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Feb 8, 2025

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Valentine's with your Queen.

General Masterlist - Queen Nia's Masterlist

Synopsis: You've been married to the Queen for a year, in a relationship 3 years. Yet, no Valentine's will ever be like this one. Because for this Valentine's, you actually started to love her.

PAIRING: Yandere!Queen Nia Bloodwen x GN!Reader.

WARNINGS: Yandere themes, possessiveness, obvious control of reader, reader is resentful, reader is lowkey mean, reader is seen as strong and tall. Also 6.3k words long.

“In honor of the Queen’s first year anniversary of her marriage to our Sovereign Consort, I propose a Valentine’s themed ball, a ball for all, but specifically to celebrate the queendom’s most perfect couple!”

That bastard. Gleaming and joyful, as if he hadn’t just dug your grave. This was supposed to be a political meeting to begin with! This meeting room is supposed to speak only of diplomacy and wars, so what the fuck is that idiot Marquis going on about, and who told him to speak of your ‘Relationship’ with the queen? God, if you could you would definitely grab at his neck.

The sharp chill of fingers, cold as winter frost, wrapped around your hand beneath the heavy oak table. You stiffened at the touch, barely suppressing a flinch, before dragging your gaze downward to where your wife’s hand now lay atop yours. Her hold was light yet firm, an anchor pulling you back from your brewing storm of rage. A silent warning. A reminder.

When Nia inhaled, it was slow, measured, a performance of thoughtful contemplation, “I think that is a wonderful idea,” The Marquis began grinning upon hearing his queen praise his idiotic idea but of course, “But I am fairly disappointed that I must repeat myself, this council room is for diplomatic meetings and affairs only, Marquis, so please settle down, try to respect the importance of this room and refrain from mentioning your queen’s private relationship.”

With the matter promptly silenced, the rest of the meeting proceeded smoothly. Yet even as discussions moved on to real matters of state, you could feel the lingering heat of Nia’s palm against yours. She did not let go. Not until the final council member had left the chamber, their backs turned, the last of their footsteps fading into the distance. Only then did she release you, though the absence of her touch did little to shake the weight of her presence.

You knew better than to trust her silence.

And your instincts were proven right the moment you both returned to your private chambers.

The doors shut. The guards stationed outside. And the moment you turned to gauge her expression, you saw it—that look. The same one she had given you the night she proposed. That quiet, knowing hunger. The kind that set your nerves alight with the knowledge that no matter how much you resisted, you would always lose.

“What do you think of this Valentine’s ball in honor of our fruitful marriage? I think it’s grand, in fact,” Nia grinned, her smile as sly as a fox’s,”I rather enjoy the idea, of a night where the entire court will shower us with admiration. Where they will look upon us and wish they were in your place.” She took a step forward, then another, closing in as her lips curled into something deceptively warm. “We are the perfect couple, after all.”

She moved with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator, circling you like a lioness sizing up her prey. And you, in turn, felt your spine stiffen, your muscles locked as she wove around you before pressing herself against your back, her arms curling around your midsection. Her warmth seeped through the layers of your clothing, the weight of her presence impossible to ignore as she leaned into you, resting her chin on your shoulders, looking deeply into your face.

You sigh, and look off to the side, the side where her almost perfect face wasn’t staring into your soul, “I think… It’s… It’s too much, while you may revel in the attention, I will be uncomfortable the entire time, I hate every noble of Xelera with a burning passion. Must I remind you.” And remind her you did, almost everyday. You were a knight before, and the irony doesn’t pass you at all because, how could one of the finest Knights of your generation hate the very people they swore to protect?

You brush off the thought, no need to remember the past anymore, ever since Nia had imprisoned you within Khas, as her ‘personal knight’ —more like a personal pet— You hadn’t been a knight or touched a real sword in so long. You crave the long nights spent training, the comforting feeling of your sword by your hip. It was all gone now, Nia swearing up and down that nothing would hurt you now, you have no need for your equipment or your training.

