Azrya struggled, trying to escape as two palace guards restrained her. It was around midnight in the palace courtyard, and she had decided she would rather run away than be forced to marry a ruthless killer like Akio Halen.
"Your father will be furious to know that you've tried to escape, Lady Azryana," one of the guards smirked. They had discovered her sneaking about during their palace patrol, security having tightened with the arrival of the bloodthirsty warrior Akio Halen and his men.
"The healers barely saved you the last time, my lady," the other guard added menacingly. "This time might be very different."
They weren't wrong. Her father's punishments were brutal. She had suffered broken ribs, internal bleeding, and bruises that lingered for weeks. When especially cruel, he delayed summoning the healers, leaving her to endure agony.
She shuddered thinking of what he would do when he found out she'd tried to escape the marriage. At nineteen, she was of prime marrying age. Her father cared only for his reputation and wealth. Her attempt to flee threatened both.
If word spread that Duke Boswell's daughter ran away from her noble duty, he'd be humiliated among the aristocracy. Worse, she wasn't marrying just any knight—she was betrothed to Akio Halen. A low-born warrior who had won the great war and earned the king's favor. Her refusal would defy not only her father, but Akio and the king.
The Duke also stood to gain a large dowry. If she vanished, he would lose it.
Fear coursed through her. She couldn't be dragged back. Azrya thrashed and kicked. One well-placed strike hit a guard's crotch, causing him to release her, groaning. She balled her fist and punched the other squarely in the nose, breaking free and sprinting across the courtyard into a dim palace corridor.
She focused only on escaping the guards who chased her. Distracted by her fear, she collided violently with something—or someone—far larger and sturdier than herself and fell hard to the ground.
Clutching her sprained ankle, her vision blurred as she looked up. Towering above her was no ordinary man.
He was massive with shaggy black hair and an impassive expression on his face. His eyes seemed to burn with cruelty and hate. She felt her cheeks heat up at the sight of his strong masculine features, soft freckles and tanned skin.
He was terrifying - and devastatingly handsome.
Behind him stood two burly, fearsome men in similar armor and a palace servant. Dread settled in Azrya's chest.
This had to be him. Akio Halen.
She stared at him, heart pounding. Her fear quickly twisted into hate as she glared at the man she was supposed to marry.
Footsteps echoed. The guards rounded the corner, freezing when they saw Akio.
"Sir Akio," one bowed stiffly. The other followed, bowing.
"Apologies for the disturbance," the first guard said, grabbing Azrya roughly by the arm, making her wince.
"Please don't trouble yourself. We'll handle this."
Akio stepped forward, voice deathly calm.
"Remove your filthy hands from my wife, or you'll lose them."
The threat was clear. The guards hesitated.
One dared to speak. "She's not yet your wife. She remains the Duke's property. We have orders to escort her—"
He never finished. In a flash, Akio's sword was out. A thud hit the floor.
Azrya gasped, eyes widening. The guard's severed hand lay at her feet. Blood gushed from the stump. The guard screamed, collapsing.
The other stood frozen, still clutching her.
Akio's gaze bore into him. "I hate repeating myself."
The man let go instantly and stumbled to help his wounded comrade.
"Tell the Duke. I'll escort Lady Azryana to her chambers."
Without effort, Akio lifted her as though she weighed nothing. Instinctively, she grabbed onto him, startled by his strength.
Her heart thundered. Their faces were close. His scent—leather, steel, and something earthy—was overwhelming. His men stayed behind as he carried her deeper into the corridor.
"Which way?" he asked without looking at her.
She hesitated for a moment before she whispered timidly,
"Straight to the end, then right. First door on the left."
The walk was short but felt like an eternity. Her mind raced.
How did he know who she was?
What would her father do?
Why was Akio helping her?
Perhaps her silver hair gave her away. She was known for her mahogany skin and luminous white curls—traits passed from her mother, one of the last of the Argentum race, known for their unique appearance.
She expected him to leave her at her chamber door. It was improper for a betrothed couple to be alone together—especially in her room.
But he didn't stop. He carried her inside and laid her gently on her bed with care, as though she were a fragile item that could break with the slightest touch.
He reached for her face. She flinched—expecting pain—but his touch was shockingly gentle, his calloused thumb brushing her cheek. Her heart pounded louder. Did he hear it?
He stepped back, his eyes scanning her, lingering. For a moment, they softened.
"I'll send a healer for your injuries. Rest well. Tomorrow, we will be wed."
Then he left.
Azrya sat stunned, her fingers brushing the cheek he had touched.
"Wed tomorrow," she whispered. Tears spilled. She didn't want to marry any man—least of all this ruthless stranger.
She hated him. And wept for the future that now seemed inescapable.