A story about a prince and his pretty consort presumptive.
Crown Prince Raffe, as the only son of High King Alizade and sole heir to the High Throne of the Ruemri Empire, is bound to fulfill one important duty for the crown. Even if that duty involv...
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RAFFE HAD only a split second to stop the hands that was holding a knife just inches away from his heart.
This was not how he imagined we would finish his wedding night.
The only thing that woke Raffe to the unforeseen danger was his honed instinct from years of experience in battle. He had encountered countless of assassins trying to kill the life out of him since he was old enough to remember. It was never even new to him anymore.
But never, even in his wildest dreams, had he imagined there would come a day that it would be his consort.
Soren was still beautifully warm, soft, and naked from their lovemaking earlier, so Raffe wanted to demand what the fuck was happening right now.
Why was he on top of him, holding a knife, and his eyes full of killing intent?
Fear and dread settled in the pit of his stomach and he watched in stupefied silence as his consort's face contorted in rage. His expression was cold, and his eyes remained blank and unresponsive.
The killing intent that he felt from Soren was still there.
He hadn't imagined it.
It was fucking real and it was really there.
His consort, the love of his life, was holding a fucking knife and was undeniably trying to kill him.
"Sore—" was all he could say before Soren tried to pry Raffe's hands and tried to drive the knife into his gut. The move was predictable Raffe can easily stop it in his sleep, but the thought that it was Soren was making it glaringly hard for him to do anything except stop the hands that were holding the weapon.
They wrestled on the bed, on the floor, near the table, while Raffe tried to make some sense of everything. Soren was not responding to him at all, his eyes still glowed that unsettling iridescent blue, and he was still intent on driving the knife into Raffe's flesh.
