, greying but still formidable. A dozen others, all of them strangers, all of them vying for a prize they don't understand.

None of them are Jack.

Of course none of them are Jack.

Samira keeps her face still, her spine straight. She will not cry. Not here, not now, not in front of everyone.

"Is that all of them?" the queen murmurs, scanning the field.

"It appears so, Your Majesty."

"Good. Then let us begin."

The first matches are a blur. Samira watches without seeing, applauds without feeling. Driscoll wins his bout easily, then his second, then his third. He's good, she’ll give him that. Confident and skilled and utterly certain of his victory.

By midday, the field has narrowed. Driscoll, Thomas, and two others remain. The crowd buzzes with excitement. The queen looks satisfied.

And then—

A commotion at the entrance to the lists.

Samira's head snaps up.

A knight in unmarked armor rides onto the field, his horse lathered and heaving like he's ridden hard to get here. No house colors. A plain shield. Just plain steel, battered and worn, catching the weak sunlight. Spare armor from the stables, she notes. Carefully anonymous.

"What is this?" the queen demands.

The herald scrambles forward. "My lord, the entry period has—"

"Any knight may enter." The voice is muffled by the helmet, but something about it makes Samira's heart stutter. "That was the proclamation. I am a knight. I wish to compete."

Murmurs ripple through the crowd. The queen's expression darkens.

"The tournament is nearly concluded," she says coldly. "You would have to fight your way through the remaining competitors to reach the finals."

"Then I'll fight my way through."

"You're either very brave or very foolish."

"Perhaps both, Your Majesty."

A pause. The queen studies the mystery knight, her eyes narrowed.

"Very well," she says finally. "But you enter at the bottom of the bracket. You'll have to defeat all remaining competitors to face Lord Driscoll."

"I understand."

"Then take your position."

The knight bows — a shallow thing, barely respectful — and wheels his horse toward the lists.

Samira can't breathe.

She knows that bow. She knows that voice, the set of those shoulders, the way he sits his horse, the particular angle of his head. She's watched him at a dozen tournaments, memorized every detail without meaning to. Even without his simple crest — he must have left his shield behind with his armor, not wanting to draw attention as the reigning champion — she recognizes him.

It can't be.

He said he wouldn't. He let her walk away. He—

"Your Highness?" Her lady-in-waiting touches her arm. "Are you alright? You've gone very… Grey."

"I'm fine." The words come out strangled. "Just— the excitement."

She's not fine. She's shaking, her hands clenched so tight in her lap that her nails sting crescents into her palms. She doesn't dare hope. She's been hoping for weeks, and hope has only brought her pain.

But she can't look away.

The mystery knight fights like a man possessed.

His first opponent is Sir Thomas: experienced, steady, no easy target. The mystery knight unhorses him in two passes.

The crowd gasps. Samira's heart pounds.

His second opponent is Lord Hancock: young, quick, hungry for glory. The mystery knight ends him in one.

"Who does this knight think he is?" the queen demands.

No one answers. But Samira knows. She knows.

The third match is harder. His opponent is Sir Montrose, a knight nearly as skilled as Driscoll himself. The first pass is a draw. The second sees both knights rocking in their saddles. The third—

Sir Montrose falls.

The crowd erupts. The mystery knight steadies his horse, turns toward the royal box. Even through the helmet, even across the distance, Samira feels his gaze on her.

I came, it seems to say. I'm here.

"Impressive," the queen murmurs, though her tone suggests she finds it anything but. "It seems we'll have a proper final match after all."

The herald steps forward. "The final match! Lord Driscoll versus... the unknown challenger!"

Driscoll rides onto the field, all confidence and swagger. He's barely winded from his earlier bouts; his opponents fell quickly, too cowed by his reputation to put up much fight.

The mystery knight takes his position at the other end of the lists. His horse is tired, his armor dented from the previous matches. He looks battered, exhausted, outmatched.

But he doesn't waver.

"First pass!" the herald cries.

They charge.

The crack of lance on shield echoes across the field. Both knights hold, but Samira sees the mystery knight rock backward, sees him struggle to keep his seat. Driscoll's blow was solid. Punishing.

"He's tired," the queen observes. "Driscoll will finish this quickly."

Samira says nothing.

"Second pass!"

They charge again. This time Driscoll's lance catches the mystery knight's shoulder, sending him lurching sideways. For one terrible moment, Samira thinks he's going to fall—

But he doesn't. He clings to his horse, rights himself, wheels around for the third pass.