But that never mattered to you, you kept training, making makeshift swords with big logs from the big tree in the garden, carving out the shape with a butcher’s knife from the kitchen, long dull now, but you had your wooden sword and that’s all that mattered. You had it hidden, and only ever use it within the confines of your room while Nia was away. No one would bother you, seeing how Nia had possessively told off all the servants to not come near you unless she was there. A blessing really, half of them were ladies in waiting, noble women.

The same icy fingers that grabbed your hand in the council room now grab your cheek, softly turning you to Nia, “What’s going on in there? That little brain of yours thinks too much, you should focus on reality,” Her thumb ghosted over your cheekbone, her grip gentle yet unyielding. “On me.” Again, that possessive side of Nia comes out, her need to control you, down to every thought you have, “How about this, we go, have fun for say half an hour, maybe an hour. And leave, have our own special, private, Valentine’s celebrations.”

The Queen of Xelera sighed, her breath smelled of decaying butterflies as it flew past your cheek, you could barely hold yourself together and not grimace. And then finally she looked away from your eyes, before releasing you from her grip, she passed by you and sat down on one of the lush loung chairs of the room, suddenly looking like her whole spirit had been sucked out of her when she sighed.

Once again Nia encapsulated you with her red eyes, staring deep deep into you, “You… I… The church has been pressing on and on… About offspring, for the royal line…” Her attempt at tugging at your heart strings is good, very good in fact you almost fell for it, but you knew better than that. You knew her far too well to fall for the classic ‘Poor me, no parents, a monarch at 16, oh someone pity me!’ routine.

Seeing that your face was as stoic as it usually was, not a single hint of you giving in, finally letting her have you, she let it go. Scoffing, Nia pushed herself up, “This is going to be great. For both of us, trust me. I will win this, and you will love me.” Nia approached you, before stepping up to give you a soft kiss on the lips, one you didn’t reject.

“Ah, I love you. So much. I can’t wait for the ball, to show you off one more time, like our wedding day.”

And then she left you alone, to go plan the ball no doubt.

Weeks pass by, no sign of pink and red decorations, not even talk of the anticipated Love Day Ball– having been renamed to be more elegant. Even Nia seemed like her usual self, not overly excited about the upcoming holiday or the ball she wanted to throw in its celebration. Maybe she let it go? Maybe, just maybe, she had taken account of your feelings and won’t do it?

Ah, but then again, this is the ever so spoiled Queen Nia, no one tells her what to do unless its her own brain and heart.

That much you realized as you stand, several servants bustling around you in a hurry to get you dressed up and done up for the Love Day Ball, Nia herself also being pampered in the other room. She wanted the two of you to get ready in two separate rooms and meet at the ball, in reminiscence of your wedding day, which Nia looks at with fondness and you look at with resentment.

Whatever, hopefully, it won’t take too long, as she promised. Half an hour, an hour tops. Gods this is going to be miserable, that much you knew. But it isn’t only the party itself you’re dreading, but what’s after. You’ve… You and Nia are already consummated, and it was okay. But it wasn’t like you looked forward for the nights where your wife gets clingy and needy, you do what you must and… though it is embarrassing you have needs of your own. Surprisingly the only aspect of your marriage you tolerate truly.

But all those other times, it was just a means to an end, just to get rid of the hot feeling in your gut. This one? It’s more. Nia already suggested procreating numerous times before, but you always rejected it, truly against the idea of bringing a child into the world only for it to suffer by having Nia as a mother.

But tonight felt different, pressure was building, not only from Nia but from the Church as well. The Church was a power not to be trifled with, the second ruling power of Xelera, and also filled with very old noble houses, the same noble houses that built Old Xelera brick by brick.

So in a small way, you were fucked. Literally.

It doesn’t matter, you’ve given up. You will give them the heir they were desperate for, and raise them to be the best heir there is. Not only how to rule, but also how to feel for your people, for everyone who works for you, and even for those against you. You will not allow a duplicate of Nia. Not ever.

