Crowned In Thorns

Crowns and Bruises

If I had to rate recovering from a near-death palace assault on a scale from minor inconvenience to royal catastrophe, I’d say I landed somewhere between public martyr and private disaster.

Three days.

That’s how long it had been since I killed a man.

Not in theory. Not in metaphor. In practice.

I had killed him—stabbed him straight through the throat while he smiled about the ways he wanted to ruin me.

And now I was back in my bedchamber like nothing had happened.

The silk sheets were too smooth. The mattress too soft. My pillows were fluffed to the point of emotional offense. And the nightstand had been restocked with enough imported tea blends to fuel a minor revolution.

But it wasn’t my arm that kept me awake. Or the stitches that tugged anytime I moved too quickly.

It was the silence.

No beeping machines. No shuffling medics. No distant groans of other injured contestants. Just polished wood, velvet drapes, and the soft click of a servant leaving broth I hadn’t asked for.

Everything looked exactly as it had before.

But I wasn’t the same girl who’d first stood in this room and rolled her eyes at the ornamental chandelier.

That girl hadn’t seen the whites of a man’s eyes as she cut his throat.

She also hadn’t been called a hero.

I swung my legs off the bed slowly, careful not to jar the wound in my bicep. The bandages itched like hell, and I was ninety percent sure I smelled like trauma and lavender lotion.

Somewhere in the distance, bells rang from the South Tower. A signal for morning prayers or pigeon feeding or some other noble nonsense that had nothing to do with me.

I hadn’t set foot outside my room since they brought me back from the infirmary.

When you save the Queen’s life, you get your own nurse, your own security detail, and—surprise!—your very own personal schedule of mandatory rest. Which sounded noble and all, but mostly just meant I couldn’t sneeze without someone offering me a silk handkerchief and a medic with a worried expression.

Thane had popped in yesterday. He smuggled in candied ginger and whispered, “You look like death, but in a very fashion-forward way,” before fixing my braid and threatening to murder any other girls who “breathed at me funny.”

I loved him.

I also wanted to commit minor arson out of sheer boredom.

They’d told me I’d be summoned soon—for what, they didn’t say. The Queen had sent a letter, of course. All grace and gratitude. But I hadn’t seen her since the infirmary.

Not Kael, either.

And I didn’t know which silence scared me more.

But I did know this: the moment I stepped back into court, they were going to look at me like a symbol.

And I was going to make sure they remembered I was also a weapon.

The Queen’s summons arrived on thick parchment, hand-delivered by a steward who looked like he’d rather swallow broken glass than speak to me directly.

Miss Stanton,

Her Majesty requests your presence in the Winter Garden at the ninth hour. Appropriate attire is required.

—Lady Mirea, Royal Assistant

I stared at the note for a full ten seconds.

Then muttered, “Appropriate attire? For what? A duel? A crown fitting? An ambush?”

“None of the above,” came Thane’s voice from behind me. “Though if it’s an ambush, do wear the emeralds. You’ll want to bleed dramatically.”

He strolled in like he owned the palace, arms already full of garment bags and attitude.

“Thane,” I deadpanned, “please tell me you’re here to sabotage the monarchy with me.”

He dropped the bags on the chaise. “Alas, no. I’m here to dress the monarchy’s most problematic contender.”

“Touché.”

He clicked his tongue. “You’re going to be paraded through the garden in front of nobles, diplomats, and every reporter within fifty miles. All of them are ready to write about your bravery, your composure, your dramatic neckline.”

He unzipped the first bag and held up a floor-length gown in deep indigo, the fabric threaded with silver stitching so fine it shimmered like frost.

I blinked. “That’s… gorgeous.”

He grinned. “I know. I designed it while drunk on grief and rage the night you almost died.”

“Well, now I feel underdressed and emotionally manipulated.”

“Perfect. Let’s get you in it.”

