The prince's forbidden mate

In the kingdom of Veythara, Crown Prince Lucan was a man women ruined themselves for. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with the kind of body that looked carved rather than born. Jet-black hair was usually pushed back from a sharp, aristocratic face — high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and a mouth that rarely curved into anything softer than boredom. But it was his eyes that destroyed people. Cold. Dark. Heavy-lidded. They held a distance so complete that women became desperate to be the one who finally made him *feel*. They never succeeded. Lucan was aware of the effect he had. He simply did not care. That night, like so many others, his mother had sent him another girl. Queen Seraphina was growing desperate. The king was dying, and the ancient law of Veythara was clear: no mate, no crown. For months she had filled her son’s chambers with beautiful daughters of nobles, carefully chosen maidens, even a few foreign princesses. Lucan took them all to bed. He used their bodies with skill and precision… and felt nothing. The latest was named Lora. She was soft-spoken and lovely, with warm brown eyes and a body that most men would have begged for. Queen Seraphina had pulled her aside that morning and whispered urgently, “Make him fall for you. Do whatever it takes. The throne depends on it.” Lora entered Lucan’s chambers with her heart pounding. She wore almost nothing — a sheer robe that clung to her full breasts and hips, leaving very little to the imagination. She had practiced the way she would walk, the way she would speak, the way she would touch him. None of it mattered. Lucan was standing by the tall window when she came in, half-dressed, a glass of wine hanging loosely from his fingers. He didn’t turn around. “Your Highness,” she said softly. “I know why you’re here,” he replied. His voice was low and indifferent. “Take it off.” Lora’s fingers trembled as she let the robe fall. For a moment she stood there naked, waiting for him to look at her with desire. He finally turned. His dark eyes moved over her body slowly, assessing, unimpressed. Then he set the wine down and walked toward her. There was no kiss. No soft words. No pretense. Lucan pushed her onto the bed, spread her thighs, and dragged his fingers between her legs to find her already wet. He pushed inside her in one deep, ruthless stroke. Lora cried out — half from pleasure, half from the sudden stretch. He f****d her with steady, powerful thrusts, one hand pinned around her wrist, the other gripping her hip hard enough to leave marks. The wet sound of their bodies filled the room. She moaned his name. She tried to pull him closer. She tried to kiss his mouth. He turned his face away every time. When he finally came, it was with a quiet, almost irritated exhale. He pulled out immediately, leaving her clenching around nothing, and reached for his robe. “I felt nothing,” he said coldly. “Tell my mother the same thing I told the others.” Lora lay there panting, eyes glassy. Something dark and stubborn settled in her chest as she watched him dismiss her so easily. She would not be like the others. She had already decided — Lucan would be hers, no matter what it took. After she left, Lucan sat alone in the silence of his chambers. His body was satisfied in the most basic way. His mind was not. He stared at the ceiling and felt the familiar emptiness stretch wider inside him. He was beginning to believe he was broken. That no woman existed who could make him feel anything more than fleeting physical release. Outside, the moon hung heavy over the palace of Veythara. He had no idea that the girl who would ruin him was already leaving the sea.