| Prologue | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight |
Summary → When an alliance is made between England and France, you are sent away to marry the crown prince and heir to the British throne. Except both you and Prince Thomas despise each other at all odds, subjected to the hand of the monarchy and unable to stand each other.
AN → So this chapter could potentially be a bit triggering for some people, it is pretty descriptive into the beheading of someone. I would like to preface this in saying that I do not support capital punishment, nor do I support the death penalty. This is merely a work of fiction, and I am only trying to bring to life history. Anyways, this chapter is something else. Let me know what you guys think, I’m sure you’ll have some thoughts.
“I want to leave, please just let me go home,” you pleaded.
It was only you and Tom at the heart of the throne room. After the whole shooting ordeal, he’d rushed you back and demanded the audience of the King.
You were both waiting, still suffering from the shakes, you could only beg and pray that he would let you go. Tears stung the backs of your eyes, cheeks hot and feverish. Tom had sent all of the guards away, not caring that it wasn’t proper for you both to be alone without a chaperone.
“Please, Tom,” you almost whispered.
“You can’t go home, Y/N,” he replied simply, peering over at you from his spot parallel to where you stood.
“I was just shot at! What more could you people want to see in order to let me go home? I miss my mother, I wish to see my mother,” you shouted at him.
“I couldn’t let you go even if I wanted to.”
“But you do want to?”
Silence. Tom said nothing. He only straightened his posture a bit, looking away from you and back to the door. The King had still not come, there had been an attempted assassination and the King of England could not be bothered to grace his own son with his presence.
“This is why I told them to take you back to your chambers,” he murmured to himself.
“You can hardly look at me!” You marched up to him, taking a free hand and pressing it to his chest in anger and frustration. “Look at me, Thomas.”
His eyes slowly lifted from the ground to your eyes, your breath staggering from the rage and sudden proximity. There was an intimacy in the way you both seemed to get yourselves into these situations. It was a change for you to initiate something like this, especially since anyone could come through those large double doors at any point.
“Please,” you begged.
“You don’t get it do you?” He asked, eyes falling to the dip of your lips, parting at the curve of your Cupid’s bow. “You and I, we haven’t got a way out of this. It’s for life, Y/N. There is no running, not really. Don’t you think I’m tired? This life is exhausting, but it’s bigger than both of us. There’s no out, no going home. The sooner you accept that, the sooner this’ll all become a lot easier for you.”
“I hope you’re saying that when our heads, or God forbid, the heads of our children—”
The doors opened and King Dominic and his entourage came through, there was hardly any urgency in the way he walked. You and Tom quickly stepped away from each other, he stood taller, bowing as his father sat. You gave a quick and anxious curtsy.
“You’ve clearly been quite busy, I didn’t expect an act of high treason to pull you away from whatever important engagement you were wasting your time with,” Tom scowled.
“Do watch yourself, Thomas,” the King responded.
“Did you not hear about the man who attempted to put a bullet through my skull?” He question, tone raising.
“From what I’ve heard, the bullet was directed towards Princess Y/N, meaning this was hardly even an attack on the Crown.”
“She is the Crown! We’re to be wed in less than three weeks, she’s practically the Princess of Wales already!”
You stood in silence, wondering whether or not you should step in. Tom told you to go back to your wing of Buckingham Palace when you’d both come back, but you refused. He was shifting uncomfortably under his father’s intense gaze.
“Maybe so, but not yet. I’ll have the bastard’s head, hell, you can even watch if you’d like. I won’t cause an uproar within the country, this is far from the first attempted assassination of the Crown, nor will it be the last,” the King boomed.
“What if that bullet had landed between my eyes, my head blown apart within seconds? What would you have done then?” Tom asked him, brows furrowed.
“You have three brothers, one of which would probably do the job better than you,” he responded, coughing into the handkerchief he pulled from his pocket.
You took in a sharp breath, wondering how any decent person could say such a thing. Tom stiffened, his lips forming a fine line. There was something lacking between the two men, you hadn’t seen it before, but now it was clear as day. There was absolutely no love, no compassion. You were staring at a King and his successor.
“That’s an awful thing to say,” you finally said.
“Don’t, Y/N,” Tom leaned over to you.
King Dominic’s eyes scanned over you, eyes flickering from you to Tom. The room was almost silent, the ruffling of your dress pooling at your feet filling the air.
“You are quite a pretty little thing,” he mused. “Shame, you know? That you have no clue when to keep that mouth shut.”
“And why is that?” You asked him, stepping forward.
“If you hadn’t been brought here from France, I’m not sure you’d have been very popular among suitors.”
“Then it’s a good thing that I don’t exist to cater to anyone’s domestic pursuits, isn’t it?”
