So. Right. Before you start judging—because I can feel you judging—I should probably explain how I ended up here. In this bed. With him.
It wasn't a plan. Gods know, I don't make plans that involve paladins. We were supposed to talk. Just talk. I went to sneer at him, rub a few things in his face, maybe remind him what a self-righteous tin sausage he is. And he did that stupid thing he always does—stood there all broad-shouldered and tragic, smelling like leather and soap and poor decisions, saying he was "only trying to help" like the world appointed him its shiny savior. I was angry. He was angry. There was yelling. There was finger-jabbing. There may have been shoving.
And then… well… the shoving got a bit… different.
Turns out fury burns the same temperature as something else and collapses into the same sort of heat if you lean too close for too long. So yes. That's how I got here. Don't look at me like that. I tripped. On emotions. And also possibly on his stupid jawline.
So here we are.
I wake up to sunlight on my bare ass and the irritatingly perfect rhythm of Sir Odran's snoring.
There's that brief, fuzzy second where I don't remember where I am or why my thighs ache like I rode a centaur backwards. Then I turn my head, see golden curls and bite marks on those smug collarbones, and it all comes back.
The tavern. The wine. The fight. The wall. The storeroom. The wall again. Oh gods, did we actually knock over that barrel?
"You're staring," he mutters without opening his eyes.
"I'm plotting," I reply sweetly. "Trying to decide whether to strangle you with this pillow or fuck you again first."
He chuckles, all low and lazy, and stretches like a cat who knows he's made a mess of the drapes and doesn't care.
"Well," he says, reaching for his breeches with royal indifference, "I'd prefer the second one first. But my fiancée might object."
Silence.
"I'm late for suit fitting... She is waiting."
I blink. Once. Twice. Then prop myself on one elbow, making sure the sheet drapes just right to emphasize nipple but not vulnerability.
"Your what now?"
"My bride-to-be. Lady Iselda of Glavorn. Archduke's daughter. We're betrothed. Wedding's in a week."
I just stare. My mouth makes a few pre-verbal noises. Then finally: "You absolute cockswaddling, dick-polishing, valor-thieving bastard."
He raises one brow like a bored saint. "Come now. It's politics."
"But—but—we have chemistry!"
"Hate chemistry?"
"Yes! The best kind! We stab each other in our sleep and call it flirting! We scam each other and then wake up sore and smug! That means something!"
"You know," says Sir Odran, all casual-like, "this doesn't have to be the end."
I arch an eyebrow, because I know that tone. That velvet-rope voice. The one knights use right before they offer you a "generous position" in a lesser harem.
"I could keep seeing you," he says, tugging on his trousers with the smugness of a man who thinks he's doing charity work. "Like, not publicly, obviously. But… privately. Discreetly. You know."
I blink.
He continues.
"Ok. Ok. You could be my concubine."
There's a moment — a small, sacred moment — in which the universe holds its breath while I do not immediately kick him in the dick.
"I beg your pardon?" I say, all slow and syrupy.
He brightens. "I mean, not a full concubine. Not like chained-up or anything. More like… timeshare access. We could schedule it! I'd bring wine. You love wine."
I blink again. Still no violence. Amazing restraint.
He keeps going. "And you'd have your own suite. In the tower. Silk sheets. Balcony view. I'll even assign you a handmaiden, maybe a sprightly one with the red braids—"
"I will kill you," I whisper, with my most radiant smile.
He looks genuinely confused. "What? I thought you'd be thrilled! I mean, come on, Saya. Be honest. You're a… what's the word... free agent. No ties. No real noble blood. Being a discreet lover to a knight of my stature—"
"Of your what?"
He frowns. "Look, I'm offering you stability. You'd have regular visits. I could even make a shagging schedule. You like structure. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and maybe the occasional godsday quickie."
I slowly reach for the dagger under the pillow.
"Don't be jealous," he adds quickly, as if that's the problem. "You'd still be my favorite. It's not like I love Iselda. She doesn't even moan properly. I swear she fakes it like a bad harpist. But she's got the estate, the bloodline, the—well, the financials. You have… spunk."
I stand up.
He takes a cautious step back.
"Oh, and hey," he adds brightly, "there's always room for some creative arrangements down the line. You, me, and the lady bride? You two might get along. She's a bit shy, but maybe—"
"I hate you," I hiss.
"I'm being diplomatic!"
"You're being executed."
I launch the pillow at his stupid face with full malicious force. "Fuck you and your posh little bride, Ogden. I hope she gets lost on the way to the chapel and ends up in a Sisterhood re-education camp."
He ducks. The pillow hits the window and knocks over a bowl of dried figs. "That's uncalled for."
I sit up, braid tangled, still half naked and radiating fury. "You said I was your weakness."
"I say a lot of things when I'm inside you."
I throw his sun medallion at his head. It bounces off the wall. "Get out before I rip your balls off and feed them to the Dragon."
He sighs. "Gods, you're dramatic."
I snatch my tunic and storm out, half-dressed, fuming, barefoot, and plotting at least four felonies.
Concubine?
Fucking concubine?
He's lucky I didn't stab him with the fig knife.
***
I stormed off because I needed air. Because if I stayed another godsdamned minute under his knowing gaze, I was going to break something. Or scream. Or confess something stupid like "this actually hurt."
The Dragon said nothing when I left. He just watched. That's the worst part. He knows before I do.
So now here I am.
In the forest.
Alone.
Sulking like a teenager with no date to the solstice dance.
I kick a mushroom so hard it explodes into spore dust. Feral little bastard probably deserved it.