Twenty minutes, four sarcastic remarks, one near wardrobe malfunction, and a fresh braid later, I stood in front of the full-length mirror. For the first time in days, I looked… like someone worth noticing.

The bodice hugged tight, structured but not suffocating. The neckline curved low enough to suggest confidence but not desperation. My hair was swept up, a few loose strands framing my face.

And the scar on my arm, peeking out from the transparent sleeve?

I let it show.

Let them look.

Thane stepped back, his gaze softening. “They’re going to talk, you know.”

“They already are.”

He nodded once. “Then give them something worth talking about.”

The Winter Garden was a cathedral of glass and ice-dusted vines. Every inch glistened. Every noble present wore enough wealth to fund an entire sector for years.

And every eye turned when I stepped in.

My heels clicked softly on the marble as I walked between fountains and frozen roses. Whispers rose like mist. Some bowed their heads, others just stared.

Let them.

The Queen stood at the head of the garden beneath an arch of silver boughs, her gown the color of new snow. Kael stood beside her, in full formal uniform—dark navy and gold, expression unreadable.

As I reached them, the Queen smiled and lifted a hand. The crowd was silenced like magic.

“Three days ago,” she said, “our palace was breached. Lives were lost. Blood was spilled. And yet, among the chaos, one girl—unarmed, untrained, and unafraid—stood between a blade and the Crown.”

A pause. I could feel my pulse in my fingertips.

“Lady Carolina Stanton,” she continued, her voice clear as the frost, “is not only a daughter of Braymoor and the legacy of a soldier who gave his life for the Crown—she is now a heroine in her own right.”

I wasn’t sure when the breath caught in my chest. Only that I couldn’t seem to let it out.

“For her courage, her sacrifice, and her loyalty, I name her Protector of the Realm. And I thank her, not just as Queen—but as a mother.”

She turned toward me.

“Thank you, Miss Stanton.”

Something passed between us then. Not approval, not formality.

Respect.

Real. Earned.

The Queen stepped forward and pinned a brooch just below my shoulder—a small silver crest etched with the royal lion and a phoenix rising from flame.

It glinted against the scar on my arm.

Behind me, the garden erupted into applause.

And beside me, Kael stepped just close enough to whisper—

“They have no idea who they’re clapping for.”

I didn’t look at him when I answered. “They will.”

The applause still rang in my ears when I stepped out of the garden.

Not that I needed a reminder. The silver brooch on my shoulder—Protector of the Realm—was plenty.

Almost dying makes you very popular. Or very hated.

I wasn’t entirely sure which applied yet.

I didn’t go looking for trouble. But it had a nasty habit of finding me—usually in expensive shoes.

The ceremonial garden applause had barely faded when I made the mistake of slipping into the east conservatory to catch my breath. Just five minutes. Away from staring nobles and whispered bets and more silk gloves than a funeral procession.

The conservatory was quiet. Golden light spilled through the lattice windows. The scent of lemon verbena curled around the warm air, and for one blissful moment, I let myself lean back against the wall and pretend I wasn’t the palace’s new cautionary tale.

And then—

“You must think yourself very important now.”

The voice came sharp and sweet as spoiled wine.

I blinked, straightening. “I’m sorry?”

Out from behind one of the marble columns stepped Mirena Voss, the Marquess of Delcor’s daughter. She was tall, impossibly polished, and always looked like she’d just emerged from an oil painting. Her silks were stitched in the latest Eastern style, a subtle reminder that her family could afford diplomats and dowries.

I didn’t like her before.

I liked her even less now.

“Bravery,” she said, pacing slowly, “doesn’t buy breeding. Or make a farmer’s daughter fit to wear the favor of a crown.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Funny. I didn’t see you anywhere near the Queen when blades started flying.”

Her eyes flashed.

“You think one act of desperation makes you royal?” she hissed. “That a slut in a ripped dress gets to be a symbol now?”

That did it.

