The winter air bit into Seraphina’s bare shoulders, but she barely felt the cold.

The heavy iron shackles around her wrists were far colder. She walked toward the center of the town square, the rhythmic clink-clink of her chains a funeral march against the cobblestones.

"Witch!" a voice screamed from the crowd. A rotten fruit struck her cheek, the juice stinging like acid.

Seraphina didn't flinch. Her eyes were fixed on the royal balcony, where King Malakai sat. He looked magnificent in his gold-embroidered robes, his arm wrapped possessively around the waist of Lady Elara—the "Saintess" with the dove-like eyes who had replaced Seraphina in his bed and his heart.

Malakai leaned forward, his voice magically amplified so it boomed across the square. "Lady Seraphina, for the crimes of high treason, witchcraft, and the murder of the royal unborn, I sentence you to death. May the gods have mercy on your blackened soul, for I have none left to give."

Seraphina let out a jagged, broken laugh. She hadn't killed his child; Elara had poisoned herself to frame the "Mad Queen." But the truth didn't matter when the judge wanted you dead.

She was forced onto her knees at the block. The wood was stained dark with the blood of those who came before her.

She looked up, and there he stood.

Grand Duke Valerius.

He was known as the "Iron Hound of the North." Standing nearly seven feet tall, draped in black furs and midnight-colored armor, he was the King’s primary weapon. His face was hidden behind a cold, silver half-mask, leaving only his jaw—stern and shadowed with stubble—and his eyes visible.

His eyes were not filled with the triumph of the crowd. They were swirling with a dark, suffocating grief.

"Do it, Duke," Seraphina hissed, her neck bared. "Don't make me wait for his pleasure."

Valerius stepped closer, his shadow engulfing her. He leaned down, his voice a low vibration that only she could hear. "Close your eyes, Little Bird. I will be fast. I will not let you feel the cold for long."

He raised the massive executioner’s sword. The steel caught the dying light of the sun. Seraphina closed her eyes, imagining the blade’s bite.

Whish—

The sound of cloven air was the last thing she heard.

"My Lady? My Lady, please wake up! You’ll be late for the anointing!"

Seraphina bolted upright, a scream dying in her throat. She gasped for air, her hands flying to her neck. It was warm. Intact. Smooth.

She wasn't on the block. She was in her silken bed in the Ducal Palace. The scent of lavender and expensive oils filled the air, not the copper tang of blood.

"Ellara?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

"No, My Lady, it’s me, Mina," her maid replied, looking confused. "Lady Elara won't arrive at court for another two years. Are you quite well? It’s your wedding day!"

The blood drained from Seraphina's face. Three years. I’ve gone back three years.

Today was the day she would marry Malakai. Today was the day she would begin her descent into madness for a man who would eventually throw her to the dogs.

No. A cold, diamond-hard resolve settled in her chest. She wouldn't be the Mad Queen this time. She wouldn't beg for Malakai’s crumbs.

"Mina," Seraphina said, her voice dropping into a chilling, authoritative tone. "Cancel the rose-water bath. Bring me the oils from the North—the musk and the sandalwood. And the dress with the low back. The one Father said was too scandalous for a Queen."

"But My Lady, the King prefers you in white and gold—"

"I am not dressing for the King,"

Seraphina interrupted, her eyes flashing with a predatory light.

She stood up, her naked body reflected in the tall pier glass. She was beautiful, hauntingly so, before the stress of the palace had thinned her out. She remembered the Duke’s eyes at the execution. The grief. The way he had called her Little Bird.

Malakai wanted a saint; she would give him a ghost. But first, she needed to secure the Hound.

The Wedding Feast

The ballroom was a sea of gold and silk, but Seraphina moved through it like a drop of poison in a chalice of wine. She had endured the ceremony, letting Malakai’s lips brush her cheek with a disgust she barely hid.

Now, while Malakai bragged to his generals, Seraphina slipped onto the darkened balcony. She knew he would be there. He always preferred the shadows to the light.