"—Your Highness? We have finished. Queen Nia is waiting for you."

The voice snaps you from your thoughts, grounding you in the present just as your fingers twitch, brushing instinctively against your hip. Muscle memory, long-ingrained, moves your hand before your mind even catches up—only this time, it doesn’t meet empty space. Instead, your fingertips press against something solid. Cold. Unfamiliar.

A sword.

Your breath stalls as you glance down, dread pooling thick in your stomach at the sight of the weapon strapped to your hip. At first, the realization alone is enough to unsettle you, but then—then—your eyes properly take in the details, and the discomfort turns into something heavier, something more suffocating. The blade is wrong. Not in its craftsmanship, no—the craftsmanship is impeccable, almost too perfect, each detail meticulously designed. But that’s precisely the problem.

It gleams under the candlelight, its scabbard a garish display of deep crimson and gold, the colors so rich and indulgent that they seem to belong more to a piece of jewelry than a weapon. The hilt, wrapped in the same shade of red that Nia favors so dearly, is inlaid with gilded filigree, swirling delicate patterns forming the crest of Xelera, the royal insignia carved with absolute precision. The entire thing is ornate, lavish, the kind of sword meant to be paraded around at ceremonies, not wielded in a fight.

You feel exposed wearing it.

Your eyes snap back to the servant, suspicion seeping into your voice as you demand, "What is this? Why am I wearing a sword?"

They do not flinch. They do not hesitate. Their response is smooth, practiced, devoid of anything resembling genuine emotion. "Her Royal Highness, Queen Nia, ordered for you to be dressed like this." Their gaze remains eerily neutral, the barest flicker of a polite, distant smile forming on their lips as they continue, "This sword was hand-tailored for you, Your Majesty."

For you.

You nearly scoff.

This is not for you. This is for her. A statement piece meant to reinforce the image she’s crafted, a mockery of what you once were, draped in her colors, her desires, as though she could shape you into something of her own design.

You already know that whatever Nia has planned for tonight, you are exactly where she wants you to be.

Your fingers twitch, itching to rip the thing off, to cast it away like the gilded shackle it is, but you resist. This is no simple gift. It is a declaration, a masterstroke of control wrapped in the illusion of generosity. A collar disguised as a blade, crafted with precision, tailored to fit you in ways that feel suffocating rather than honoring.

The weight of it is wrong—too extravagant, too gaudy, the sheath an ostentatious blend of Nia’s beloved crimson and gold, the filigree curling into intricate designs as if to ensnare you further. Even the hilt, polished and pristine, gleams under the candlelight like a trophy meant to be displayed rather than wielded.

She wanted you to be seen. Wanted every noble in Xelera to look upon you and know exactly whose possession you were. And worse still, she knew you would never refuse a blade, no matter how heavily it reeked of her mark.

You exhale, dragging your hands down your vest as if to steady yourself, though the weight of the medals jingling against the fabric does the opposite. Each one a gleaming remnant of the life you had before. Some earned through grueling years of service, through blood and sweat and battlefields long left behind.

Others… gifts. Trifles from Nia, pinned to your chest not out of merit but out of her desire to claim you. To drape you in accolades she decided you should have. A warrior draped in ribbons, a knight decorated as a doll. The thought churns in your gut like spoiled wine, but you force it down, muttering your thanks to the servants still bustling about the dressing room before making your way to meet your wife.

Or at least, that was the plan—until Alan, the ever-nervous Royal Advisor, nearly stumbles into your path.

“Y-Your Everlasting R-Royal Highness!” he stammers, his thin frame nearly vibrating with anxiety. “Q-Queen Nia has instructed me to—to escort you to the other entrance of the ballroom. She wishes for you to—uh—unite with her in the center of the floor for the first dance, and th-then, um, socialize afterward.”