“I didn’t ask to be a symbol,” I said coolly, stepping forward. “But if the options are fighting off a maniac with a blade or standing around waiting for someone else to save me—I’ll take the blood.”

She sneered. “Lowborn filth. You don’t deserve to stand beside the prince. You deserve a barn and a muzzle.”

Before I could respond, her hand snapped across my face.

The sound echoed.

For a second, I saw stars. My cheek burned. My vision sharpened to crystal edges.

And then I smiled.

Big. Slow. Dangerous.

“Oh,” I said softly, “you shouldn’t have done that.”

“What are you going to do?” she taunted, stepping closer, lips curled. “Cry? Run to Kael? Maybe flash a little more peasant cleavage and hope he forgets who you are?”

“Careful,” I said. “That bitterness is starting to show in your pores.”

I didn’t move. Not yet. I didn’t have to.

Kael’s voice cut through the conservatory like a blade dipped in ice.

“What the hell is going on here?”

Mirena paled.

I turned my head—slowly—and met his eyes.

He looked furious. Not the quiet kind, either. The kind that made noblemen sweat and generals hold their tongues.

Kael strode in, his coat still buttoned from the ceremony, his gaze locked on the blooming red mark on my cheek.

“Did she hit you?” he asked, low and deadly.

“She did,” I said, calm as moonlight. “And she called me a slut. For bleeding on royal carpet, apparently.”

Mirena opened her mouth. “Your Highness, she—”

“Silence,” Kael snapped.

She flinched.

Kael turned to the nearest guard stationed at the arch. “Escort Lady Voss to her quarters. She is not to leave them until I say so.”

“Prince Kael—”

“Now.”

The guard stepped forward. Mirena’s face twisted in a mixture of rage and disbelief.

“You can’t be serious,” she hissed. “You’re throwing away legacy for her?”

Kael didn’t answer. He just looked at her like she was a paper doll already torn at the seams.

As she was dragged from the room—sputtering, muttering threats—I touched my cheek again, feeling the sting.

Kael stepped closer.

“Are you all right?”

I smirked. “Well, I got slapped in a lemon garden by a girl with a porcelain complex. But yeah. I’m fine.”

He exhaled, tension melting into amusement. “Only you could joke about being assaulted five minutes after being knighted.”

“Knighthood’s a stretch,” I muttered. “I just didn’t want her to get the last word.”

Kael studied me. His voice gentled. “She won’t.”

There was something unreadable in his eyes—fondness, fury, a flicker of something deeper.

I didn’t press. I didn’t need to.

Because for the first time since the attack, I felt something else burn behind my ribs.

Not fear.

Longing.

* * *

Kael

The door hadn’t even shut behind Mirena before I let the last shred of diplomacy drain from my expression.

I looked at Carolina.

Not at the swelling on her cheek, or the s***h of red blooming beneath the skin.

I looked at her eyes.

Still sharp. Still steady.

God help me, she didn’t waver—not from a slap, not from humiliation, not even from being called a slut in the middle of my mother’s garden.

No tears. No trembling.

Only defiance. Only that low burn of contempt in her jaw, like she was daring the world to try again.

I’d seen girls at court break for less.

I’d seen grown men do it.

But Carolina Stanton? She stood like someone who’d faced worse and won.

And maybe that was what scared me most.

Because I wanted the woman who stood before me.

“I should’ve had her dragged out by her hair,” I muttered, pacing a few steps away. “She had the nerve to lay hands on you in my palace.”

Carolina arched a brow, still touching her cheek. “Would’ve made a statement. A little dramatic, though.”

“Dramatic?” I snapped. “She assaulted a girl who nearly died protecting the Crown. She’s lucky I didn’t revoke her family’s land titles.”

She tilted her head. “You’re serious.”

I stopped pacing.

She stared at me. Not with awe. Not with fear.

But with that same unreadable thing she always carried—like she was weighing the scales and I hadn’t quite earned her verdict.

