Bound to the Devil Prince

​Mara’s POV ​The silver hairpins had been driven so deeply into my scalp that every time I blinked, a sharp pain shot straight down my neck, but complaining to my mother’s head maid was equivalent to asking a stone wall for a velvet cushion. ​"Keep your chin level, Princess," Lydia commanded, her voice dropping into that rigid tone she reserved exclusively for official royal executions and state weddings. "The court representatives from Decresh are already lined up in the lower courtyard, and your father has threatened to strip the outer guards of their wages if you look anything less than radiant." ​"Radiant is a strange word for a woman being traded like a high-grade thoroughbred," I said, catching my own reflection in the gold-leaf mirror hanging on the wall. ​The dense silk of my dress was ivory and threaded with real gold wire, making it weigh at least fifteen pounds, and the matching gemstones around my collar felt less like jewelry and more like a golden leash. My mother stood near the door, her hands folded tightly over her velvet skirt, her face carefully devoid of any real emotion as she watched the maids pin the final layer of lace to my sleeves. ​"A princess does not discuss the economics of her marriage, Mara," my mother said softly, though she didn't meet my gaze in the glass. "You know what is expected of you today. The Kingdom of Decresh holds the trade routes through the northern passes; without this alliance, your father’s grain supply starves before winter." ​"And if the rumors about their crown prince are true?" I asked, turning my head slightly, ignoring Lydia’s irritated click of her tongue. "The merchants at the harbor say he executed his own uncle over a disputed shipment of iron, and three of his past court advisers vanished overnight without a trial." ​"Rumors are cultivated by weak men to explain why stronger men succeed," a deep voice boomed from the threshold. ​My father stepped into the dressing room, his broad frame filling the doorway, his polished boots leaving faint dust marks on the silk rug. He didn't look at my dress, he didn't look at my hair, and he certainly didn't look at the unshed tears my handmaid Ylva was desperately trying to powder over near my cheekbones. ​"Your desires are irrelevant, Mara," he said, taking two steps toward me and leaning down until his grey beard almost brushed my ear. "A prince marries for land, but a princess marries to keep her father's crown intact. You will smile, you will hand him the ceremonial tea to seal the legal binding, and you will not embarrass this house." ​He didn't wait for my response; he simply turned on his heel and walked back out toward the grand hall, his black cape sweeping behind him like a funeral banner. ​I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth, took a slow breath, and looked back at Ylva. "Give me the veil." ​Ten minutes later, I began my descent down the grand marble staircase leading to the public reception hall. The woven hem of my gown caught on the carved edges of every third step, forcing me to hold the front fabric in both hands while keeping my head tilted back to balance the massive iron-and-gold headpiece. Halfway down the lower landing, my right heel clipped the edge of a loose stair runner. ​I lost my balance completely, pitching forward over three granite steps toward the stone floor below. ​Before I could brace for impact, an arm wrapped around my waist with the force of a steel bar, snatching me out of mid-air and hauling me back against a hard, broad chest. ​I gasped, my hands instantly flying up to catch his shoulders for leverage. "Release me—" ​"If I release you, Princess, your nose makes contact with the granite in less than half a second," a deep voice rasped right beside my ear. ​I snapped my head up to look at my savior, ready to deliver a sharp rebuke for touching a member of the royal family so casually. The words died on my tongue the moment my eyes met his. ​He didn't have normal dark or brown eyes. They were a vivid, burning hazel that looked like molten copper caught in direct sunlight, framed by sharp, dark brows and thick raven hair that fell past his shoulders in structured, dramatic waves. He wore high-collared royal black wool trimmed with bronze thread, and his shoulders were so wide he completely blocked out the light from the hallway windows behind him. ​"Are you capable of standing on your own feet, or do I need to carry you into your own wedding?" he asked, his jaw clenching slightly as he assessed my face. ​"I am perfectly capable of standing," I snapped, straightening my spine and pulling myself out of his grip the instant my boots touched solid stone. "And who authorized you to lay hands on a royal bride?" ​He didn't answer with a title or a bow; he simply offered a cold, razor-thin smile that didn't reach his copper eyes. "Consider it a public service, My Lady." ​He turned without another word, stepping around me and continuing down the corridor with long, confident strides, his coat flaring behind him like a shadow. ​Ylva and Lydia rushed down the stairs behind me, both of them staring after his retreating figure with wide, astonished eyes. ​"Did you see those eyes?" Ylva whispered, clutching her hands to her apron. "He looks like he came straight out of a war camp!" ​"He looks like trouble," I corrected, smoothing down the front of my white dress with trembling fingers. "Come on. Father is waiting." ​The doors to the primary hall were thrown open by four royal guards, and the deafening roar of two hundred visiting nobles instantly dropped into a heavy silence. I walked down the center