You sigh through your nose. Of course, she does.

Alan is a jittery mess as always, hands twisting at his sleeves, his voice nearly tripping over itself in his eagerness to fulfill Nia’s orders. But despite his nerves, his heart is a good one. And unlike the others in this castle, he has no reason to manipulate you, no ulterior motive beyond doing his duty. That, at least, is something.

You nod, wordless, unwilling to expend energy on speaking when your mind is already drowning in thoughts. There is too much happening, too many strings wrapped around you like a marionette being led onto a stage. Your steps are measured as Alan guides you through the halls, the rhythmic clinking of the medals on your chest the only sound accompanying the silence. For a brief moment, you savor it—this small sliver of peace before you are thrown into the ravenous jaws of nobility. But peace never lasts long in Xelera.

Before you realize it, you are standing before the grand doors, flanked by two guards ready to haul them open at a moment’s notice. Beyond the heavy wood, the noise is already bleeding through—the sharp chatter of nobles, the clack of jeweled heels against marble, the musical lilt of artificial laughter laced with venomous gossip. The clinking of glasses and the murmur of masked pleasantries, all of it weaving into a cacophony of suffocating indulgence.

And you, draped in red and gold, adorned with medals and bound in a blade not of your choosing, are expected to wade into it like a spectacle meant to be marveled at.

How utterly miserable.

Alan quickly shuffles to the side, slipping into the shadows just beyond the doorframe, his fingers twitching as he murmurs into the walkie-talkie pinned to his belt. A few heartbeats later, a triumphant blast of horns cuts through the air, signaling the arrival of the evening’s second most important figure—you. The towering doors groan as they swing open, revealing the ballroom in all its excessive splendor. A rush of pink light spills out, momentarily blinding you, but you hold steady, your expression cool and composed.

You step forward, crossing the threshold as the weight of hundreds of gazes settles onto your shoulders. The guards bow their heads as you pass, their armor gleaming beneath the glow of the enchanted chandeliers overhead. But your focus is already set elsewhere—across the vast, opulent ballroom, at the top of a grand staircase mirroring your own, she stands. Queen Nia Bloodwen.

Draped in deep red satin that clings to her form like liquid fire, she is the centerpiece of this overindulgent affair. The golden embroidery of her gown glistens, swirling around the fabric like molten metal, a pattern of hearts and delicate filigree that should look elegant—but on her, it looks like a deliberate mockery of sentimentality. You glance down at your own attire, the same gaudy hearts stitched onto the chest and cuffs of your uniform, their metallic sheen clashing against the more dignified reds and blacks of your ensemble. The sight of them almost makes you recoil. Tacky. Overdone. Absolutely Nia.

As per the Royal Rules, you bow first—low and practiced, every movement a reminder of your rank beneath hers. When you rise, Nia mirrors your bow, though hers is slow, indulgent, as if savoring the moment rather than obeying protocol. The grin on her lips is warm, dazzling even, but you recognize the underlying mischief in her eyes.

You return her smile—a carefully crafted thing, a perfect mask of charm meant for the onlookers. The gathered nobles erupt into hushed murmurs, some gushing about how breathtaking the two of you look together, others bemoaning their missed chances to claim your affections before the Queen had ensnared you. And, of course, there are the whispers of contempt, the bitter voices that will never accept your place by Nia’s side. You tune them all out. They are as insignificant as the glittering decorations strung across the room, background noise to the real performance about to begin.

Descending the staircase with long, measured strides, you move like the knight you once were—powerful, poised, and untouchable. The distance between you and Nia shrinks with each step until you come to a stop at the base of her stairs, raising your hand toward her, the unspoken command clear.

Come to me.

Nia’s eyes gleam, her expression unreadable for the briefest of moments. And then, ever the performer, she takes her first step down, reaching for you.

