Abigail and I were making our slow, ominous march to the dining hall like we were on our way to an execution—but, like, one with fancy plates and silverware.
“Do you think they’re going to poison us?” Abi asked, nudging me with her elbow. “Because if I die during dinner, please let me come back as a ghost who haunts Sir Demetrius's dreams.”
I smirked. “Just his dreams?”
“Okay, and maybe his bathwater.”
The heavy doors to the dining hall creaked open, and—*of course*—guess who was already inside, lounging like he owned the place?
Prince Kail.
Perched on the edge of his seat like a lazy cat with too much eyeliner. He had a goblet in one hand, one leg casually slung over the other, and the most punchable smirk known to man on his face.
“Ladies,” he purred as we entered. “Fashionably late, I see. I was beginning to think you were getting cold feet, Destiny. Or did you need help warming them up?”
Abigail gagged audibly. “Ugh, how are you *still* alive?”
Kail’s smirk grew. “Abi, always such a delight. Tell me, does sarcasm run in your blood or do you inject it directly into your veins?”
“At least I have blood,” she snapped. “Unlike you, cold-blooded little—”
“*Enough*,” I hissed, stepping between them like a weary kindergarten teacher separating two feral raccoons. “We are not brawling before duck.”
Kail gave me a long, appreciative look, his eyes dragging *way* too slowly down my outfit. “You know, Destiny, that dress… it’s criminal. I might need to have you *arrested*.”
I raised an eyebrow. “For what?”
He leaned in slightly, voice lowering to a smug purr. “For being the most distracting thing I’ve ever seen. Honestly, if you weren’t my fiancée, I’d have to claim you as a *war prize*.”
Abigail looked ready to grab the nearest butter knife and shiv him. I honestly considered letting her.
But before she could leap across the table, another voice slid in, low and velvety.
“I’d argue I’m more suited to claim her,” said General White, strolling in like he’d been lurking in the shadows waiting for his cue. “Your Highness.” He gave Kail a nod that was more insult than respect. “You flatter her like a poet. I prefer to *honor* her like a queen. A woman like Destiny deserves to be admired... in silence, in reverence. Not ogled like a dessert tray.”
Oh gods.
Kail scoffed. “Reverence? Is that what they’re calling creepy hand-kissing these days?”
“It’s called class,” General White said, smiling coolly. “Something you’ve mistaken for entitlement.”
“*Gentlemen!*” my father barked from the head of the table, setting his goblet down with a *thunk*. “Enough!”
The priest muttered behind his sleeve, “Oh dear. A love triangle.”
Abigail leaned in to whisper, “This is so romantic. Like, violently romantic. You’re the meat in a very aggressive man sandwich.”
I choked on a laugh and fanned my face. “Stop, I’m trying not to explode.”
Kail sat up straighter. “Your Majesty, I was told I was betrothed to your daughter. I deserve to know *why* this soldier is parading around as if she’s up for auction.”
General White crossed his arms. “Because I intend to *marry* her. I bring more to the table than a crown and a pout.”
“You bring *muscles and murder charges,*” Kail muttered.
“I bring *protection and power,*” White shot back.
“Gentlemen!” my father thundered again. “SILENCE.”
The room fell dead quiet except for the sound of someone—probably the priest—quietly chewing anxiety.
“My daughter,” the King continued, glaring at all three of us, “will not be passed around like some tavern prize. *I* will decide who she marries, when she marries, and if she marries at all.”
That wasn’t ominous. Not at all.
We sat. Finally. Plates were served—roast duck glazed in wine, creamy mashed potatoes with just the right amount of butter, and corn so sweet I briefly forgot I was in a romantic hostage situation.
Then Ivy, perched at the other end of the table, turned with a smile that practically bled calculation.
“If Destiny doesn’t want General White,” she said, voice sweet as poisoned tea, “I’d be more than *delighted* to marry him instead.”
The room went still.
Even the duck paused mid-chew.
General White didn’t miss a beat. He smiled at her. “That’s very… generous of you, Lady Ivy. But I’m afraid I seek fire, not *fragrance.*”
Ivy blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’re lovely, of course,” he said smoothly, “but I want a woman who wields a sword, not a fan.”
Abigail burst into laughter so hard she almost fell off her chair.
