Chapter 4:A Fractured Beginning
806 Words
"Draven…" Seraphina’s voice trembled as she repeated his name. Her heart pounded so violently she thought it might betray her, and a sudden flush crept across her cheeks. She bowed quickly, stammering,
"P-pardon me, Your Majesty… I—I shouldn’t have… I’ll call you… Master Draven from now on."
"Just Draven," he interrupted, his voice low, warning. "I am not your master, and you are not my servant."
Even so, Seraphina couldn’t shake her unease. Memories of her upbringing clawed at her mind—years under Queen Isolde and Lyria, where every instruction was twisted to trap her in failure. Punishment came swiftly and publicly, and mistakes were never forgiven. Could she trust this beast who commanded her attention with a single glare?
"P-pardon me, Master Draven… I-I don’t think I can—"
"Don’t make me repeat myself. Call me Draven."
"M-master—"
"Draven! Are you deaf?!"
Seraphina flinched violently, her body shrinking as her pulse raced. Tears pricked at her eyes.
"P-pardon me… Draven," she whispered, her voice trembling.
He scoffed, folding his arms, his presence heavy and unyielding. "It’ll take two hours to reach my territory. Sit still. I have no patience for a delicate princess whining about boredom."
She shrank into her seat, aware that any wrong movement could ignite his wrath. From whispers in the kitchen, she knew Holy Aether and the beastmen kingdom weren’t far—lands her late father had once coveted.
Draven didn’t glance her way again. He sat like stone, radiating authority, his stillness suffocating. She couldn’t meet his gaze, so she turned to the carriage window. Outside, a meadow stretched endlessly, green fields merging with distant mountains. Yearning for freedom, she carefully unlatched the window.
The lock rattled. Draven shifted slightly but said nothing. Heart racing, she leaned out, inhaling the fresh, intoxicating air. For a brief moment, she felt alive in a way the palace had never allowed.
But then his voice cut through, low and sharp. "What are you doing?"
She yelped, teetering dangerously. His hand shot out, gripping her waist, hauling her back with effortless strength. She landed on his lap, frozen, cheeks ablaze.
"I asked… what are you doing?" he repeated, closer this time, a predator’s whisper in her ear.
"I—I… I just wanted to… know the scent of the meadow," she stammered. "P-pardon me, Draven… I won’t do it again."
Draven’s gaze darkened as he studied her—fragile, desperate, the wedding dress threadbare, seams straining. He leaned closer, his breath brushing her ear.
"Did your mother teach you these tricks?" he murmured.
"T-tricks?" Her voice quavered. "I… I don’t understand…"
Her wide, innocent blue eyes caught him, helpless and sincere. The sight stirred something primal in him.
"Sticking half your body out, wearing a loose wedding dress, that expression… they trained you well. But I’m not easily fooled."
Fear pricked through her, sharp as ice. "P-please… let me go. I can sit on my own."
Instead, his grip tightened around her waist and thighs. She gasped softly when his calloused hand brushed her dress.
"Stay still," he commanded, deep and final. "You don’t need tricks with me. You are already mine… my wife."
Seraphina froze, pressed against him, every nerve alight with fear and something unfamiliar—heat, anticipation, vulnerability. Draven’s presence was overwhelming. She could feel the rhythm of his breathing, the faint brush of his chest against her back, and shivers ran down her spine.
"I—I am not… your—" she began, but the words faltered. He had claimed her with a single, undeniable assertion.
"You are trembling," he observed. "Why? Fear… or something else?"
Her face burned hotter. She had never known a touch like his—firm, possessive, yet not cruel. Her instincts screamed to retreat, yet her body betrayed her, rooted in place, leaning against him.
"Do not think you can hide from me," he said, voice sharp and piercing. "I know when you lie. I know when you pretend. But you… you are honest, even when terrified."
Tears pricked at her eyes. She had lived a life of deception, every gesture measured. And yet, here, she felt seen—not as a pawn, not as a princess to be manipulated, but as herself.
His grip softened slightly, just enough to let her breathe, but he didn’t let go. "You don’t need to pretend anymore," he murmured. "You are mine… truly mine. And I… will protect what is mine."
Seraphina swallowed hard, chest tight with emotions she couldn’t name. Fear, yes—but something else, a tentative warmth, a seed of trust growing where doubt had always ruled. And as the carriage rolled forward through the endless green fields, the wind tugging lightly at her hair, she realized that, for the first time in her life, she wasn’t alone.
- Writer