Your gaze did not falter, King Dominic’s eyes piercing your own. He was dressed in fine satin, but this did not distract you from the fact that there were deep purple crescent shapes, littered in purple and indigo underneath his eyes. The King’s sallow skin was discolored against his sunken in eyes, and downturned mouth.
“She’ll bear witness to the beheading,” King Dominic remarked, pushing up against his throne to stand.
“What?” Tom asked very suddenly, stepping in front of his father. “She’s eighteen, practically a child! You cannot expect her to watch something like that!” He shouted, waiting for his father to let go of his pride.
“If she can stand before me—acting as if she is King, and not I, she can watch the man you ordered to die be executed.”
Tom went to argue, but was met with his father’s hand held high in his wake. He slumped back in defeat, sighing as the King turned in front of him. There was hardly anything you thought he could say, and nearly nothing he could do.
You let out a shaky breath, holding your abdomen with a free hand. There was nothing you wanted more than to be in your mother’s arms, or to sleep in your old bed. Yet, you stood in the throne room of Buckingham Palace, having just been shot at and conspired against.
“The Tower of London. Tomorrow.”
This was all he said, turning his back to both of you and walking off. Tom said nothing, not until a man came in after his father had left and leaned into his ear, an unreadable expression passing over his face.
“He was Danish?” He asked the unfamiliar man.
“Yes, sir. I am sure of it, it is all we were able to get out of him.”
“Leave us,” Tom motioned towards the door.
As the man left, he turned to you with a look as set as stone. He was upset, yet somber at the same time. Something about the way he was staring at you left the hairs at the nape of your neck standing up. You couldn’t help but step forward, feeling the need to steady yourself.
“Do you remember when the Prince from Denmark and I had a row?”
“I would hardly classify that as a row, you are still battered from hitting him so hard. When I saw him today, his face looked worse than it had that night,” you said.
“Y/N, you have no reason to listen to me, or to trust anything I say, but please heed my words, do not engage with Nikolai again. I cannot stress—”
“Is this what you do now? Tell me whom I can and cannot see. I have nothing, Tom! My life has been seized from me, and now I cannot even dictate who I see?”
Tom’s hand just barely brushed your own, his head bent to look directly into your eyes. There was an urgency in them, something telling you that this was bigger than both of you. You remembered the way he had held you down when those shots were fired, and the way he held your hand.
“You’re right—about all of it. I am asking you, Y/N, not as the Prince of Wales, or even as Thomas. I’m asking you as your husband, as the man you have been dealt in the most unfortunate of circumstances. Please, just stay away from him until I can be sure of something. This is all I ask of you, and even then, I deserve nothing from you. So in this moment, right now, you and I are not the next King and Queen of England. We are simply a man and a woman, nothing else.”
His words came out pleadingly, his fingers curling around your wrist. The pad of his thumb dipped underneath your glove. The skin on skin contact made you shiver, wondering whether or not Tom was being serious in his words. Nonetheless, you nodded feverishly, feeling him let out a deep breath of relief.
-
The carriage ride and walk into the large and extremely ancient looking castle, seemed to blur together. You were dressed darkly, a short veil covering your face in an almost sheer material.
Tom was beside you, his hand lightly cupping your elbow as the both of you entered the large room at what felt like the heart of the Tower of London. Prince Harry and Prince Sam followed closely behind the both of you, the King in front.
Everyone parted as you all made your way through the crowd of Nobles. You learned that the man’s name was Sir Alfred, and his title was the reason he was to be executed in such a manner. It also contributed to the fact that his beheading was occurring in such a prestigious place. Many famous executions took place in the same location, you had heard of many of the people who had lost their heads in the same position.
At the front of the room there was a high block on top of a sort of wooden stage, an executioner standing off to the side with an axe in his right hand. You couldn’t fathom the idea of having to do what he was only minutes away from doing himself.
Tom looked like he wished to say something, but in the end stayed completely silent. You were all completely sectioned away from everyone else, standing to witness the man about to die for his crimes.
In he walked a moment later, he wore a baggy black tunic and a cross around his neck. His head was down, eyes on the floor. When he came through the archway and into the large room, you couldn’t help but feel a lurch in your stomach. He denied the man who asked if he wished to say anything before he placed his head at the high block.
You felt your hands begin to clam up, wringing them against your dress. The man stood in prayer for a moment, a single tear falling from his eye. He mouthed a few words and took his place, bringing to cross to his chapped lips, and placing a single kiss upon it.
“Help me, God.”
His words were enough to make you sick, watching as he bent forward on his knees. His head sat firmly on the block, the man holding the axe waiting patiently. Someone said something in the distance, but your ears were pounding.
The moment the blade raised, you fought the urge to squeeze your eyes shut. It came down in a thud, a loud noise coming from the mouth of the man. A splatter of blood came soon after, his head was still intact. The blade raised again, and it struck once more. This continued another time, until at last, Alfred’s limp body had fallen.
