I force myself to smile as I accept the fresh roses Knox has delivered to my door, their crimson petals still damp with morning dew. The scent is overwhelming—sweet and cloying in a way that makes my stomach turn. But I cradle them carefully, letting appreciation soften my features as I breathe in their fragrance.

"They're beautiful," I murmur, glancing up at Knox through my lashes. The hope that flickers in his green eyes makes something twist in my chest, but I push the feeling down. "Thank you."

His face lights up like I've just handed him the crown jewels. "I thought you might like the red ones better than the white," he says, stepping closer until his cedar and storm rain scent mingles with the roses. "They reminded me of your training leathers."

The detail shouldn't touch me, but it does. He's been paying attention, noticing what I wear, what I might prefer. It's exactly the kind of thoughtfulness that would have made my heart flutter a few days ago.

Now it just makes the deception taste more bitter on my tongue.

"I love them," I lie smoothly, bringing the bouquet to my nose again. "I should put them in water."

Knox lingers in my doorway, clearly reluctant to leave. Over the past three days, these moments have been growing longer, more comfortable. I've been careful to let my guard down incrementally—a genuine laugh here, a moment of eye contact there. All calculated to make him believe I'm slowly warming to him.

The plan is working perfectly. Knox has started seeking me out during training instead of avoiding my gaze. Yesterday, he suggested we take our evening meal together in his private study, and I agreed with just the right amount of shy hesitation. He's falling for the act completely.

"This isn't an act anymore, and you know it," Aria's voice whispers from the depths of my mind, carefully controlled but edged with warning.

I sever the connection before she can elaborate. I don't need her constant doubts undermining my resolve.

"I should let you get ready for training," Knox says finally, though he makes no move to leave.

"Of course." I pause at the perfect moment, letting my fingers brush against his as I adjust my grip on the roses. The contact sends an unwanted spark up my arm, but I use it, letting my breath catch just slightly. "I'll see you on the field."

His smile could power the entire castle. "I'll be the one trying not to stare at you the whole time."

The admission should make me cringe, but instead, heat blooms in my cheeks. Focus, I remind myself as he finally walks away. Remember why you're here.

***

Two hours later, I'm regretting every moment of softness I've allowed myself to show.

The training sword feels heavier than usual in my grip, my movements sluggish as I face off against Gray, one of Knox's more experienced warriors. Sweat drips down my spine despite the cool morning air, and my breathing is labored in a way that has nothing to do with physical exertion.

I can't stop thinking about the way Knox smiled at me this morning. The genuine joy in his expression when I accepted his flowers. The careful attention he pays to what I might like, what might make me happy.

He's the enemy, I remind myself fiercely as Gray lunges forward with his practice blade. His father murdered your family.

But even as I parry his strike, doubt creeps in like poison. Knox treats his guards with respect, never using his royal status to belittle or humiliate. He asks about their families, remembers their names, shows genuine concern for their wellbeing. These aren't the actions of a man raised by a monster.

Unless he's just better at hiding it.

My hesitation costs me. Gray's blade slips past my defense, and I twist desperately to avoid the blow. My foot catches on an uneven patch of ground, and suddenly I'm falling, my ankle twisting beneath me with a sickening pop.

Pain explodes up my leg like liquid fire. A cry tears from my throat as I hit the packed earth, my training sword clattering away across the dirt.

"Aubrey!" Knox's voice cuts through the morning air, sharp with panic.

Before I can even try to sit up, he's there, dropping to his knees beside me with complete disregard for his royal attire. His hands hover over my body, checking for injuries without actually touching me—a consideration that makes my chest tight.

"Where does it hurt?" His voice is gentle but urgent, his green eyes scanning my form with the focus of a healer.

"My ankle," I manage through gritted teeth, trying to push myself upright. "It's fine, I just need—"

"Like hell you're fine." The authority in his voice brooks no argument as he slides one arm beneath my knees, the other supporting my back. "We're getting you looked at."

Before I can protest, he's lifting me effortlessly from the ground. My world tilts as he stands, carrying me against his chest like I weigh nothing at all. His warmth seeps through my training leathers, and despite the pain radiating from my ankle, my pulse quickens at the intimate contact.