She found him leaning against the stone balustrade, a cup of untouched wine in his hand. Grand Duke Valerius. He looked exactly as he had in her memory, minus the silver mask. His face was ruggedly handsome, scarred by a thin line across his brow, his eyes like molten lead.

"You should be inside, Your Majesty," Valerius said, his voice the same deep rumble that had promised her a swift death.

"The King is looking for his bride."

"The King is looking for a trophy to display," Seraphina said, stepping into his space. The scent of her musk-oil filled the gap between them. "I am looking for a man who knows how to use a blade."

Valerius stiffened, his gaze dropping to the swell of her breasts, pushed high by the tight corset of her dress. "You speak in riddles."

"I speak of survival," she whispered. She reached out, her fingers tracing the heavy embroidery on his chest, feeling the rock-hard muscle beneath. "They call you the Hound. They say you are loyal only to the crown."

She leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear. "I want to buy that loyalty, Duke. I want you to be my Hound. I want you to hunt for me. To kill for me."

Valerius gripped her waist, his large hand bruising the silk of her gown. His breathing hitched, his self-control fraying as he looked down at her. "And what could a Queen possibly offer a man like me that the King hasn't already given?"

Seraphina grabbed his hand and dragged it down, pressing his palm flat against her thigh, dangerously high beneath her skirts.

"Everything he is too weak to take," she hissed. "I will give you my body until you are sick of it. I will give you the throne. And in exchange, I want Malakai’s head on a silver platter."

Valerius’s eyes turned black with a sudden, violent lust. He slammed her back against the stone pillar, his body pinning hers, his heavy thigh forcing her legs apart.

"Do you have any idea what you’re asking, Seraphina?" he growled, his face inches from hers. "If I take this deal... I won't just kill for you. I will ruin you. I will mark every inch of this skin so the King will never want to touch you again."

"Then do it," Seraphina challenged, her nails digging into his shoulders. "Ruin me, Duke. Make me yours before the night is over."

The shadows of the balcony felt too exposed, the distant music of the wedding feast a mocking reminder of the crown she wore.

Valerius didn't speak; he simply grabbed her by the wrist, his grip like a shackle, and led her through the labyrinthine servant passages he knew better than anyone.

He shoved the door to his private chambers open and kicked it shut, the heavy thud echoing with finality. The room was sparse—cold stone, dark furs, and the scent of iron and cedar.

"You had every chance to run, Little Bird," Valerius growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. He didn't wait for her to respond. He reached out, his large hands finding the delicate silk of her bodice. With a single, violent jerk, the seams groaned and gave way, exposing her breasts to the frigid air of the room.

Seraphina gasped, her back hitting the rough stone wall. Her nipples were already peaked, betraying her. "I don't want to run," she hissed, her eyes defiant even as she trembled. "I want to be marked."

Valerius let out a sound that was half-groan, half-snarl. He descended upon her, his mouth crashing against hers. This wasn't the chaste, performative kiss Malakai had given her at the altar. This was a conquest. His tongue invaded her mouth, tasting of wine and hunger, while his calloused hands roamed downward.

He hiked her heavy wedding skirts up to her waist, his fingers finding the thin silk of her drawers. He tore them away with the same ruthless efficiency he used on the battlefield.

"You want a monster, Seraphina? You've found one," he muttered against her throat. He bit the sensitive skin of her shoulder, hard enough to leave a darkening bruise—a brand for a King to see.

He lifted her, her legs instinctively locking around his thick waist. The cold iron of his breastplate pressed against her bare chest, a jarring contrast to the heat radiating from his body. Valerius moved to the heavy oak table in the center of the room, clearing the maps and daggers with one sweep of his arm. He slammed her down onto the wood, her skirts a chaotic mess of white and gold around her hips.

