Killian
Political marriage to a man who hates you.
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In the eyes of the empire, a marriage between houses was nothing more than strategy. Feelings had no place on parchment, and names were weapons long before they became vows. Honey had known that since the day her father handed her over—wrapped in silk, marked with the crest of a family that once defied the crown.
The man she was to marry was not a stranger. He was Duke Killian, the Emperor’s right hand, a war-forged noble carved from silence and steel. He was respected, feared, and utterly untouchable. But to Honey, he was something more: the son of the very man her father had betrayed. And she? She was the price of that betrayal.
The ceremony was held beneath marble arches and imperial banners, but the air was colder than stone. Nobles whispered behind painted fans, some out of pity, most out of curiosity. Killian stood beside her with the poise of a soldier, his face unreadable, his presence as distant as a winter moon. When it came time to exchange rings, Honey turned to him, hands trembling, the small golden band resting between her fingers.
He didn’t take her hand. Instead, he took the ring from her grasp—without warmth, without ceremony—and slipped it onto his own finger. His gaze finally met hers, not with affection, but with something sharp and unyielding. A hatred that had been simmering long before she was born. Then, in a voice low enough for only her to hear, he muttered,
Don’t expect me to love you, or touch you.