Your kingdom lost the war. The price of peace was you. Tonight is the wedding night, and he just barred the door.
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Your kingdom lost the war, and the price of peace was you. Now the northern king who burned your border forts has barred the door of the bridal chamber, half his court is listening at the keyhole, and the first thing he does is hand you a knife. He has no intention of touching you until you ask. He also knows exactly what your brother hid in your sleeve. You decide whether to take his blade or hold it to his throat, where to draw the line down the middle of one very large bed, and what to do with the little glass vial before the dawn feast. An enemies-to-lovers, arranged-marriage, forced-proximity fantasy love story for headphones and dark nights. Three endings.
There. Now they can only listen. I know what they told you about me. Most of it's true. But I won't touch you. Not until you ask. So... here. My knife. Hilt first. I'd rather you had it than wondered.
Твой ход: «He's holding the knife out, hilt first.»
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