Page 51 of Modern Romance June 2025 1-4

Trapped first by her name and then by his.

Trapped by a crown and by the ring he’d told her he’d get for her later.

She didn’t know how the whole thing had happened so fast, or what she’d done to have fate imprison her so completely like this. It was wrong. Even the concession she’d managed to get from him—that he’d let her go once he had no more need of her—didn’t feel like one.

But really, the wedding wasn’t even the worst part of what had happened in the throne room. The worst part had been when he’d stalked down that dais and come close to her, and then had put a finger beneath her chin and tilted her head back.

He’d seemed so tall to her, and so broad, overshadowing her like an oak tree, and she’d been expecting cold fear to run through her the way it always had whenever she’d caught the notice of her father and brothers.

Except this time it hadn’t. The touch of his finger on her skin had felt scorching, creating an odd tension inside her that had fear as one of its components, yet also something else. Something…more. A kind of anticipatory excitement that had made her skin feel tight and her heartbeat sound loud in her ears.

The intensity she’d seen in his silvery eyes as he’d looked at her had called to a part of her she hadn’t realised was even there, and abruptly she’d become very, very aware of him. Of not just his height, or the broad width of his shoulders, but the gleam of the crown against his black hair. The curve of his bottom lip. The stretch of his army fatigues over his muscled chest. The warmth of him, so at odds with those icy eyes, and the scent of him—something fresh and outdoorsy, reminding her of the sun and the sea and the wind that blew between them.

She didn’t understand why his nearness had felt that way, because by rights she should have been terrified.

Perhaps she was getting braver.

Or perhaps you were just stupid.

Guinevere thrust the thought away and all her strange feelings with it. They didn’t matter anyway—not when he’d made it clear that the only times she’d see him was for public appearances. That was agoodthing. The less she saw of him the better.

The walk back through the winding palace corridors wasn’t easy. They were horribly familiar, these corridors. She’d been walking them all her life and she hated every inch of them. They were a both a maze and a prison, marking the boundaries of the small, insignificant life she’d had within these walls. A prison she’d thought she’d be free of today, and yet—

No, there was no point thinking about that. One day she’d get out of here. Eventually, she would.

She swallowed, shaking her hands to ease the tension that drew tighter and tighter the more they walked. Because she was starting to understand where she was being taken, and every cell of her being rebelled.

‘My room is down there,’ she said tentatively to the guard as they passed by a branch in the hallway.

‘I was not instructed to take you to your room,’ the guard answered, without even looking at her.

‘But all my things are there and—’

‘I was instructed to take you to the royal apartments,’ the guard said without inflection, making it clear that he was going to follow those instructions come hell or high water.

Guinevere swallowed again, her throat closing.

The royal apartments. Where her father had lived. Where her brothers had once hunted her down and where she’d hidden, almost wetting herself with fear.

That same fear seemed to grip her now, her breath catching, her fingertips going numb. She hadn’t had a panic attack for months, but today she had clearly pushed things too far—because she felt close to one now.

She tried to ignore the feeling as the guard stopped outside the big double doors that led to the royal apartments, yet the fear kept on rising, swamping her.

The guard pulled the doors open and waited, making it clear she was expected to walk inside.

Dread slid through her like a fine sliver of glass, cold and cutting. She wanted to tell the guard that she couldn’t possibly stay here, that she needed to go to her own room, but there was no give in the man’s expression.

Come on, pull yourself together. It’s just a room. Also, there is an escape, don’t forget.

Yes, there was. She didn’t have to stay if she didn’t want to. And also her father was gone, and so were her brothers. There was no one left to frighten her any more.

No one except the King. Your husband.

Guinevere shoved that particular reality aside and forced herself to cross the threshold, walking through the doors into the private receiving room beyond.

This room wasn’t as much of a mess as the throne room, but there were signs of a hurried tidy-up. A mound of what looked like shattered pottery in one corner. A priceless Persian silk rug in front of the fireplace stained. There were a few pictures missing, also, and in one place the panelling on the walls had been kicked in.

The doors shut heavily behind her, then the lock clicked, and no matter how much she tried to resist it panic closed cold, sharp talons around her throat.

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