I won’t fall for the queen who burned my world

The door to Elysia's chambers closed behind Malvoria with a soft, final click, but the image of the princess standing there in that infernal dress clung to her like smoke.

She walked through the castle corridors without direction, each step driven by restless energy that refused to dissipate.

Her body was tense, her thoughts tangled. The silk of that gown the way it hugged Elysia's body, the way the crimson flames curved along her waist and flared at the hem was etched into her mind like a curse.

And the look on Elysia's face when she'd touched the embroidery. The flush of anger in her cheeks. The stubborn tilt of her chin. The sharp intake of breath when Malvoria's fingers grazed the silk.

Malvoria clenched her jaw.

She shouldn't care.

Shouldn't want.

But the memory of that moment—the heat of Elysia's skin just beneath the fabric, the faint shudder of her breath—had burrowed beneath her skin.

You can't run from this.

She'd said the words to Elysia. But the truth was that she was the one running.

Her pulse quickened as her mind, unbidden and disobedient, conjured images she shouldn't be entertaining.

The dress torn and crumpled on the floor.

Elysia pressed against the wall, hair mussed, lips parted.

That sharp defiance in her eyes softened into something else.

Her breath caught.

Heat coiled low in her abdomen, spreading with alarming intensity. Her hands flexed at her sides. The tension in her body shifted into something darker—something primal and possessive.

The desire to take burned hot and sharp. To break through that icy resistance. To leave her own mark on that soft skin.

Malvoria ground her teeth together, willing the thoughts away.

Fuck.

Her body betrayed her all the same. The ache of arousal was unmistakable, pressing against the inside of her trousers like a brand of shame.

She cursed under her breath.

She needed control.

She needed an outlet.

Now.

Malvoria turned sharply and strode toward the training grounds, barking an order to the nearest guard as she passed. "Assemble the commanders. Now."

The guard paled but nodded, rushing off to carry out her command.

By the time Malvoria reached the courtyard, the soldiers were already gathering. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the packed earth. The air smelled of sweat, steel, and scorched leather.

The moment they saw her, the murmurs started.

The last time she'd come here unannounced, she'd left three commanders concussed and a dozen soldiers too bruised to stand.

Malvoria shed her coat, tossing it to the ground. Her tunic clung to her torso, damp with sweat already from the restless heat coiling inside her. She drew her twin swords from the scabbards strapped across her back. The dark steel gleamed under the sun, the runes etched along the blades pulsing faintly.

"Form up," she barked.

The soldiers hesitated, glancing at one another.

"Now."

The courtyard scrambled into action. Three commanders stepped forward—hardened veterans with scars etched into their skin and war-weariness in their eyes. They exchanged wary glances, clearly recalling the bruising lesson of the last session.

"Attack me," Malvoria said. "Together."

The soldiers hesitated.

"She said attack," barked Tharix, who'd just arrived. "Unless you'd prefer a private audience with her later."

That lit the spark.

The commanders moved.

The first charged from the left, raising his broadsword in a downward arc. Malvoria met the strike with her right blade, the clash of steel ringing through the courtyard. She twisted, disengaging with a sharp flick that sent the man stumbling.

The second came from behind. She spun, ducking beneath his sweeping strike. Her knee shot upward, connecting with his ribs. He collapsed with a strangled grunt.

The third tried a feint—a clever shift from high to low—but Malvoria saw it. She sidestepped, let his blade skim the edge of her tunic, then brought her sword pommel down on his wrist. The crack of bone shattered the air. The sword clattered to the ground.

"Pathetic," she spat.

The first commander regained his footing and lunged again. His sword aimed for her exposed side.

Malvoria let him get close.

At the last moment, she twisted, caught his wrist with her free hand, and slammed her forehead into his nose. Blood sprayed across the dirt.

He crumpled, groaning.

The last soldier standing raised his blade, eyes wide with desperation.

Malvoria tilted her head, inviting the strike.

He roared and swung with both hands.

She parried easily, then stepped into his guard, driving her elbow into his sternum. As he gasped for air, she disarmed him with a flick of her wrist.

The dark steel of her sword kissed his throat.

"Too slow," she murmured.

His hands rose in surrender.

She dropped her blade.

The courtyard was silent save for the ragged breathing of the fallen.

The watching soldiers shifted uneasily.

Malvoria stood over the bodies, chest heaving, sweat slicking her skin. Her muscles ached with exertion.

The restlessness hadn't abated.

The heat still simmered beneath her skin.

She turned on her heel and left the courtyard without a word.

The hallways blurred past her, her footsteps echoing through the stone corridors. Her mind refused to quiet. The scent of lavender and silk still lingered in her senses.

Before she realized it, she was standing outside her mother's quarters.

Her fist rapped against the door once before it opened as if Veylira had been expecting her.

The older woman stood there, dressed in flowing navy robes embroidered with silver constellations. Her sharp grey eyes met Malvoria's with amusement.

"Daughter," Veylira greeted, stepping aside. "Come in."

Malvoria stalked into the room, the familiar scent of jasmine filling her nostrils.

"What the hell are you doing?" she demanded, turning on her mother. "Why are you pushing this wedding so hard?"

Veylira arched a delicate brow. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Because it's unnecessary." Malvoria gestured toward the window, where the courtyard below bustled with wedding preparations. "The dress. The flowers. The endless plans. It's absurd."

Veylira glided across the room, poured herself a glass of wine, and took a measured sip before answering. "Marriage is more than strategy, Malvoria."

"No," Malvoria said coldly. "It's exactly that. A strategy. An heir. Nothing more."

Her mother gave a knowing smile. "Is that what you tell yourself?"

Malvoria's pulse jumped. "It's the truth."

"Is it?" Veylira set her glass down and turned, folding her hands before her. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're circling that girl like a predator that doesn't know if it wants to devour or protect its prey."

Malvoria stiffened. "Don't—"

"You think I didn't see it?" Veylira's voice softened. "That look you gave her in the fitting room? You're not planning to discard her after the heir is born."

"I don't care about her."

"No?" Veylira smiled, stepping closer. "Then why did you pick the dress design yourself? Why did you schedule the wedding in two weeks instead of two months?"

"Because it needs to be done."

"Because you're afraid," Veylira said softly. "Afraid of what she'll make you feel if you wait any longer."

Malvoria's jaw tightened. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know you," Veylira whispered. "I know what you look like when you're trying to lie to yourself."

The words struck like a slap.

Malvoria's breath caught.

She turned sharply and strode to the door.

"Malvoria," her mother called after her.

She paused, hand on the handle.

"You need her more than you realize," Veylira said. "And that terrifies you."

Malvoria didn't answer.

She yanked the door open and left.

Her mother's words followed her like shadows.

And no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't shake the memory of Elysia's flushed cheeks and the silk flames wrapping around her waist.