My enemy my lover my king

Chapter nine

The horn blast that cut through the morning mist wasn't the harsh, brassy call of Magnus’s army, nor the melodic chime of Seraphina’s scouts. It was a silver, arrogant tone that belonged to the southern duchies.

Seraphina straightened her tunic, her face flushing as she recognized the banner fluttering in the wind: a golden hawk on a field of violet. "Lord Julian," she breathed, a mixture of relief and trepidation in her voice.

Magnus, who was busy buckling his sword belt, froze. He had heard that name. Julian of Valerius was the man Seraphina was supposed to have married before the political tide shifted toward Magnus. He was a man of poetry, polished armor, and legendary charm—everything Magnus was not.

When Julian entered the tent, he didn't bow to the King. He went straight to Seraphina, taking her hand and pressing a lingering, fervent kiss to her knuckles. "Seraphina," he murmured, his voice like silk. "When I heard you had been forced into this... arrangement, I rode three days without sleep. I’ve brought five thousand of my finest men to pull you from this nightmare."

Magnus’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword so hard his knuckles turned white. He stepped out of the shadows, his presence a dark cloud over Julian’s golden radiance. "The 'nightmare' is currently saving your borders, Lord Julian. And you’re late."

Julian finally looked at Magnus, his gaze sweeping over Magnus’s scarred face and dirt-stained clothes with thinly veiled disgust. "Ah, the Barbarian King. I see you’ve survived the first skirmish. I suppose even a blunt instrument has its uses." He turned back to Seraphina, ignoring Magnus entirely. "You look tired, my lady. My tent is prepared with vintage wines and silk linens. Come, let my healers tend to you. You shouldn't be huddled in the mud with... soldiers."

Seraphina felt the air in the tent grow dangerously thin. She could practically feel the heat radiating off Magnus—a volatile mix of protective fury and raw, unadulterated jealousy.

"Lord Julian is a cousin and a long-time ally, Magnus," Seraphina said, trying to de-escalate the situation, though her heart hammered at the sight of Magnus’s jaw ticking.

"He’s a peacock in a wolf’s den," Magnus growled, stepping forward until he was towering over the smaller, prettier lord. He placed a heavy, possessive arm around Seraphina’s waist, pulling her firmly against his side. The gold wedding band on his finger caught the light, practically shoved into Julian’s face. "The Queen stays with her King. And if you ever touch her hand again without my leave, you’ll find out exactly how 'blunt' my instrument can be."

Julian’s eyes flashed with a dangerous spark. "A wedding ring doesn't change what’s in a woman’s heart, Magnus. She was mine in spirit long before you shackled her with a treaty."

Magnus leaned in, his voice dropping to a terrifying, low rumble that only the three of them could hear. "Is that so? Then why did she spend the last two nights screaming my name, not yours?"

Seraphina gasped, her face turning a vivid scarlet. It was a blatant, arrogant lie—mostly—but it worked. Julian’s face went pale, then shifted into a mask of cold fury.

"We shall see who she chooses when the dust of this war settles," Julian snapped, turning on his heel and stalking out of the tent.

The silence that followed was explosive. Seraphina tore herself out of Magnus’s grip, her eyes blazing. "How dare you! You use me like a trophy to mark your territory?"

Magnus didn't apologize. He backed her up against the tent pole, his hands pinning her in place. He looked feral, driven by a possessiveness that he could no longer hide. "I am a barbarian, remember? And I don't like other men touching what belongs to me."

"I don't belong to anyone!" she spat, though her breath was hitching as his body pressed against hers.

"Don't you?" Magnus whispered, his lips hovering just an inch from hers. "Tell me you wanted to go with him. Tell me you wanted his silk bed and his vintage wine more than you wanted me in the dark last night."

Seraphina tried to hold her glare, but the jealousy in his eyes was so raw, so honest, that it shattered her resolve. She realized with a jolt of heat that she liked seeing him this way—undone by the thought of losing her.

"I hate you," she whispered, her hands finding the back of his neck and pulling him down.

"I know," he breathed, crashing his mouth against hers with a desperate, territorial hunger. "Tell me again while I show you exactly who you belong to."