Valerius fumbled with his belt, his breathing ragged. When he freed himself, Seraphina’s eyes widened. He was massive, a testament to his primal nature. He didn't use oils; he didn't use soft words. He used his thumb to spread her moisture, finding her already drenched and aching.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a raw authority.

Seraphina gripped the edges of the table, her knuckles white, as she stared into those lead-colored eyes. Without another word, he drove into her.

The fullness was staggering. Seraphina let out a high, sharp scream that was lost in the rafters of the room. He filled her completely, his girth stretching her to the point of pain before it melted into a white-hot, localized fire.

"You are mine now," Valerius hissed, beginning a punishing, rhythmic thrust. "Not his. Mine."

Every time his hips collided with hers, the heavy table groaned. Seraphina arched her back, her hair spilling across the dark wood like silk. She felt the rough texture of the table beneath her and the crushing weight of the Duke above her. He was relentless, his movements devoid of the courtly grace she was used to. He was a butcher, just as she had asked.

"Harder," she sobbed, her nails digging into the muscles of his forearms. "Make me forget his touch! Destroy it!"

Valerius obeyed. He reached down, his fingers finding her clit and grinding against it with a harsh friction that sent electric shocks through her spine. He ramped up the intensity, his thrusts becoming shallow and rapid, hitting a deep, sensitive spot that made Seraphina’s vision go dark.

She reached her climax first, her body convulsing around him, her internal muscles clenching his length in a desperate, rhythmic grip. She cried out his name—not "Duke," but "Valerius"—as the waves of pleasure shattered her resolve.

The sound of her voice seemed to break his final restraint. With a gutteral roar, Valerius buried himself as deep as possible, his body tensing as he spilled his heat inside her—a final, silent act of treason against the King.

He stayed there for a long moment, his forehead pressed against hers, both of them gasping for air in the dim light. The scent of sex and sweat hung heavy in the room.

Valerius pulled back slowly, his eyes scanning the marks he had left on her—the bite on her shoulder, the handprints on her thighs.

"He will see these," Valerius whispered, his voice returning to its cold, steady rumble.

Seraphina sat up, her torn dress hanging off her frame, a predatory smile touching her lips.

"That is the point, Valerius. When he sees them, he will know that even his Hound has teeth. And I will be the one holding the leash."

She stood up, ignoring the ache between her legs. "Now, clean me up. We have a Kingdom to burn."

The morning sun bled through the tall, arched windows of the royal breakfast suite, glinting off the silver platters and crystal carafes.

Seraphina sat at the head of the table, her spine straight, every movement calculated.

She wore a gown of pale blue silk, the neckline deliberately wide—not enough to be scandalous at a glance, but enough that every time she leaned forward, the dark, purplish bruise on her collarbone peeked out like a secret.

Beside her, King Malakai was picking at a bowl of fruit, his handsome face marred by a sour expression. He hadn't touched her last night. He had been too busy celebrating his "victory" with his generals, eventually passing out in a wine-induced stupor before he could even stagger to their marriage bed.

"You look pale, Seraphina," Malakai remarked, his voice devoid of affection. "Did the excitement of finally becoming my Queen keep you from your rest?"

"I found the night... full of unexpected revelations, Your Majesty," Seraphina replied, her voice smooth as honeyed poison.

The heavy doors opened, and Grand Duke Valerius entered. He was dressed in his formal black uniform, his presence instantly sucking the air out of the room. He bowed, his eyes never leaving Seraphina’s. The air between them hummed with the memory of the oak table and the rough friction of the night before.

"Grand Duke," Malakai grunted. "Join us. We were just discussing the security of the southern borders."

Valerius took his seat directly across from Seraphina. As he sat, his knee "accidentally" brushed against hers beneath the table. The contact sent a jolt of heat straight to her core, which was still tender and swollen from his relentless pace. She didn't pull away; she pressed her leg back against his, a silent challenge.

"The borders are restless, Sire," Valerius said, his voice a low rumble. "Much like the people within these walls. Some require a firmer hand than others."