Nia descends upon seeing your arrival, slow and seductive, her long dress trailing after her, dramatic. Finally, her gloved fingers meet yours, and you gently clasp her hand, as her other hand moves to rest ontop of your shoulder. You move her hand toward your face, placing a soft kiss against her knuckles. Nia blushes and smiles. She’s enjoying this. I am not.

You are painfully aware of the nobles around you, their delighted murmurs and sighs blending with the melody of the orchestra. How easily they are fooled. The kingdom’s best musicians play their strings and ivory keys with perfection, the grand hall filled with soft, sweeping harmonies, yet the only sound you care for is the one inside your head—the quiet, gnawing scream of your own restraint.

With a steady hand, you pull Nia closer, fingers splayed against the curve of her waist. The motion earns a delighted chuckle from her, but worse—it thrills the watching crowd. Their coos of admiration, their whispered praises of how deeply in love the two of you must be, make your skin crawl.

And then, as if to drive the dagger deeper, Nia leans in, pressing her cheek to your chest, softly nuzzling herself closer, deeper into you. The scent of her—roses and something sharper, something distinctly her—wraps around you like an iron noose. The dance is slow, agonizingly so. Romantic.

Romantic. God, how funny. The word alone makes bile rise in your throat. You want to rip yourself free, to wipe the pleased smirk off every noble’s face, to carve through this room until no one dares utter another lie about the beautiful, tragic love between their queen and her beloved spouse.

But of course, you have a reputation, and a collar tied to your neck. If you disobeyed Nia would only tighten the collar, taking away the mercy she’s bestowed upon you before, taking away your privileges, your freedom. As if that weren’t already stolen from you.

The velvet voice of the seductress pressed against your chest speaks up, her voice low, low enough for only you to hear.

“So, what do you think of my gift?”

Gift? Ah, the sword. Right. “Wonderful, my Queen, I… am forever indebted to you for this mercy. I cannot begin to tell you how much I’ve yearned for the feeling of a sword at my side.” A chuckle rumbles through her chest, the warmth of it seeping into your skin as if you are standing too close to a fire. Nia always laughs when she thinks you’re joking over how you need that sword. But you truly do.

Spin. Her dress spreads, beautifully tailored and silky, it gleams under the strong lights of the room. Entrancing all those who watch into a deeper state of appreciation, of want–need to have a relationship similar to that of the Queen and her Royal Consort, such a beautiful relationship, emotional, strong. Is how they’d describe it.

You only see it as a prison, the weak prisoner controlled by the tyrant of the realm.

You can also feel that foxy smile spread through Nia’s face, “Well, just try not to swing it at anybody. Are you aware that you think with your sword, rather than with your brain?” You smile, chuckle, so damn ironic. Making fun of the decorated knight for the instincts that had been beaten into them, as if it isn’t her that made the entire regime up. She insisted on it, when she was 18, she wanted more power and control and made up a horribly abusive routine, that barely anyone could make it through.

That’s how you find the best, only those who go through torture are worthy! You can still remember her squeaky young voice trying to justify her new decree, you were a little older, 20 years of age. Just a year before you enlisted. You hated her for it. But look at you now, married to the very monster you swore at.

Soon enough the dance concludes, and the royal couple has finished the first dance, now allowing the rest of the ball’s guests to dance to their heart's content, as if anyone could ever compare to the two of you. Your Queen leads the both of you to the section reserved for the monarchy, a loveseat, a table with all kinds of sweets and drinks. And two servants and multiple guards surrounding the area.

It was always there, for whenever a royal decides they’d like to enjoy a ball within their palace grounds they can sit there, invite whomever they want and gossip to their heart’s desire. However many Love Day themed decorations were now strewn about the area, and the tackiest sight of it all. It was enveloped with pink vibrant mesh curtains, and pink beams stood supporting the tacky curtains.

Your lips press into a firm line as your eyes scan the unnecessary embellishments, the saccharine theme clashing horribly with the natural elegance of the palace. How could anyone think this was tasteful? It is gaudy, it is excessive, and it is so thoroughly Nia.