"He should yield," someone behind her murmurs. "He's going to get himself killed."

No, Samira thinks fiercely. He's going to win. He has to win.

"Third pass!"

The horses thunder toward each other. Driscoll is confident behind his visor; she can tell by the set of his shoulders, the casual ease of a man who knows he's already won.

But the mystery knight shifts at the last moment. A feint, a correction, the kind of adjustment that only comes from years of experience, from fighting when the odds are hopeless, from refusing to give up even when everything says you should.

His lance catches Driscoll square in the chest.

Driscoll falls.

The crowd explodes. People are on their feet, screaming, cheering for the unknown champion who came from nowhere and defeated the undefeatable.

The queen is silent. Her body has gone stiff.

Samira can't hear anything over the roar of blood in her ears.

The mystery knight dismounts. He's limping — she can see it now, the way he favors his good leg — but he walks steadily across the field toward the royal box.

He stops at the base. Looks up at her. Reaches for his helmet.

The crowd goes quiet.

He lifts it off.

Red-grey curls, sweat-damp and wild. Hazel eyes finding hers immediately, desperate and terrified and full of so much love it steals her breath. He looks exhausted, barely standing. He’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.

Jack.

"I believe," he says, and his voice cracks on the words, "the victor may claim his prize."

 

---

 

The world narrows to a single point: him.

She's distantly aware of her mother speaking — objecting, probably, demanding explanations — but the words don't penetrate. There's only Jack, standing in the dirt with his helmet in his hands, looking up at her like she's the only thing that matters.

She's moving before she realizes it. Down the steps of the royal box, through the crowd that parts before her, across the churned earth of the tournament field.

She stops in front of him.

He looks terrible. Tired, his face pale beneath the sweat and grime, and he’s trembling, whether from exertion or emotion she doesn't know.

"You came," she whispers.

"I came." His voice is hoarse. "I tried to stay away. I told myself it was the right thing. And then I watched you walk to the royal box this morning, and I—" He swallows. "I couldn't let you go. I couldn't watch someone else claim you. Even if it ruins everything. Even if your mother— Even if the whole kingdom—"

"Jack."

"I love you." He drops to his knees, right there in the dirt, in front of everyone. "I have nothing to offer you. No lands, no title, no fortune. But I have my sword, and my life, and my heart. They've been yours since the first moment. They'll be yours until the last. If you'll still have me. After everything. After I—"

And that's it, isn't it? That's what makes him different. He's not offering her a political alliance or a strategic marriage. He's offering himself. To her. Not to the princess, not to the spare, not to the chess piece. To Samira.

She reaches down. Takes his face in her hands.

"Get up," she says.

He rises.

"You came," she says again, because she still can't quite believe it.

"I came. I'm sorry it took me so long."

"You're here now." She pulls him closer, her hands fisting in the straps of his armor. "That's what matters. Being here now."

"I was so afraid." His forehead presses against hers. "I'm still afraid. But I couldn’t— I couldn't spend the rest of my life wondering what would have happened if I'd been brave enough to fight for you."

"And now?"

"Now I'll spend the rest of my life making sure you never doubt how much I love you."

She laughs, a wet, broken sound, and pulls him closer.

"You are an idiot," she whispers. "An absolute—"

He kisses her.

In front of everyone. In front of her mother, the court, the entire kingdom. He kisses her like she's the only person in the world, like nothing else exists except the two of them and this moment.

The crowd roars. She barely hears it.

When they break apart, he's smiling, that real, full smile she's only seen a handful of times. The one that makes her feel like she could conquer the world.

"Is that a yes?" he asks.

"That was a yes." She's crying now, tears streaming down her face, and she doesn't care. "Yes, you fool. Yes."

He laughs, bright and joyful, and kisses her again.

Behind them, her mother's voice cuts through the noise.

"Enough."

The single word carries across the field, silencing the crowd. Samira pulls back from Jack, turns to face the queen.

Her mother has descended from the royal box. She stands a few feet away, her expression unreadable, her spine rigid.

"You have made a spectacle of this family," the queen says coldly. "Both of you."

"Mother—"

"I am not finished." Her gaze shifts to Jack, who tenses but doesn't step back. "You. Knight with no name and no fortune. You think you're worthy of my daughter?"

"No, Your Majesty." His voice is steady. "I know I'm not. But I love her. And I will spend every day of my life trying to become worthy of her."

"Pretty words. Words are easy."

"Then let me prove it with actions. Give me a chance. That's all I ask."