"Knox, I can walk," I mutter, hyper-aware of the curious stares from the other warriors. "This is embarrassing."

"I don't care." His grip tightens protectively. "You're hurt."

The simple statement, delivered with such fierce conviction, does something dangerous to my resolve. This isn't political calculation or royal duty—this is genuine concern, the kind of protective instinct that comes from actually caring about someone.

Don't read into it, I warn myself. He's your mate. Of course he feels protective.

But even as I try to dismiss it, heat spreads through my chest at the way he holds me. Secure, gentle, like I'm something precious that needs safeguarding.

Knox carries me through the castle corridors, ignoring the surprised looks from servants and nobles alike. His jaw is set with determination, his steps sure and steady despite my weight in his arms. The scent of him—cedar and storm rain mixed with the musk of exertion—surrounds me like a cocoon.

Instead of taking me to the infirmary as I expect, he pushes through the doors of his private office. The room is warm and masculine, all dark wood and leather, with maps and documents scattered across a massive oak desk. Afternoon sunlight streams through tall windows, casting everything in golden relief.

Knox settles me carefully on the leather sofa, propping pillows behind my back before kneeling beside my injured ankle. His touch is feather-light as he carefully removes my boot, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Tell me if this hurts," he murmurs, his fingers probing gently around the swollen joint.

The contact sends sparks shooting up my leg that have nothing to do with injury. My skin feels too tight, too sensitive, every brush of his fingertips electric. When he cups my heel in his palm to test the range of motion, I have to bite back a gasp that has nothing to do with pain.

What is wrong with me?

My nipples tighten beneath my training leathers, pressing against the fabric in a way that makes me grateful for the loose fit. Between my legs, a different kind of ache builds, warm and insistent and completely inappropriate given the circumstances.

Knox's hands still suddenly, his nostrils flaring as he catches my scent. When his eyes meet mine, they're dark with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

"Aubrey," he says, my name rough on his tongue.

The air between us crackles with tension, thick enough to taste. His hands are still cradling my ankle, but the touch has shifted from clinical to intimate. I can see the exact moment his restraint begins to fray, the way his pupils dilate as he struggles against whatever he's feeling.

"This is the mate bond," Aria says smugly, her presence suddenly sharp and clear in my mind. "Your body recognizes its match, even when your mind tries to deny it."

I shove her voice away, but the damage is done. The truth of her words settles in my bones like recognition. My body is responding to Knox not because of manipulation or acting, but because every cell in my being recognizes him as mine.

The realization terrifies me.

"I should get some ice for the swelling," Knox says abruptly, releasing my ankle and standing in one fluid motion. But he doesn't move away—just stands there staring down at me with an expression I can't quite read.

"Knox—"

"I have something to tell you," he interrupts, his voice carefully controlled. "Something I should have mentioned earlier."

Unease prickles along my spine. "What?"

He runs a hand through his dark hair, messing the carefully styled strands. "I want you to meet my family. Properly, I mean. As my intended Luna."

The words hit me like ice water. Alpha King. The phrase echoes in my mind like a death knell, making my hands clench into fists before I can stop myself.

King Alexander. The man whose face haunts my nightmares, whose voice ordered the slaughter of everyone I loved. Knox wants me to sit across a dinner table from my family's murderer and make polite conversation.

The irony is almost too perfect. The killer meeting his victim's daughter, never knowing she's planning his downfall.

I force my expression to remain neutral, even as rage builds in my chest like wildfire. "When?"

"Tonight." Knox watches my face carefully, searching for some reaction I'm determined not to give him. "It's just a family dinner. Nothing formal."

Just a family dinner. With the monster who destroyed my world.

I let a smile curve my lips, soft and genuine-looking. "I'd love to meet them."

The relief that floods Knox's features is immediate and overwhelming. He steps closer, his hand lifting as if to touch my face before he catches himself and lets it fall.

"Thank you," he says simply. "This means everything to me."

It means everything to me too, I think as I hold his gaze. Just not in the way you think.