The servants move quickly, pulling the curtains apart with a careful flourish, granting you both an unobstructed entrance. Nia, of course, steps in first, entirely unbothered by the display of pink and gold surrounding her. She sits gracefully, crossing one leg over the other as she makes herself comfortable, exuding the air of a queen who knows she belongs in luxury, even when draped in sheer tackiness.

You hesitate for just a moment—a brief flicker of distaste flashing through you—but you school your features before it can be caught. With measured steps, you follow, lowering yourself into the seat beside her, your movements fluid, controlled. The weight of the crown is not always in its gold, but in the performance you must uphold.

Nia hums in satisfaction as she leans back into the loveseat, her fingers idly trailing along the rim of a crystal glass placed before her. The candlelight flickers against the golden rings on her hands, reflecting a soft glow over her skin. You know she’s watching you, waiting—because she enjoys this. The dance may have ended, but the game has not.

She speaks up, her lips against her glass, her voice echoing against the fine wine glass, “Well? Pick to whichever you desire, my love, everything here is for you, and of course, me.” Her sly jab at your lower rank doesn’t fly past you, but you brush it off, and go ahead to grab a drink out of the assortment, thankfully both alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks were served.

And you’d rather keep your mind awake as you play this game of cat and mouse. So you grabbed the grape juice, slowly savoring it’s taste. Though you hated being married to Nia, you couldn’t deny enjoying the high quality of everything. From food to clothes to the very bed you lay on nightly. It was all a dream. Well, except for the nightmare that is Nia.

Nia grabs your other hand, playing with it softly. A soft, enjoyable silence falls over the both of you. Calming you down, making you feel light and airy. A very rare occurrence, you haven’t felt calm and at peace in ages, and with that realization you tensed up at the dark thought that crossed your mind.

This isn’t grape juice, I’ve been drug–

Nia’s soft voice cut through your panic, “Calm down, the grape juice is not drugging you, and yes it is grape juice, the letter G is on the front of the glass, dear.” She reached up, taking the glass from your hand and twirling it, so the letter G would welcome you into a soft embrace with it’s reassurance, as if to say, ‘I am Grape Juice.’

You sigh, leaning back against the seat, your appetite gone you put the juice back down, letting your arm rest on the back of the love chair, the other still in Nia’s strangely warm hands. “Goodness, you really won’t forget your training, hm? Anything makes you clench up like an octopus about to spray ink.” She laughs to herself, and you grimace, looking away slightly embarrassed.

"You're awfully quiet tonight," she muses, moving a hand away from yours to lift a glass to her lips. The red wine inside mirrors the shade of her dress, dark and rich, yet there’s an unmistakable playfulness in her tone. "Did the ball steal your breath away? Or is it the decor?"

You let out a slow, measured breath. "I fear I may go blind from all the pink, my Queen." Your eyes do hurt, it’s all a bit much to go from the nice and calm yellow lights of nature and the palace to blinding pink everywhere you look.

She laughs, a genuine, amused sound that ripples through the air like silk. "Ah, but isn't it lovely?" She gestures to the decorations, eyes gleaming with amusement. "Love Day should be celebrated properly. Besides, I thought you'd appreciate the effort—" she pauses, a smirk curling at the edge of her lips, "—considering how sentimental you are."

Sentimental. You nearly scoff. Nia enjoys her little jokes, her carefully placed barbs wrapped in silk, knowing you cannot return them without consequence. She expects you to bite back, to play along, to make the night more entertaining for her.

Instead, you reach for your glass of hopefully grape juice once more, rolling the stem between your fingers. "Your generosity astounds me, truly. A sword at my hip, medals upon my chest, and now, the honor of drowning in pink curtains." You take a slow sip, savoring the way her eyes narrow ever so slightly. "I don’t know how I will ever repay such kindness."