Gods. Fucking Ogden.
That smug, tight-assed, perfect-haired excuse of a knight. Who tied me to a temple pillar one time and made me feel something and then had the audacity to go and—
Marry.
Marry her. Some little highborn twat with an estate, a pedigree, and a fussy name that probably ends in "-elda."
I sit down hard on a fallen log. It creaks like even the dead trees are tired of my shit.
I stare at nothing for a long time.
Then I realize I'm crying.
Oh, fuck you, face. Not now. Not like this.
I swipe at my cheeks like it's an attack. It only makes it worse.
"Stupid. You're stupid. You never liked him." My voice is shaky and sharp like broken glass. "You just liked… beating him. Playing with him. Being the chaos in his neat little world."
Right?
I sniff. Wipe again. Fail.
"Okay. Maybe I liked him. A bit. But not in the wedding bells and lace panties way. Not in the 'grow old together and braid each other's hair' way."
I chuckle, but it sounds wrong. Hollow. Like it's been scraped out from the inside.
"What really hurts," I mutter, picking at the bark under my thigh, "is not him. Not really. It's…"
I swallow.
"It's that I got reminded."
That I'm gutter-born. That I've got no crest, no lineage, no respectable uterus to push out respectable babies. That I don't have a dowry. Not even a fake one. Just a mouth too fast and a laugh too loud and a back branded by every bastard who ever thought they owned me.
She gets to be wife because she's soft and silent and comes with fifty acres of barley fields.
I get to be the secret.
The plaything.
The practice.
I ball my fists into my eyes and breathe through my teeth.
"I'm not crying over a man," I hiss at the moss. "I'm crying over the world."
Because the world is rigged.
And I keep forgetting.
And every time I remember, it feels like someone pushed me back into the dirt I crawled out of.
I sit there until the light fades.
I don't go back until I've wiped every tear, redone my braid, and found a smile sharp enough to cut with.
Because fuck them.
And fuck the world.
And fuck any man who thinks I'm anything less than a godsdamned storm in silk.
***
We're back at camp.
The fire's crackling. The stew's burning. The Dragon is filing his claws like it's the most natural thing in the world to ignore my emotional collapse.
"I'm fine," I snap, throwing my sandal at a log and missing. It spins off into the bushes like it wants to escape this conversation too. "It's not like I care."
He doesn't even look up. "Mm-hm."
"It's just—who the fuck gets married in this economy? And to an archduke's daughter? I mean really. That's just tacky."
He lifts a brow ridge. "He's a knight, Saya. It's what they do. Quest, marry above their station, sire dumb children, die in tournaments."
"He told me I was his weakness," I mutter, kicking dirt into the stew with what might be called enthusiasm. "He said that with feeling."
"Were you biting his neck at the time?"
"Details."
He sighs. "You robbed him. Twice."
"It was mutual."
"You tried to sell him into indentured labor."
"Mutual!"
The Dragon finally sets his claw file down and peers at me over the rim of his snout like some judgmental aunt. "You're jealous."
"I am not."
"You thought he was yours."
I look away. "I thought we were… building something."
He snorts. "You were building a pyramid scheme of orgasms and betrayal."
I cross my arms and glare at the stew, which is now officially ash and carrot mush. "Well, it was working."
He pokes the burnt mess with one talon. "You're mad because he picked someone with better lineage. Someone who won't shiv him mid-coitus."
"I never shivved him. I threatened to."
He leans back, all smug scale and ancient self-satisfaction. "You're mad because you wanted to be his disaster."
I don't answer.
He smiles, just a little. "Don't worry. No noble bride will ever scream his name like you did. I heard echoes. Across the valley."
I throw the second sandal at him.
It hits him in the snout.
Totally worth it.
The Dragon is licking his claw like he just cleaned a plate, completely unbothered by my rage spiral.
"Come on, it's Ogden." He stretches, wings twitching. "You think he's suddenly found true love in some lace-swathed inbred debutante with a name like Iselda the Meek? He's doing it for the dowry."
I glare at him. "Oh, well that makes it so much better. So now I'm not just dumped—I'm undervalued."
He shrugs. "Not dumped. Relegated."
"Oh, eat a bonfire."
He ignores me. "It's money, Saya. Big money. Enough to outfit a private company of mercs and buy a villa in Glavorn with a bathhouse and a personal fig-masher."
I throw a stick into the fire hard enough to send sparks flying. "He said I was magic in his arms."
"He also said your scream gave him tinnitus."
I pace. I rant. I swear enough to make the stew curdle. I spit his name like it's sour in my mouth. And then, without warning, the tantrum screeches to a halt.
I turn to the Dragon. Narrowed eyes. Suspicion blooming.
"Wait."
He groans. "Oh no."
I step closer. "Just how much is this dowry?"
He gives me a long, tired look. "Saya…"
"How much."
He exhales smoke through his nostrils. "Taxes of two minor fiefdoms."
I blink.
I blink again.
"…How minor?"
He rolls his eyes. "Enough to fund a marble bathhouse, three full-time wine boys, and a personal scroll-reader who only recites filthy poetry."
I sit down slowly, brain clicking.
"So she's not just a frilly little noble tart—she's a walking sack of gold with ankles."
He nods.
I purse my lips. "Still a bitch, though."
"Obviously."
I scratch my head. "What kind of idiot marries a woman when he could just rob her?"
The Dragon stares at me.
I stare back.
Then we both say it at the same time:
"…He learned that from you."
I collapse back onto my bedroll, groaning into the furs. "I created a monster."
The Dragon pats my head with one enormous claw. "You'll always be the original."