“I’m not a chess piece, Kael.”

“I never said you were.”

She crossed her arms, wincing slightly at the motion. “Then stop moving me around the board like one.”

That hit harder than I liked.

I turned to face her fully.

“You think this is easy for me?” I asked, voice quiet but rough. “Do you know what it’s like to want to protect someone in a place that feeds on weakness?”

Her expression shifted. Barely. But enough.

“You’re not weak,” I said. “Not even close. But they’re going to twist what you did. They’ll turn it into a headline, a myth, a threat. They’ll say I’m compromised. That I’ve already chosen.”

She said nothing.

“I have to act like I haven’t,” I added. “For now.”

She raised one brow. “And have you?”

My breath caught.

In the silence that followed, the garden outside rustled in soft wind.

She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t teasing.

She wanted the truth.

And I didn’t know how to lie to her.

“Yes,” I said.

The word hung between us like a vow.

“I don’t care what they whisper,” I said, stepping closer. “I don’t care what noble lineage she throws in your face. You could’ve run. You didn’t. You put yourself between a blade and my mother. And today, you stood there with a wound on your arm, proudly. Unapologetic.”

Carolina held my gaze, lips parted slightly like she hadn’t expected me to say it out loud.

But I was done pretending.

“I’ve known girls my whole life who’ve trained for crowns,” I said softly. “You’re the first one who made me want to wear one beside her.”

Her eyes flickered.

“I don’t know what happens next,” I added.

“The court’s going to retaliate. There will be rumors, sabotage. Maybe worse. But I do know this—if they make you a target again, I won’t be the Crown Prince in that moment. I’ll be the man who burns down every marble pillar in this palace if it means keeping you safe.”

She blinked once.

Then: “You have a flair for the dramatic.”

I let out a breath. “Occupational hazard.”

She finally smiled. Just a little.

And god, it felt like sunlight.

“I’m not asking for anything yet,” I said, my voice quieter. “I just needed you to know where I stand.”

Carolina nodded once.

“Then you better make sure your court knows it too.”

She stepped past me, slow and sure, her shoulders high.

But this time—I didn’t let her go.

I reached for her wrist.

Not roughly.

But to feel her.

To remind myself that she was still real—flesh and blood and wildfire.

She turned, startled but not afraid.

“Kael?”

The name barely left her mouth before I closed the distance.

“I shouldn’t,” I said, voice low. “I know I shouldn’t.”

“Then don’t,” she whispered.

But she didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away.

Didn’t breathe.

And I was already lost.

I reached up, fingers curling lightly against her jaw, brushing the faintest edge of the bruise marring her cheek. My thumb traced it slowly. Reverently. Like touching her pain might somehow lessen it.

“You drive me mad,” I said, hoarse.

Carolina tilted her chin up—defiant even now. “Good.”

And then I kissed her.

Not gently.

Not like a prince.

Like a man who had spent days imagining her broken and bloody in a palace corridor, and weeks before that imagining what it would feel like to have her this close again.

Her hands fisted in the front of my coat, lips parting on a breathless sound I felt down to my spine. She kissed me back with that same storm-force will, like she didn’t care about consequences, court politics, or crown protocol.

She kissed me like we might not survive the next hour.

And god—I kissed her like I didn’t care if we did.

The taste of her was defiance and hunger and something I didn’t have a name for. Her mouth was warm and trembling, but not uncertain.

Carolina Stanton never did anything halfway.

When we broke apart, it wasn’t clean.

Her fingers were still knotted in my jacket. My breath still caught on the taste of her name.

She stared up at me, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from my kiss, and fierce.

“I’m not yours,” she said softly.

“I know.”

“I might never be.”

“I’ll wait anyway.”

She blinked. Once. Then turned.

And this time, when she walked away—

I didn’t stop her.

Because even though the kiss had ended—

I knew the war had just begun.