Nia tilts her head, studying you, her amusement never fully fading but shifting into something more thoughtful. She does this often—watching, waiting, as if peeling back layers you wish to keep untouched. And yet, she already knows what lies beneath.

"Perhaps," she murmurs, setting her glass down with deliberate grace, "you could start by enjoying yourself."

Her hand moves, barely a shift of fingers, and yet within seconds, a servant steps forward, offering a delicate plate of sweets. Nia picks up a small, heart-shaped confection, bringing it close—not to her lips, but to yours.

Pink sprinkles, Red frosting, and even the cookie itself had been dyed a light pink color. I have to hunt the pastry chef that made these and slit their hands off. You look up at her, eyes locking with her own half-lidded ones, hers filled with love– no, obsession, possession. While yours, you’re sure, only have suspicion drowning in them.

A test. A demand.

The ballroom still bustles with chatter, music filling the space, but in this moment, there is only Nia, her expectant gaze locked onto yours. The ball, the decorations, the guests—they are nothing but background noise to this quiet power play between you. You consider refusing. You consider reminding her that you are not a pet to be fed by her hand.

But the collar is still there. Invisible, but unyielding.

So, with the same careful grace you have mastered in her presence, you pull your hand away from her lap, gently grasp her wrist, lean forward—slowly, deliberately—and take a bite. Eyes still locked, a flurry of sweetness envelopes your mouth, a sharp contrast to the bitter grape juice you were ingesting just earlier.

Nia, caught off guard by your unexpected indulgence, flushes a deep shade of red. She pulls back slightly, the half-bitten cookie still held between her fingers, before hastily placing both hands in her lap, as if to steady herself. “I don’t know why you’re being so… indulgent of me tonight,” she murmurs, her usual confidence faltering, her voice softer, more uncertain than usual. Her golden eyes flicker with something unspoken—hope, perhaps, or something dangerously close to vulnerability. “But… I can’t say I’m not enjoying it.”

She hesitates, as if weighing the risk of her next words, then presses on, her tone delicate, but firm. “Even if you never return my feelings, even if you refuse to see what I see, I… will always adore you. You’re perfect for me.” The admission hangs between you, heavier than the perfumed air, thicker than the suffocating opulence surrounding you. She exhales sharply, like she’s said too much, then suddenly thrusts the cookie into her mouth, as if stuffing the words back down before they betray her any further. “Gosh… Just eat!”

A small breath of amusement escapes you before you can stop it. You hadn’t expected this. You hadn’t expected to enjoy this. But now, as you sit in this ridiculous pink-curtained alcove, the garish colors an assault on your senses, realization dawns upon you. It was all for you. The privacy, the carefully arranged setting, the extra effort to make you comfortable in an environment you despised—Nia had done this for you. And that realization alone makes something deep within you soften, if only a fraction.

You decide not to linger too long in your thoughts. Instead, you turn your attention back to the untouched sweets and the half-filled goblet of juice before you, indulging in the silent entertainment of people-watching. It’s always the same: hushed whispers exchanged behind lace fans, sharp smiles that don’t reach the eyes, lovers sneaking off into shadowed corridors while their spouses remain none the wiser. High society at its finest—ugly in all the ways you’ve come to expect.

Minutes pass, and the weight of the evening begins pressing against you. The noise, the spectacle, the careful balancing act of decorum—it’s all growing tiresome. Nia notices, of course. She always does. She must see it in the subtle tension creeping into your shoulders, in the way your fingers drum idly against the table, as if itching for escape.

She reaches for your hand without hesitation, fingers warm as they slip over yours, coaxing your attention back to her. “Come,” she murmurs, voice dipped in something softer than usual, something almost affectionate. “I’m growing tired. Let’s retire for the evening. I’d much rather enjoy some peace and quiet with you.” Nia whispered to your ear, and you nodded, looking back at her with relief.

And for the first time that night, perhaps even longer, your lips curve into a genuine smile. Small, fleeting, but unmistakably real.

