Could you pleasee write something about Xaden Riorson cause I just love that men and I love your writing💕
I saw this and immediately said, “Okay—but what kind of drama can we stir up with it?” So here we are. Thank you so much for your support. I promise there’s plenty more Xaden where that came from. x.riorson x tauri!reader Part Two
Was it a secret that the Princess of Navarre was spoiled?
Gods, no. Everyone knew it. The kingdom whispered it like a warning and a prayer, that the youngest of the first-borns, the only current Crown Princess, had everything handed to her on a gilded plate. Silk gowns, jeweled hairpins, tutors flown in from the capital and beyond.
But Cam—Cam was the only one you really got along with. The only one who saw an older sister.
And he was the one who told you the news. Who—offhandedly, as if it was just some political footnote—mentioned that your father was trying to marry you off to the King of Deverelli. ‘In good faith’ apparently.
So yes, you ran. Slipped through the palace halls like a shadow, packed only what you could carry, cut your hair to your shoulders with the same blade that now rested on your thigh.
And no one stopped you. Because no one suspected a thing.
To the kingdom, the Crown Princess didn’t vanish into the night—she fell “gravely ill,” too weak to be seen. Bedridden. A tragic occurrence in the aftermath of Prince Alic’s death. Oh, the royal family was surely cursed. Poor Crown Prince Halden. First his twin slain, now his twin sister withering away behind silk-curtained windows. The gossip was delicious.
But the truth?
You had slipped into the Riders Quadrant under a false name, a year older than the rest of your year, blending in with a cohort of freshbloods too busy trying to survive to ask many questions.
The leathers chafed at first. The hair against your neck felt foreign without its silk ribbons. But the sword on your hip? The dagger tucked into your boot? Those felt right.
And when your Red Swordtail picked you—when she looked at you and chose you—you knew you’d never go back. Not willingly.
Especially not when Xaden Riorson started looking at you like he saw straight through every layer of disguise.
Not even when you started looking back.
Because if the kingdom ever found out that their precious Crown Princess wasn’t just alive and well but fraternizing with the great betrayer’s son?
It would be the kind of scandal that topples monarchies.
But no one knew. Not even Xaden. Not really.
You hadn’t told a soul your real name. Not the other riders. Not your squad. Not the boy whose shadows curled too close whenever you got too hurt.
Only your dragon knew. She’d seen it all—your grief, your fear, your fury. And she'd kept your secrets with a glint in her eye that promised she'd burn the whole kingdom down before she'd ever let them take you back.
And Xaden?
It really hadn’t been that hard to fall for him.
Not when he spent your first month pretending he didn’t care whether you lived or died—as long as you didn’t drag the rest of the squad down with you.
Not when he coldly pointed out your weaknesses in front of everyone like he was reading a report.
Not when he muttered corrections under his breath during sparring drills, like he couldn’t help himself.
Gods, he was infuriating. And he was right.
Because that’s the thing—Xaden Riorson never wasted time. Not on pleasantries, not on weakness.
So when he started pulling you aside after hours, correcting your stance, showing you how to angle your weight to drive a blade home—
When he didn’t stop you from collapsing on the training mats but crouched beside you afterward, voice low and shadow-laced, saying, “Get up. You’re not done yet.”
That was when you knew.
Because Xaden didn’t waste time on things he didn’t think would survive. And he sure as hell didn’t teach people how to win unless he wanted them alive.
Which meant he wanted you alive.
And for the longest time, you didn’t know why.
Not until you started catching his gaze every time you won a challenge. The way his eyes lingered just a second too long—not impressed, but watching, like he was cataloging every move you made. Like he was memorizing you. Every strength you tried to hide, every weakness you refused to let show.
He never said anything. Never praised you. But his silence wasn’t the kind that dismissed—it was the kind that noticed.
Not until you started seeking him out on purpose. Going out of your way to say good morning, even when he rarely answered. Just to see if you could make him crack the smallest smile. And maybe once or twice, when no one else was looking, you did.
Not until you stopped flinching at the marks inked across everyone’s skin. Stopped pretending you didn’t know what they meant.
Even though you never understood—never could understand—how killing their parents was supposed to prove anything.
Because somewhere in the middle of all that distance and danger, something shifted.
It was in the way his voice changed when he spoke to you—still pointed, but no longer cruel. In the way his shadows hovered just a little closer after you got tossed during sparring, flickering against your wrist like they were checking for broken bones.
It was in the quiet between drills, when he stood closer than necessary. When his gaze dropped—not to assess, but to see.
Not until you found yourself backed against the cold stone of a shadow-laced hallway, breath catching as the air thickened around you.
He wasn’t touching you. Not yet. But his eyes were molten and unreadable, like he was waging a war inside himself and losing fast.
Then his mouth was on yours—rough and desperate and so careful, like he wasn’t sure he deserved this, but needed it all the same.
He kissed you like he was trying to breathe. Like he’d been holding his breath for months. Like you were the first thing that ever felt real.
And you kissed him back like you’d been waiting your whole life to be chosen—not for your crown or your name, but for you. For the girl who’d carved herself out of ashes and made a new name fit like armor.
He didn’t know your secrets. Didn’t know your bloodline or your history.
But he saw you. All of you.
And wanted you all the same.
And for a while, it had been perfect.
Not easy. Not gentle. But real—raw in a way that left you breathless and aching and desperate for more.
It started small. Stolen glances across the sparring mats. A hand on your back that lingered half a second too long. Shadows curling like smoke around your ankles when you were too still, too silent, too far away.
But then came the other things. The quiet things.
Xaden Riorson loved chocolate.
Like—actually loved it. Not just tolerated it, but hoarded it. Would trade for it in secret. Smuggled pieces back to you like it was contraband. You’d caught him once, sitting on the edge of your bed with a napkin-wrapped square of dark chocolate and a completely unbothered expression.
