Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“He knew that the advisor was plotting to steal the throne. And worse, that he wasn’t working alone. There were others. Men who wanted the crown. Men who were willing to bleed the kingdom dry to have it. So the prince,” Seamus says, “lured his men to a place where the advisor believed their enemies were. And the prince did what had to be done. Killed them all.”
My heart stutters.
“His boss, his king, called. Asked if there were survivors. The prince knew that if he told the truth, if he said there was one left, the woman he loved would be hunted down. So he lied. Told his boss everyone was dead. But she lived,” he says softly.
“The woman the prince loved, she lived. He kept his distance. Let her believe he didn’t love her. Took the fall, went to prison. He deserved it. He wasn’t innocent. But while behind bars, he found out she was engaged. That she was moving on.”
He exhales.
“So he escaped. Came for her. But it was all to keep her. All to make her his. And he had a plan,” he whispers. “To take the throne. To rule, with her by his side. And once he had it… he’d make peace with the Russians. He’d do right by her family. And put an end to war. And they did end the war,” he finishes.
“Because he kept his vow. Loved her like she was a queen. And in the end, they ruled together. She was light to his dark. Kind and just, where he was brutal. And the king and queen lived happily ever after.”
I fall asleep to those words. A fairy tale of blood and crowns. Thrones. Betrayal. Power.
I wake the next morning strangely refreshed, even though I dreamed all night, vivid, violent dreams of kingdoms and broken loyalties, of bloodied hands and golden crowns.
I roll over.
Seamus isn’t in bed.
I glance around the room, instinct prickling… and then I see him.
Outside.
Oh. My. God.
I saw him last night, of course. But I was too shy, too drained to really see him. Now though?
Holy hell.
He’s drenched in sweat, shirtless, gleaming under the early sun, wearing nothing but a pair of black sports shorts and trainers. His body is carved, every muscle pulled taut, every inch of him straining with energy. He moves like a predator who’s just been uncaged.
I watch him run. Then I see him stop, grab a pull-up bar I hadn’t even noticed yesterday, and lift himself, body flexing, muscles bulging. Again. And again. Arms trembling, veins taut, chest heaving. It’s mesmerizing.
This is my husband. This living, breathing, sweating god of a man is mine.
My breasts feel full. My thighs ache. I can feel that pulse low in my belly, needy and warm and desperate. I swallow again and just watch him, helpless against it.
He lets go of the bar and drops to the ground, crunches, elbow to knee, elbow to knee. Controlled. Brutal. Perfect. He’s back up, doing tricep dips against a thick bench, over and over, pushing behind him like it’s nothing. Then he’s off, sprinting around the property in hard, fast laps.
Some men hit the gym.
Seamus? He builds his kingdom with his bare hands under open skies.
The earth is hard-packed beneath him, a mix of sun-scorched gravel and patches of grass. There’s a homemade training setup near the edge of the property, ropes hanging from a tree, kettlebells, and tires flipped on their sides. He doesn’t need machines. He is the machine. This man was forged for war, for survival.
I don’t know if he sees me watching from the window, but my god, I see him.
And I can’t look away.
I should pull myself away, make breakfast, explore the kitchen, do something useful. There has to be more food in this house, and I want to feed him. But… I can’t move.
Because this man is a paragon of masculine perfection.
My king.
My monster.
My husband.
I think of the story he told me of the prince, the usurpers, the woman, and her family.
The war. The peace. He made peace.
Can I trust him?
God, I want to. I want to so badly, my heart aches with it. My soul reaches for him like a magnet pulled to its twin.
But I don’t know if I can. Not yet.
And then he’s off again, running like the wind, muscle and sweat and fire. Untouchable. Untamed.
There’s something wild and tender all at once about the way he trains. It’s not just strength, but survival. And as I watch, my whole body responds.
I’m watching a man become mine. And with every movement, every flex, every breath, my body burns hotter.
And hotter.
So aroused. So deep in this. My nipples are tight, beaded like pebbles, and my mouth is desert dry. I can’t stand the suspense another second.
I remember the way he touched me that first time, how careful he was, how gentle, and I remind myself that this is who he can be with me. Who cares what he's like with everyone else?