Nia shivers. Not from the cold, not from exhaustion, but from the way that single expression sinks deep into her bones. She tucks it away like a secret, something to turn over in her mind later, to relive in the privacy of her own thoughts.

Nia wraps arm around your own, beckoning you to take the lead, and whisk her back to your shared room. And whisk her away you did, of course not without many whiny nobles begging the both of you to dance once more, to stay a while longer, oh poor us how could we ever possibly live without our rulers! Whoa is us!

Nevertheless, you lead your queen through the gilded halls, away from the grandeur of the ballroom, past lingering guests and tired servants who bow as you pass. The deeper you go into the palace, the quieter it becomes—the music fading into distant echoes, the scent of perfume and champagne left behind.

The moment you step into your chambers, the tension in your shoulders eases. The warmth of flickering candlelight greets you, and the heavy doors shut behind you with a soft thud, sealing the two of you away from the exhausting spectacle of court.

Nia exhales, releasing a breath that seems to carry the weight of the night—of her title, her responsibilities—until, in the quiet of the moment, she is left as only herself. She doesn’t move to undress right away, doesn’t immediately shed the fine jewelry or untangle herself from the corset that has likely been a torment for hours. Instead, her gaze lingers on you, those golden eyes piercing through the air between you, searching and weighing. There’s a calm but undeniable intensity there, as if she’s watching a piece of art being carefully, hesitantly, unraveled.

You’re fumbling with the buttons of your clothes, fingers slipping, growing increasingly frustrated. You just want them off—need to feel the cool air against your skin, to release the pressure of the evening’s obligations, but every movement seems to turn into a struggle. Nia’s smile deepens, a slow, amused curl of her lips as she watches your desperate attempts. You manage to pop a button loose after what feels like an eternity, letting out a breath of relief, only to hear her voice.

“You enjoyed yourself,” she murmurs, her words light but dripping with the weight of certainty. It’s not a question—it’s an observation.

You scoff, frustration still lingering in your voice as your eyes narrow, an annoyed expression crossing your face. “Did I?” Your fingers continue their battle with your attire, now moving on to the stiff medals and ribbons, each one resisting you as though it had a life of its own.

Nia steps forward, her movements as fluid as water, graceful and knowing. Her eyes half-lidded, a simmering need behind them, but she doesn’t rush. She stays there, watching you like a predator assessing its prey. "You did," she insists with quiet confidence, her smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "I could see it. The way you laughed with me, how you smiled at me, how you let me hold your hands, even when you could’ve pulled away... You even defended me when that imbecile lord got too close."

You flick your gaze up to meet hers, the weight of her words hitting you as you struggle to keep your composure. The scowl that once creased your face melts into a more neutral expression, and your lips part slightly, caught in a moment of confusion and unexpected warmth. You hadn’t realized just how much you had let slip in the heat of the moment.

Nia’s gaze softens, but there’s still that underlying intensity, the edge that always lingers with her. She moves forward, her steps swift and predatory. “Let me,” she purrs, her voice a mix of gentleness and desire. For a fleeting moment, you want to push her away, to insist that there’s no point in removing your clothes, that the weight of them is a prison you’re stuck in—one you’ll have to sleep in, bathe in, live in.

But before you can voice that thought, a soft, silken finger pinches your cheek. The sharpness of the gesture makes you yelp, stepping back instinctively, but her grip tightens, holding you in place. Without even needing to look, she murmurs, “Stop thinking.” Her eyes, steady and commanding, meet yours. “Focus on the present. Focus… on me.”

Her arms slip around you, pulling you flush against her, the intensity of her touch almost overwhelming. She presses herself to you, her height allowing her to stand on tiptoe, her lips brushing just shy of your ear as she whispers, "Do you really want to spend the rest of the night overthinking everything? Because I can think of far more interesting ways to spend it."

And then, that grin. That knowing, cunning grin, one that promises something more, something irresistible, as if she knows, without question, that you’ll take the bait.

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