Seraphina reached for her tea, the silk sleeve of her dress sliding back to reveal the faint, red finger-marks on her wrist where Valerius had pinned her down. Malakai’s eyes caught the movement.

"Seraphina," the King narrowed his eyes, reaching out to grab her arm. "What is that? You’ve been clumsy."

He yanked her arm toward him, but as he did, the movement caused her bodice to shift.

The bite mark on her shoulder—dark, angry, and undeniably the shape of a man's teeth—was laid bare in the morning light.

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut. Malakai’s face turned a dangerous shade of red. He looked at the mark, then at Seraphina’s calm, almost bored expression.

"Who?" Malakai hissed, his grip on her wrist tightening to the point of pain. "Who dared lay a hand on what is mine?"

Seraphina didn't flinch. She leaned in closer to her husband, her eyes mocking. "Perhaps it was a ghost, Malakai. Or perhaps you were so drunk last night you simply don't remember the 'firm hand' you used on your bride."

She knew he hadn't touched her, and he knew it too. The lie was a slap to his ego.

Malakai turned his furious gaze to Valerius.

"Duke! You were in charge of the palace guard last night. How did someone enter the Queen's chambers unnoticed?"

Valerius took a slow sip of his black coffee, his leaden eyes fixed on the bite mark he had placed there. He felt a surge of possessive triumph watching the King touch the skin he had claimed.

"The Queen’s chambers were secure from the outside, Your Majesty," Valerius said, his voice dropping into that dangerous, velvety tone. "If she was marked, it was by someone who already had the key. Perhaps... someone she invited in."

Malakai roared, standing up and slamming his fist onto the table. "I will have the head of every guard on duty! Seraphina, you will go to your rooms. You are not to leave until I decide how to handle this insult."

"I am the Queen, Malakai," she said, standing up with a grace that infuriated him. "Not a prisoner. If you want to keep me in a cage, you’ll find that I have developed a very sharp set of teeth."

She turned to leave, but as she passed Valerius, her hand ghosted over the back of his chair, her fingers grazing his nape. The Duke’s jaw clenched, his eyes dark with the promise of what would happen the next time they were alone.

Later that evening...

Seraphina was in her private bath, the steam rising around her, when the secret door behind the tapestry creaked open. She didn't turn around. She knew the heavy, steady footfall.

Valerius stepped into the candlelight, his uniform discarded, wearing only his trousers. The scars across his broad chest were visible, as was the unmistakable tension in his frame.

"You played a dangerous game this morning, Little Bird," he growled, walking to the edge of the copper tub.

"I played the game I promised," Seraphina said, standing up slowly, the water cascading down her body, highlighting every mark he had left. "He is paranoid now. He doesn't trust his own shadows. He looks at you and wonders... and he looks at me and fears."

Valerius reached out, his hand dripping with water as he gripped her chin, forcing her to look up at him. "He isn't the only one who should fear. I told you I would ruin you."

He didn't wait for an invitation. He lifted her out of the bath, her wet skin slick against his own. He sat on a nearby cushioned bench and pulled her onto his lap, facing him. The wetness of her body soaked into his trousers as she straddled him, her knees digging into the upholstery.

"You're still sore," he noted, his voice a low vibration against her chest as he began to suckle the very mark the King had seen earlier.

"Good," she gasped, her head falling back. "Every ache reminds me that I'm alive this time."

Valerius entered her with a single, sharp lunge, the friction of her wet skin making the contact even more intense. He gripped her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he set a pace that was agonizingly slow and deep, meant to savor every inch of her.

"When the Saintess arrives next week," Valerius whispered into her ear between heavy thrusts, "he will try to use her to replace you. But by then, you will be so thoroughly marked by me that you won't even remember his name."

Seraphina wrapped her arms around his thick neck, her voice lost in a litany of moans. "Let her come. She thinks she's entering a fairy tale... she has no idea she's walking into a slaughterhouse."