Yvonne's POV
The next morning
I was woken up before the sun, dragged from my bed, and promptly attacked with scented oils, floral baths, and enough scrubbing to make me wonder if they were trying to erase my existence entirely.
Today was the day.
The day I was supposed to go to the king's chamber. The day I was supposed to consummate the union.
I don't want to sleep with him.
But I couldn't say that.
So I sat there, wrapped in the softest silk robe, if you could even call it that, while an old woman droned on about Noches de Unión y Noches de Reposo.
Union nights and rest nights. Basically, a royal schedule dictating when I was expected to do my wifely duties. How thrilling.
And, of course, there was a rule.
The king didn't see anyone after six in the evening. Ever.
Which meant that if this had to happen, it would always be in the morning.
Because nothing says romance like getting dragged out of bed before sunrise to perform your marital obligations on schedule.
I sat stiffly, nodding at the right moments, while my brain screamed. They talked about chamber preparations, sacred oils, and purifying sheets, because, clearly, divine intervention was needed.
Oh, and let's not forget the candles. So many candles. Because obviously, nothing sets the mood like risking a fire hazard before breakfast.
Did I care?
No.
Because none of this felt real.
Even as the maids scrubbed me raw in a bath that smelled like crushed petals and crushed dreams. Even as they wrapped me in silk that did absolutely nothing to protect what little dignity I had left. Even as they brushed out my hair, letting it fall in waves, as if that would make this any better.
I was trapped.
And all I could do was sit there, gripping the sheets, pretending I wasn't about to be handed over like a well-groomed prize.
Klara hovered nearby, hands tightly clasped. She wanted to say something, I could feel it. But she stayed silent.
Outside, the sky was barely waking up, the palace bathed in the soft light of dawn.
Everyone was waiting.
For me to walk down that hall. To step into his chamber. To let him…
I shuddered.
A knock at the door sent my stomach plummeting.
Teresa entered, her expression unreadable. "It's time."
Time.
Like this was some kind of execution.
Maybe, in a way, it was.
I stood, feeling like a puppet as the maids rushed forward, adjusting my robe, smoothing my hair, making sure I was perfect. Because, apparently, perfection was a requirement for royal deflowering.
"Your Majesty," Teresa prompted.
The hallway stretched before me, endless, lit by the golden light of morning.
I forced myself forward.
One step.
Then another.
Each step felt heavier, like I was sinking into the floor.
And then… I reached the doors.
The guards barely glanced at me before pushing them open.
The room beyond was bathed in warm morning light, the scent of sandalwood thick in the air.
And there he was.
The king.
Standing near the massive bed, waiting.
Waiting for me.
I swallowed hard.
The doors shut behind me.
And just like that… I was alone with him.
Trapped.
The silence stretched between us. I pressed my back against the wall, my gaze fixed upon him. He looked like an angel of death in that flowing black robe, its fabric pooling at his feet like shadowy mist. His dark hair, long and thick, cascaded over his broad shoulders.
But he did not even spare me a glance—the bastard. His eyes remained trained upon a scroll, his expression impassive.
I said nothing. I did not feel like speaking. Instead, I simply watched—watched the way the scar beneath his eye crinkled ever so slightly as he squinted at the parchment. Watched how the morning sun bathed him in its golden glow, making him seem almost ethereal.
No, not an angel of death. A demon. A handsome one, yes, with his towering form and chiseled features—even the scar did little to mar his beauty. But his aura spoke only of darkness and death. And that image of him, standing there so unaffected, only made the truth more evident.
"You are not here to gawk at me. Disrobe and get upon the bed," his cold command shattered my thoughts.
My head snapped up, and for a brief moment, I considered throwing something at him. He still did not look at me.
This bas—
"I shall not repeat myself."
My hands curled into fists at my sides.
Gods, how I longed to strangle him. My teeth sank into my lower lip, hard enough that I nearly tasted blood.
But I obeyed.
Reaching for the outer robe—the deep blue one meant to shield my modesty—I let it slip from my shoulders, allowing it to pool in a silken heap at my feet. Only the sheer, gossamer-thin under-robe remained, the fabric doing little to conceal what lay beneath.
Of course, they would not have their queen paraded through the halls exposed. That was reserved for the king's eyes alone.
Had this been someone I liked, or had I been back on Earth, perhaps I would have made a show of it. A slow, teasing undress, meant to entice.
But this was him.
And I knew how he would react. Or rather, how he would not.
As I stepped closer, he finally set the scroll aside, his gaze settling upon me.
And what did I see?
Nothing.
No flicker of desire. No sign of approval or interest. His face was a mask of indifference.
"I do believe I told you to strip, did I not?" His voice remained void of warmth, his tone that of a man issuing a mundane order rather than one preparing to bed his wife.
I stopped mere inches away, meeting his gaze with quiet defiance.
And then, slowly, I reached for the ties of my robe. My heart thundered against my ribs, though I prayed he could not see it.
With a deep breath, I let the delicate fabric slide from my shoulders.
It slipped down my arms, pooling at my feet like a whisper of silk.
And still, he said nothing.
Nothing.
His dark gaze remained unreadable, his expression unchanging, as though I were no more interesting than the furniture in the room.
I clenched my jaw.
Fine. If he wished to act as though this was nothing more than a chore, then so be it.
I lifted my chin, standing there, bare before him, willing my skin not to betray the chills racing down my spine.
His gaze flickered down, slow and deliberate.
Then, finally, he moved.
Not towards me.
But past me.
To the table.
Where he poured himself a glass of wine.
And drank.
I blinked.
Was he serious?
Here I was, stripped, vulnerable, and he was over there sipping wine like we were about to discuss tax reforms?
I was going to murder him.
Or at least kick him in the shin.
He set the cup down with an infuriating amount of patience, then finally turned back to me.
"Get on the bed."
That was it. No reaction. No flicker of desire. Just that cold, detached command.
My fingers curled into fists.
I wanted to throw something at him. Maybe the wine cup. Maybe the entire table.
But instead, I exhaled slowly, forcing my feet to move.
The bed was absurdly large, draped in dark silks, looking less like a place of passion and more like the lair of a villain in one of those tragic plays.
I climbed onto it, sitting stiffly in the center.
Waiting.
He approached at his own pace, his black robe flowing like shadowy mist around him.
He didn't rush.
Didn't hesitate.
Didn't care.
He stopped at the edge of the bed, looking down at me with those piercing dark eyes.
And then, he did something I wasn't expecting.