The queen stares at him for a long moment. Samira holds her breath.

"My husband did this once," the queen says finally. "Did she tell you? He rode into a tournament uninvited and unseated every knight who stood against him. My parents were furious. The scandal nearly destroyed our house."

"I didn't know," Jack says quietly.

"No. You wouldn't." The queen's expression shifts, something flickering beneath the ice. "I was so angry with him. For upending my life. For making everything complicated. For forcing me to choose."

"What did you choose?"

"Him." The word is soft. Almost gentle. "I chose him. And I spent twenty years loving him, and losing him nearly destroyed me." She looks at Samira, and for just a moment, her eyes are bright with unshed tears. "I didn't want that for you. The love that ruins you."

"Mother—"

"But I see now that it's too late for that." The queen draws herself up, the vulnerability disappearing behind the mask of royalty. "The rules of the tournament are clear. The victor claims the prize. I cannot change that, even if I wished to."

Samira's heart stops. "You mean—"

"I mean that Sir Jack Abbot has won your hand, and I will honor that victory." Her voice hardens. "But know this, both of you. The road ahead will not be easy. There will be those who oppose this match, who see it as weakness, who will try to use it against the crown. You will have to fight for every inch of ground."

"We will," Samira says fiercely. "Together."

The queen studies her for a long moment. Then, impossibly, the corner of her mouth twitches.

"You sound like your father," she says. "He was stubborn too."

"I learned from the best."

Another pause. Then the queen turns to Jack.

"Hurt her," she says quietly, "and I will destroy you. That is not a threat. It is a promise."

"Understood, Your Majesty." Jack bows. Properly this time, deep and respectful. "I would expect nothing less."

"Good." The queen turns back to the crowd, raises her voice. "The tournament is concluded! Sir Jack Abbot is the victor, and shall wed the Princess Samira with all the rights and honors that entails!"

The crowd cheers. Samira barely hears it.

She turns to Jack, and he's looking at her like there is no crowd around them. Like it’s only her.

"We did it," she whispers.

"We did it." He takes her hand, raises it to his lips.

She steps closer, leans her forehead against his. "You showed up. You fought. You're here."

"I'm here," he agrees. "And I'm never leaving."

She kisses him again, right there in front of everyone, and she doesn't care about propriety or politics or any of it.

He came for her.

He's hers. That's all that matters.

 

---

 

The wedding was small, by royal standards.

Samira's mother argued for something grand — a statement, a show of strength — but Samira had refused. She wanted family, friends, the people who mattered. Nothing more.

Jack hadn't argued. He rarely did, when it came to what she wanted.

"You're going to spoil me," she'd told him once, after he'd agreed to yet another of her demands.

"That's the plan," he'd replied, and kissed her until she forgot what she was complaining about.

Now it's spring again, and the bluebells are blooming, and Samira is sitting in a field of flowers with her husband's head in her lap.

Husband. The word still feels strange on her tongue. Strange and wonderful and utterly right.

"I have something for you," Jack says.

"Oh?" She runs her fingers through his hair, watches his eyes flutter closed with pleasure. "What is it?"

"Open the bag."

She reaches for the satchel he brought, pulls out—

A frame. Simple wood, polished to a shine. And inside, pressed under glass, two bluebells.

"From that first morning," she breathes.

"And one from the last tournament. You threw it onto the field after the final match. I picked it up before anyone could trample it."

She remembers. She'd pulled the flower from her hair — one of several her handmaiden had woven in — and tossed it to him like a favor, grinning at the way he softened at the sight of it.

"You kept them both," she whispers.

"I keep everything you give me."

Her eyes are burning. She blinks rapidly, but the tears spill over anyway.

"It's perfect," she says against his mouth. "You're perfect."

"I'm really not."

"You are to me."

She kisses him, long and slow, and feels him melt into her the way he always does. Like she's the center of his universe. Like he'd do anything she asked.

(He would. He's proven it a hundred times over. Every morning when he brings her tea. Every night when he holds her until she falls asleep. Every moment of every day, in a thousand small ways.)

"I love you," she says.

"I know." He pulls back, smiles at her. "I love you too."

"Good." She pushes him down onto his back, straddles his hips. "Now show me."

And he does.

They stay there until the stars come out, wrapped in each other, surrounded by bluebells, because some stories end where they began.

Notes:

and samira’s older sibling’s name? frank langdon

if you leave a comment i will show up and gently kiss you on the forehead

on twt @samirasclawclip going insane

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of nobility