aisle with my head held high, looking straight ahead at the dais where my father sat on his throne. My mother sat beside him, her face pale, while guards in silver armor stood at attention along the tapestries. ​I took my seat at the head of the bride’s table, keeping my gaze lowered to the mahogany surface as the guards announced the arrival of the groom's delegation. ​"Presenting His Royal Highness, Prince Soren of Decresh," the herald announced, his voice echoing off the vaulted stone ceiling. ​A leather boot scraped against the floor, and the crowd erupted into rapid, nervous whispers. I slowly lifted my eyes, expecting to see an older, battle-scarred man with a cold demeanor and graying hair, just as the court rumors had described him for months. ​Instead, the man with the fiery copper eyes walked straight through the center aisle. ​He didn't bow deeply when he reached my father's dais; he merely gave a quick, almost imperious tilt of his head toward the king, ignoring the gasps of disbelief from my father’s advisers. My father’s jaw tightened, but he didn't call for the guards—he couldn't afford to insult the crown prince of Decresh on live diplomatic ground. ​Soren turned on his heel and walked straight toward my table, his heavy boots clicking rhythmically against the stone before he pulled out the carved chair across from me and sat down. ​"You," I blurted before I could stop myself. ​"Me," Soren replied calmly, reaching for the silver wine goblet resting between us. "You look slightly disappointed, Princess Mara. Were you expecting horns and a pitchfork?" ​"I was expecting someone with basic manners," I said under my breath, leaning forward so only he could hear over the sound of the court musicians starting up their lyres. "In my land, guests greet their host before sitting at their table." ​"In my land, we don't waste time on empty protocol when half the men in this room are hiding daggers under their ceremonial coats," he said, taking a slow sip of the dark wine. "Including your third cousin sitting three seats to your left." ​My heart gave a sudden, violent thud against my ribs. "What are you talking about?" ​"The tea ceremony is about to begin," Soren said, completely ignoring my question as he gestured to the servant approaching with a bronze kettle and two porcelain cups. In our kingdom, this exchange wasn't just entertainment; it was the binding legal act of the marriage, sealing the official treaty before the court. "Show me this famous talent your father keeps boasting about in his diplomatic letters." ​I grabbed my wooden flute from the velvet cushion beside my plate, my hands cold as I brought the instrument to my lips. I played a traditional mountain song, letting the sharp, clear notes carry through the quiet hall, using the music to anchor my racing thoughts. The guests began nodding in approval, their earlier suspicion melting away into polite applause as I finished the final verse. ​When I lowered the flute, Soren was staring at me. He wasn't clapping, but his dark hazel eyes were fixed on mine with an intensity that made my skin prickle. ​"Not bad," he murmured. "Though your fingers were trembling on the third scale." ​"I was playing for an audience, not an interrogator," I shot back, setting the flute down with a sharp click. ​Before he could respond, my mother approached the table, her hands wringing nervously as she touched my shoulder. "Mara, it is time to depart for the carriage. The Decresh escort is waiting outside the gate." ​I pulled my mother into a swift, fierce hug, burying my face in her shoulder for two brief seconds before stepping back and pulling my veil over my face. I followed Soren out through the heavy archway toward the courtyard, where an iron-plated carriage drawn by four black horses sat waiting under the rain. ​Soren climbed in first, then held out a gloved hand to help me up the steep step. I took it, feeling the solid, unyielding strength in his grip as he pulled me into the dim, velvet-lined interior. The door slammed shut behind us, locking out the noise of the castle, and the driver whipped the horses into an immediate, fast gallop. ​We rode in absolute silence for twenty minutes, the only sound being the clatter of hooves and rain pelting against the wooden roof. ​"Where are your personal guards?" I asked finally, breaking the tension in the small space. ​"Behind us," Soren said, looking out the rain-streaked window. "Where they belong." ​"And your father?" ​"My father is currently bedridden in the northern capital," he said, his tone flat and unreadable. "Which leaves me in full command of the royal army and the state treasury." ​I shifted in my seat, the silk of my gown rustling loudly. "Then why agree to this marriage? If you already hold total power in Decresh, you don't need my father's grain." ​Soren turned his head slowly, those copper eyes fixing onto mine in the shadows of the carriage. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, closing the space between us until I could smell the distinct scent of cedar and iron on his coat. ​"I didn't marry you for grain, Mara," he whispered, his voice dropping into a low, lethal register. "I married you because three hours ago, your father signed a secret treaty transferring ownership of your entire border territory to my enemies. By custom, a royal marriage legally nullifies any territorial transfer made by the bride's father without her marital consent—making you the only living deed that keeps him from launching a civil war before sunrise" ​Before I could process his words, the carriage screeched to a sudden. Sending me flying to Soren's chest.