Kaelen?
She then noticed that he was not referred to as the 'Eureka' that he had told her his name was earlier by the fence.
Why did he lie? Did he lie? Or did I just meet a massive, uncultured bastard named a womans name who didn't want to tell a strange girl his real name?
She was grateful he was considerably taller than she was, as this allowed her to easily stay looking down, appearing shy, thus ensuring he wouldn't be able to see her features beneath the heavy veil. Her focus was fixed solely on the hem of his golden tunic, but her mind was frantically updating her profile on the Warrior Prince: Name: Kaelen. Known Alias: Eureka Liar/Bastard. Status: Stuck with me.
Claps erupted throughout the great hall, the sound hollow and forced after the King's humiliating pronouncement. The music swelled, a heavy, celebratory melody meant to signal the start of the feast and the mandatory first dance.
But before the mandatory dance, tradition dictated the groom must first be allowed to see his bride.
Kaelen turned toward Trova. She stood stiffly, a statue of silk and jewels, her lips pressed into a thin, grim line beneath the veil. Her heart hammered against the headphones around her neck, making the silent promise of music feel miles away.
She felt his presence loom before her. She didn't dare lift her head; she knew her brows were furrowed in a deep scowl of modern fury and primal fear. She waited for his hand to reach out, preparing herself for the moment of truth. Would he scream, "That's the naked monkey from the wall!"? Would he expose her as the imposter who spoke the name Trova?
Instead of reaching for the veil, Kaelen's large, armored hand gently, almost reverently, lifted her chin. The metal of his gauntlet was cool against her skin.
Slowly, deliberately, he raised the heavy silk veil.
The hall was silent, every eye fixed on the moment the Prince would behold his mute bride.
When the veil was finally pushed back, Trova forced her eyes closed for a brief second, bracing for the inevitable outburst. She reopened them to meet the intense, unwavering scrutiny of her husband.
His arrogant, penetrating brown eyes—the eyes that had seen her in the most degrading possible position—met her own. A flicker of cold amusement crossed his features, confirming he recognized her instantly. But he said nothing. He simply held her gaze, acknowledging the shared, mortifying secret between them.
The crowd breathed a collective sigh of relief, interpreting the long stare as a silent appreciation of her beauty.
Trova knew she had mere seconds before the next ritual began. She had to act. She needed to tell him, You lied about your name, and I know it–You saw the pussy of a maiden and must marry me. Is that equivalent to this one she has committed?
Keeping her body perfectly still and her expression muted, exactly like the obedient princess the King demanded, Trova performed a subtle, yet audacious act: She gently brushed her left hand against the fabric of her rich, velvet gown. Then, she lowered that same hand, touching the small, silver ring on her pinky finger. Finally, she lifted her free hand—her right hand—and made a tiny, almost invisible gesture, tracing the shape of a capital 'E' with the pad of her index finger against the stiff, embroidered silk of the gown, right over her sternum.
The entire action was over in a blink, hidden beneath the folds of the gown and masked by the public relief that the Prince had not fled the altar.
Kaelen's eyes didn't leave hers. His expression shifted—the cold amusement gone, replaced by a sudden, intense understanding, immediately followed by a narrow, dangerous hostility. He read the message perfectly: E. Eureka. She knew.
He dropped his hand from her chin, his jaw clenching, the recognition flashing like steel in his brown eyes. He leaned in, his imposing, armored body completely shielding her from the eager court, his voice dropping to a low, intimate growl that only she could hear.
"Trova," he whispered, acknowledging her true identity and her silence with a single, dangerous syllable.
And in a blink of an eye, before Trova could even process the weight of her spoken name, he pressed his lips to hers.
The kiss was not tender or romantic; it was a firm, possessive assertion of dominance. His mouth was hard and demanding against hers, a silent, public claim. It was an act of control designed to wipe the shock of the name "Trova" and the silent accusation of "Eureka" from her mind.
Trova's mind went blank. Her body remained stiff and unresponsive for only a second before she realized the roaring silence of the hall demanded a response. This was public. This was being watched by her murderous father.
She couldn't push him away.
She let out a soft, surprised noise—a muffled protest that was swallowed instantly by the sheer volume of his presence and the heavy silk of her veil.
He held the kiss for a long moment, broadcasting unwavering devotion to the court. Then, he pulled back just as abruptly as he started. His breath, smelling faintly of spice and mint, lingered on her face.
The second the kiss broke, a massive, thunderous wave of applause erupted, drowning out the music. The court, relieved by the show of passion from their reserved prince and their lucky mute princess, was ecstatic.
Kaelen, her husband now—didn't allow her a moment to recover. He took her hand, his gauntleted grip locking her wrist in place, preventing any further silent attempts at communication.
"Come," he commanded, his voice loud and clear for the assembled nobles. "Let us dance."
He swept her away from the altar and onto the vast, polished floor.
The traditional first dance was not a close embrace, but a formal, paced progression that required precision and distance. This meant they were surrounded by the entire court, yet still afforded a measure of privacy due to the music and the distance required by the steps.
As they moved through the elaborate, stately movements, Kaelen leaned toward her, his voice kept low and precise, masked by the brassy fanfare.
"Do not look around," he instructed, his eyes scanning the nobles. "The King is watching to see if you remember your steps. And I am watching to ensure you do not speak again."
Trova glared at him, a silent, boiling fury in her blue eyes. The audacity of the man! Also she didn't even know how to dance whatever this dance was.
He continued, ignoring her silent rage. "You will be seen as the devoted, dutiful wife. However, your little game of alphabet soup," he paused, his lips curving into a cruel half-smirk, "—the E—will buy you a private meeting. You will speak one word at the end of this dance."
Trova blinked, confused. One word?
"Where," Kaelen stated flatly. "You will tell me where we must speak. That is your only opportunity. After that, you are mute, Princess, or you are dead. Do you understand, Trova?"
He emphasized her name—her real name—as a devastating weapon.
The dance continued, a rigid, ceremonial affair that was agonizingly difficult for Trova. She was a bad dancer; her movements were modern and clumsy against the court's formal procession. She stumbled on a turn, earning a tight, possessive grip from Kaelen.
"Graceful, aren't you, Trova?" he murmured, his face a mask of noble attention for the crowd, his voice laced with dark amusement for her. "You will be far more skilled at remaining still."
She glared at him, correcting the move instantly. He's doing this on purpose!
"Careful, little monkey," he teased, his hand tightening around her waist as they spun into a pivot. "Don't break my foot before the honeymoon. I need that foot."
The persistent teasing nearly broke her resolve. The word "Shutup!" was right on the tip of her tongue, but she caught herself, biting down hard on her lip.
"Shhh," he hissed, the sound almost possessive. He knew exactly how far he could push her to maintain the silence, believing he was the one enforcing the King's cruel command, even as he simultaneously used her secret name. "We are almost done."
As the final, sweeping notes of the fanfare concluded, Kaelen brought her to a dramatic halt, her body pressed closely against his for a final, public tableau. He leaned down, his lips brushing the sensitive skin near her ear.
"The time is now," he murmured, his breath warm. "Where?"