Chapter Five: The Warlord Bride

The kingdom of Eldoria was drowning in fire.

Flames roared against the night sky, licking the stone walls as if hungry for their collapse. Smoke choked the air, thick and bitter, while the shrieks of the dying rose above the clash of swords. The banners of Eldoria, once proud with golden lions, were trampled into the mud beneath iron boots. The barbarian horde swept through the streets like a tide of blood and steel.

They had come without warning, thundering from the northern wastes. And at their head rode the man whispered about in frightened voices across every border. The Warlord.

Princess Serenya stood in the great hall of the castle, her body pressed against the cold marble column of the dais where her father’s throne sat empty. The king was dead. Her brothers were dead. The guards who had sworn to defend her until their last breath lay scattered across the floor, their blood soaking into the cracks of the stone. She clutched the silk of her gown in shaking fists, her wide eyes fixed on the heavy oak doors.

Each slam against them rattled her bones. Each crash of iron from outside told her the last barrier between her and the conqueror was failing. She wanted to pray, to scream, to run, but her legs would not obey. She was a trapped animal waiting for the predator.

The doors cracked. Splinters shot across the hall. With a thunderous boom they burst open, and the Warlord strode into the chamber.

He filled the doorway like a beast from another world. Broad shoulders draped in wolf pelts, leather harness strapped tight across a chest corded with muscle. His skin was smeared with blood, not his own. In one hand he carried a great sword that still dripped from the lives it had ended. His dark hair clung damp with sweat and smoke, and his eyes burned with the wild light of a predator who had claimed the hunt.

Serenya’s breath caught. She had grown up hearing tales of the northern tribes, the monsters said to feast on the blood of their enemies and steal away women as offerings to their gods. She had laughed at those tales once. Now the embodiment of them walked toward her, slow and deliberate, each step echoing through the vast chamber as if the stones themselves acknowledged his dominion.

Her back pressed harder into the cold marble. She tried to speak, her lips parting, but her voice was lost.

The Warlord’s gaze swept the hall, then locked on her. He tilted his head slightly, the faintest curve touching his mouth as though he had discovered treasure more valuable than all the gold in the vaults.

“You are the princess,” his voice rolled through the hall, deep and rough, his accent curling the words into something both foreign and dangerous.

Her throat worked. “Please… I am-“

“Mine.”

The single word cut through the chaos like steel.

He dropped the sword with a heavy clang that rang through the chamber. The sound made her flinch, but before she could retreat further, he was on her. His hand gripped her arm, hot and unyielding, dragging her into his shadow. His heat radiated through the silk of her gown, branding her as thoroughly as if he had already taken her.

He lowered his head, inhaling, his nose brushing over the crown of her hair. The growl that rumbled from his chest was deep and primal, a sound that made her knees tremble. “You are no prize of war,” he murmured, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. “You are my bride.”

Before she could gather a thought, his mouth claimed hers.

It was not the gentle kiss she had dreamed of in secret, the polite brush of lips she had endured from noble suitors. This was a conquest. His tongue forced past her lips, tasting her deeply, taking what he wanted. His hand crushed against the curve of her hip, dragging her flush against the hard wall of his body.

Serenya gasped, her hands pressing weakly against his chest, but he did not move. The more she resisted, the hungrier he became. His mouth devoured her with a ferocity that terrified her and stirred a heat low in her belly that she had never known.

When he broke the kiss, it was only to drag his mouth down her throat. His teeth scraped the delicate skin, then bit until she cried out. His tongue soothed the sting, his growl vibrating against her skin. “The gods gave you to me,” he said, voice thick with possession. “Not even death will take you from me.”

His hands roamed her body as though claiming every part. He cupped her waist, her breasts, her thighs, memorizing her with his touch. Her gown, fine silk woven for courts and dances, meant nothing to him. With a brutal tug, he tore the bodice apart, fabric ripping like paper. Cool air rushed against her bare skin, her nipples tightening instantly under his burning gaze.

She tried to cover herself, shame flooding her cheeks, but he caught her wrists and pinned them high against the column. His eyes blazed as they drank her in. “Do not hide from me. I want to see all of you. I will have all of you.”

His mouth closed over her breast, sucking hard until her back arched and her knees buckled. The wet heat of his tongue flicked her peak, sending waves of pleasure spiraling through her. She whimpered, her body betraying her, hips shifting toward him without thought. His answering growl told her he felt her surrender.

“You burn for me already,” he rumbled. He released one wrist, sliding his hand down her belly, lower still, until his fingers found the slick heat beneath her skirts. She gasped, jerking against him, but he held her pinned as his fingers teased and stroked. “So wet. So ready. Your body betrays you, little bride.”

Tears blurred her vision, torn between shame and an aching desire she could not smother. She had been raised to be pure, untouched until a court-approved marriage. Yet here she was, moaning under the hand of a savage conqueror, her body yielding against her will.

With a growl of satisfaction, he lifted her easily, her legs wrapping helplessly around his waist. His strength carried her across the chamber to the throne. He dropped her onto it, silk pooling around her torn bodice, her bare skin glowing in the firelight.

The throne of her father became her altar of ruin.

The Warlord loomed over her, untying the straps of his leather, until his arousal sprang free, thick and demanding. Her eyes widened, a cry slipping from her lips.

“You will take me,” he vowed, pressing himself against her entrance. “And when you cry my name, all who survive will know you are mine.”

Her hands pressed against his chest, but this was not resistance. It was desperation, confusion, the faint instinct to delay the storm. He caught her face in his hands, kissed her with brutal passion, and thrust inside her in one merciless stroke.

Her scream echoed through the hall, mingling with the crackle of flames and the moans of the dying beyond the walls. He did not pause. His hips drove into hers again and again, each movement rough, relentless, claiming her deeper with every thrust. The throne shook beneath them as his power consumed her.

Serenya clung to his shoulders, nails raking his skin. Her cries turned to gasps, then to moans, as pleasure twisted with pain. He bit her lip, her neck, her shoulder, branding her with every mark. His breath was ragged against her ear. “Say it,” he growled. “Say you are mine.”

She shook her head, tears streaking her cheeks, but her body betrayed her again, clenching tightly around him, pulling him deeper. His thrusts grew harder, faster, until her moans broke into cries of ecstasy she could not silence.

Her climax crashed over her, wild and consuming, shuddering through every nerve. He roared his triumph, slamming into her one final time as he spilled himself inside her, filling her completely, claiming her utterly.

The hall reeked of smoke, blood, and sex. Her body trembled against the throne, her silks torn, her skin marked. The Warlord held her close, his chest heaving, his mouth sealing hers in a bruising kiss.

“You are mine, Princess,” he whispered against her lips, his voice a vow of chains. “From this night forward, you are the bride of a warlord.”

And as the kingdom burned to ash around them, Serenya knew there would be no escape. His claim was absolute, and her life as she knew it had ended.