All Chapters of The Knight's Claimed Bride : Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

Rebecca’s POV “You always do this,” I whispered. Gideon’s eyes narrowed, though his voice stayed infuriatingly calm. “Do what?” “You act like I should be grateful. Like I should wear these chains and smile. You don’t even ask me what I want—you just decide for me.” My chest was tight, my voice trembling. “That’s what the Queen does, Gideon. And when you act like this, you sound just like her.” Something flickered dangerously in his eyes. “Don’t compare me to her.” “Then stop making me feel like I don’t get to want anything,” I shot back, fists clenched. “I didn’t ask for this—no. But I didn’t ask for you to choose everything for me, either.” His silence was heavier than shouting. His body was iron, but his eyes burned like fire. Finally, his voice came low and sharp: “If I hadn’t decided, Rebecca, you’d be dead by now.” The truth of it knocked the air from me. The Queen. The love potion. Kalali Vierent’s arrow—and the bruises she left on my wrist. Every moment since this began

Rebecca’s POV The voices of the women still clung to me long after I slipped back into Gideon’s quarters. They’d talked of battles, of a commander called Red—feared, clever, unstoppable. I didn’t know all the details, not really. Just enough to know that he had once been Gideon’s equal, and the thought made my stomach twist with unease. I set my mother’s book on the bed, pressing a palm to its worn cover as if the leather could hold me steady. The quiet from the hall seeped into the room, heavy and familiar, and I traced the margins of the pages with trembling fingers, half-reading, half-wishing my mother were still here to whisper the words herself. My eyes burned, and exhaustion pulled me down with the book still cradled against my chest. When I woke, it was to the heavy shuffle of boots outside the door. A knock. “My lady.” One of the guards. “Commander’s orders.” I blinked the sleep away, still wrapped in the dream of my mother’s script, until he stepped inside with folded c

Rebecca's POV Days slipped by almost unnoticed, carried on the rhythm of clashing swords, marching drills, and Gideon’s ever-watchful presence. The border remained tense but quiet, the threat of war hanging like a dark cloud just beyond the horizon. The Queen, distracted by reports and strategies, left us to our routines, though her scrutiny never fully vanished. Training became both my refuge and my torment. Each day, Gideon pushed me harder than I thought I could endure, alternating between that cold, inflexible commander and the man who lingered just long enough in my presence to make my chest ache. Some mornings, Gideon barely spoke a word, issuing commands in clipped tones, eyes sharp and unrelenting. Other times, he would lean just close enough to adjust my stance, his hand brushing mine, his voice low and private: reminders, small and careful, that in the chaos of the palace and the drills, he was still here. Still mine. And all the while, my heart raced with the memory of

Rebecca's POV I finally stood before him, heart hammering in a rhythm I couldn’t control. Gideon stood perfectly still, as he always did, the Knight Commander in full regalia. The armor gleamed faintly under the hall’s light, silver against black, but it did nothing to soften the sharp line of his jaw, the rigid set of his shoulders. To anyone else, he looked untouchable. To me… he looked like the man who had just shattered my world. I couldn’t breathe when I thought of it. Couldn’t look at him without seeing the flames. And yet—gods help me—I still loved him. That was the cruelest part of it all. I kept my eyes low, not daring to meet his. If I looked too long, I would see everything I didn’t want to see. But I could feel him. I could feel the way his eyes lingered, sharp and searching, as if he knew something I couldn’t say. When I lifted my gaze at last, it wasn’t to him—it was to her. The Queen. The woman who had ordered it all. She sat watching, her smile sharp and patie

Gideon’s POV — Ten Years Ago The halls still smelled of steel and wax polish. Too clean. Too polished. Too foreign. My father had been buried a fortnight ago, and still I walked as though his shadow were at my back, as though his voice were waiting around the next corner to cut me down. But there was only silence. I was seventeen, armored but unsteady. A knight, they called me now. The blade on my hip was too large, too heavy, yet I carried it as though it could disguise the hollow in me. My father had wanted this, had carved me into this shape, and then left me to bear it alone. And that was when I saw her. A woman striding through the palace corridors like she belonged there, though she wore no crown. Her hair bound tight, her robes dusted with ash and herbs, her hands ink-stained. Isabelle Rosewyn. Mistress Rosewyn, they called her—the potion master who even the Queen begrudged needing. She carried the air of someone who bent the world to her pace, not the other way around.