“What?” he said, when you stared. “I’m a grown man with stress. Let me have this.”
You learned that he slept with one arm thrown over his face, like he hated being vulnerable even in dreams. That he wasn’t a fan of the cold but would always give you his jacket without comment. That he preferred old books with cracked spines and spent hours sketching things he never let anyone else see—battle formations, dragons in flight, once even you when he thought you weren’t looking.
And gods, the way he touched you—always with control, always with intent. As if he didn’t want to want you, but couldn’t help it anymore.
He never pushed. Never took. Always asked.
But once you gave—once you pulled him in and whispered yes—He was devastating.
All rough hands and low groans, reverent kisses pressed to the hollow of your throat, like he couldn’t believe you were his. Like he needed to prove it with every touch.
And afterward, when you curled beneath the sheets and felt his shadows wrap around the both of you like smoke and silk, he would rest his forehead against yours and whisper things he’d never admit in daylight. Things like you scare the shit out of me and you make me forget I’m supposed to be careful.
Your dragons adjusted without a word. Red and Blue falling into step like they’d always flown together. As if they understood something binding had tethered their riders together.
And it was binding. Because he let you in. Let you see the boy beneath the shadows, the one who still mourned his father, who still carried the weight of a rebellion like it was stitched into his bones. And you—gods, you let yourself be seen. Fully. For the first time.
You weren’t a crown. You weren’t a name. You were just a girl, and he was just a boy who kissed you like you were his last chance at peace.
You should’ve known it couldn’t last.
Should’ve known the world would come clawing for you eventually.
It nearly unraveled when General Lilith’s daughter entered the quadrant. You hadn’t seen her in years—not since she was shoving Halden at court functions when no one was watching. Not since she caught you sneaking pastries and promised to keep your secret if you shared.
Her eyes landed on you like she was trying to solve a riddle she didn’t remember writing. But she never said anything. Just blinked.
Told herself the Crown Princess of Navarre was still bedridden. Still fading.
And your secret stayed safe.
For one more year.
Until Cam crossed the bridge and stepped into your room like the ghost of your past had come to life.
You didn’t even have time to speak before he was pulling you into his arms—arms that had grown stronger, taller, older while you’d been gone—and sobbing into your shoulder.
“Oh my gods,” he whispered, over and over again. “You’re not dead. You’re not dead.”
Your throat burned. “I tried to write,” you said, your voice cracking. “I couldn’t risk it. I’m sorry—I had to disappear. They were going to sell me off like a treaty, Cam. I had to go.”
“I thought I lost you too,” he choked out. “I thought I was alone.”
You buried your face into his shoulder then, shaking. Because even after everything—after all the lies, all the nights you cried yourself to sleep trying to remember how your real name sounded—this still felt like home.
But peace never lasted long.
Not in your life.
When Xaden arrived that weekend—under the pretense of Sgaeyl and Tairn needing a mandatory reunification flight—there was something about a book. Something about needing Cam’s help getting part of it. Something that should’ve been normal.
But then Cam’s eyes flicked to where Xaden stood beside you—where his hand had casually settled on your back, familiar, comfortable, intimate.
And something in Cam snapped.
His whole body went still. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
You blinked, confused. “What?”
Cam’s voice was low, rough. “That’s him?”
You turned, your stomach lurching.
“That’s your little lover?” he hissed. “He’s the reason Alic is dead.”
The words hit like a blade between the ribs.
You froze.
And then Xaden—calm, cold, and unaware of the landmine he’d just stepped on—said, “Your brother was a craven, murderous prick.”
The air left your lungs.
Even if a part of you knew it was true—even if you’d known, in the quiet places of your mind, what Alic had become in the end—he was still your brother. And the truth still hurt.
“You…” The word stuck in your throat. “You killed my brother?”
Xaden blinked.
And that was when everything broke.
Violet watching you both like she was watching puzzle pieces slot into place, suddenly inhaled like she’d been struck.
“Oh my gods,” she whispered, wide-eyed. “You’re the crown princess.”
It felt like the entire hallway tilted.
The silence that followed wasn’t silent at all—it rang.
You didn’t wait.
Didn’t think.
You just ran.
Stormed down the corridor, every step echoing like a scream, barely holding yourself together. Your vision blurred with tears you refused to let fall. Your breath hitched as you reached out with everything—
“Please, come get me,” you whispered through your bond. To your dragon. Your constant. The only one who could carry you far enough away from this moment. “Please, I need you.”
But before you could reach the doors, footsteps thundered behind you. And then his hand—familiar, warm, calloused—closed around your arm.
“Wait—” Xaden’s voice cracked.
You turned.
And gods, he looked as wrecked as you felt.
Like someone had carved him open. Like he didn’t know whether to pull you close or fall apart entirely.
“You never told me,” he said, like it physically hurt. “You—gods, you never told me.”
“I know,” you whispered, your throat burning. “I know.”
His grip loosened, like he couldn’t bear to hold you if you didn’t want him to—but couldn’t let go, either.
You shook your head, blinking fast. “I can’t. Not right now.”
His eyes searched yours, desperate. “Just—tell me why. Tell me it wasn’t all a lie.”
And you almost broke then. Almost told him everything—about your father, the arranged marriage, the masks and how hard it had been to breathe before you met him.
But your heart was already splintering.
“I can’t talk about this,” you said, voice raw. “About Alic. About you killing him, and why, or what your reasoning was. I can’t do this now.”
He flinched. But he nodded.
And you—gods, you swallowed the sob threatening to rise as you stepped back.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” you said, barely audible. “I just—I need to breathe.”
Because at the end of the day, even after all of it—
You still loved him.
Were in love with him.
And that made everything hurt so much worse.