Ivy’s eye twitched. “So you’re saying—”
“I’m saying,” he cut in, swirling his wine, “that your sister has a spine. And that’s what interests me.”
“Oh gods,” I muttered. “Please stop complimenting me. It feels like being worshipped by a tax collector.”
The priest nodded solemnly. “Courtship truly is a holy battlefield.”
Kail rolled his eyes and muttered, “Then may the gods bless me with patience.”
I took a long drink of wine.
Dinner was still going—*unfortunately*.
The roast duck had lost its charm. The mashed potatoes had cooled. And I was starting to wonder if stuffing my ears with corn would drown out the testosterone leaking from every corner of the room.
I tried to focus on my food, cutting methodically through duck skin like it was the tension in the air. But even that wasn’t enough to stop Prince Kail’s voice from slicing through the moment like a buttered dagger.
“Well,” he said, sipping his wine with the elegance of a snake coiled around a goblet, “as *entertaining* as this dinner has been, I must say—*General White*, you have quite the romantic track record, don’t you?”
The table paused.
Abigail immediately dropped her fork, eyes wide. “Ohhh, here we go,” she muttered, grinning.
General White, unfazed as always, lifted his goblet. “Do enlighten us, Your Highness.”
Kail leaned forward, his smile just a little too pleased. “Let’s see… last year alone, you were engaged to what—three women?”
White’s jaw didn’t clench, but I *sensed* it wanted to.
“One,” Kail continued, holding up a finger, “challenged you to a duel and walked away with a broken wrist and a lifelong hatred of men.”
General White sipped his wine.
“Two,” Kail said, raising another finger, “was found in the royal chapel with a dagger and a *deeply unfortunate* love poem. Real messy.”
I dropped my knife.
“Three,” Kail added, drawing it out like he was recounting a bedtime story, “ran off in the middle of the night with a stable boy named Tomas. Word is, she said—and I quote—*‘I’d rather smell manure for the rest of my life than smell that man’s ego again.’*”
There was a beat of silence.
Then the priest choked on his wine. “Oh dear,” he gasped for the *second* time that evening.
Abigail let out a full laugh-snort combo and clutched her stomach. “TOMAS? Not the one with the stutter and the half-tooth?”
“Apparently he has *good arms,*” Kail said with a shrug.
I blinked at General White, who, to his credit, looked impressively unbothered. Like this was just another Thursday of his soul being publicly undressed.
“You done?” he asked Kail, voice calm but laced with razor edges.
“Just warming up,” Kail replied sweetly. “I’ve got a list.”
“I’m flattered you keep tabs,” White said coolly, placing his goblet down. “But unlike you, I don’t need to parade women around like medals to feel important.”
“I don’t parade them,” Kail said, smirking. “They follow me.”
“Well, then you must be made of breadcrumbs,” White shot back.
Abigail clutched my arm. “Okay, okay, that was actually hot.”
Ivy, for once, looked delighted. “Ooh, is someone going to throw a goblet? I love it when men fight. It makes the wine taste better.”
My father groaned into his hands. “Sweet gods above, *please*. This is a dinner table, not a coliseum!”
Kail leaned back with a grin. “Look, I’m just saying—Destiny’s not some game to win, White. You don’t just show up, kiss her hand like she’s your next assignment, and expect her to swoon.”
The general met my eyes for a long, unreadable moment. “You’re right,” he said slowly, voice low. “She’s not a prize. She’s a force. And I came here not to win her—but to *earn* her.”
Oh.
That shut Kail up.
Even Abigail blinked, stunned silent for two whole seconds—a new record.
But before anyone could say anything else, Ivy rolled her eyes dramatically and stabbed a piece of duck. “I still don’t understand why *I* can’t be in the running,” she said, flipping her hair. “I’m prettier, more refined, and I actually *like* men.”
Abigail snorted into her wine. “You *like* compliments and mirrors, Ivy. That’s not the same thing.”
“Ugh,” Ivy muttered. “This whole dinner is ridiculous.”
“Correct,” I muttered. “Can someone pass the bread before someone else gets emotionally stabbed?”
The priest, cheeks flushed, raised his goblet and muttered, “To love, loss, and leaked trauma.”
“Cheers,” Abigail chimed.
I just reached for another helping of corn, praying to the gods that dessert wouldn’t come with another surprise fiancé.
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