You tasted acid, biting your tongue as you pushed through the cluster of people and looked for any exit. There was a single stone passage leading to a bit of land outside, you had no clue how you had gotten there. In a fleeting moment, you felt yourself hunch over and begin to empty the contents of your stomach onto the ground.
You felt a pair of hands grasp at the bit of hair falling into your face as you heaved, holding your chest firmly. You willed yourself to stop, but bent once more. Your throat burned, tears prickling the backs of your eyes.
“Are you—”
“No, no—I am absolutely not alright,” you just barely got out. “I’ll be in the carriage.”
-
You spent both of the following days in your quarters, claiming ill to all of those who asked. Dinner had been brought to you each night, and every other meal left for you as well. You couldn’t decipher whether you were doing it out of spite, or pure hatred for the establishment you were marrying into in less than three weeks.
A small portion of it may have also been out of fear, the thought of even being out and about sent a shockwave up your spine. Every time someone rapped on your chamber door, you couldn’t help but flinch.
On the morning of the second day you’d isolated yourself, the Queen sent word that the ball she’d arranged was still to be attended. You couldn’t help but groan at the man she’d sent to deliver the message. You had absolutely no desire to make an appearance at a dance, especially after the past few days.
It was only hours later when Anne pushed through the double doors to your room, sending all of the other servants away in a simple hand motion. You furrowed your brows at her, holding onto the bedpost, corset left loose and undone. She looked as if she had seen a ghost, clutching the underside of her dress.
“Your grace,” she curtsied quickly.
“Anne, is everything alright?”
There was a pause, she brought a small brown bag out from under the cloth of her brown dress. She undid the clasp gently and pulled out a dagger, extending her hand to give it to you. With it came a sheath and what looked like two leather bound straps.
“I have reason to believe someone is dangerous, ma’am. I—well, I wanted to be sure you would be able to defend yourself, should something present itself tonight,” she said shakily.
“Oh, Anne. Where did you get this?” You asked, placing a hand on the blade.
“A stable boy offered it to me at a fair price, I just wanted to be sure you’d have some sort of defense. If you don’t want it—”
“No, no! I’m terribly grateful, I just haven’t a clue how to properly handle something like this.”
There had been very little swordplay taught when you were being instructed to be the ruler of a country, and even less as you grew into a young Princess. You handled horseback riding, language study, arithmetic, and learning the duties of a sovereign.
Anne took a few moments to show you how to hold the knife, and then flipped up your undergarments to have access to your thigh. She strapped the leather bindings to it gently, the sheath sticking to you as she slid in the dagger. You felt nervous, knowing you were armed underneath all of the layers. Yet, something about it made you feel safer.
A while later, she brought all of the servants back in and they began to dress you. By the time you had finished, you stared into the full length mirror at the entirety of the velvety looking gown. It was a deep red color, with a dipping neckline that left your shoulders and collarbones exposed underneath the candlelight.
You opted for a more bold choice in tiara, ditching your family heirloom and going for a fringed tiara that dated farther back than you could guess within the British royal family. It was littered in diamonds and went well with the dress, watching as the material swished at your feet.
“I must say, this is one of my favorite dresses you’ve worn so far,” one of the lady servants murmured.
“His Royal Highness, Prince Thomas of Wales,” announced a man, almost out of nowhere.
You watched as the doors opened, the guard member stiff and standing tall. Tom rolled his eyes, wishing his entrance had not just been broadcasted so generously. Though, he was far too used to it by now to say a thing. It really had been quite unnecessary, but it was clear that the young man was quite new.
“Princess,” he greeted.
You turned, meeting his eyes and watching as he swallowed hard, eyes dipping to the curve of your bosom, and curl of your gloved hands. He was dressed in his usual formal ball attire, blinking a few times and noticing the way you moved to sit.
A diamond necklace laid untouched, sitting prettily on your vanity. He sent a nod to each of the women crowding you, watching as they fled the room. You peered over your shoulder, almost immediately seeing him lift up the heavily studded jewel. It was cold against your bare skin, but his hands were warm as he fiddled with the clasp at the back of your neck.
You gazed into the mirror, watching his determined eyes work their way around your shoulders and spine. Just as you felt the necklace sit comfortably, his fingers lingered for a moment, the brush of a knuckle against the divot of the arch of your neck.
“There,” he said. “Now—we should probably be going.”
His words came out breathlessly, turning around quickly and looking away. You couldn’t help but let out the wisp of a breath yourself, feeling the heat flush to your face. The trace of his touch remained on your skin, the thud of your heart quickening as soon as you took his arm.
The short walk to the ballroom was mostly silent, only breaking when you would make a mindless comment, making him reply with a crude remark. You felt a pull in your gut, like you wanted to despise him more than anything. Most of the time you were together, that was all it was, disdain. Though, in passing moments, you couldn’t help letting your guard down.
These thoughts rapidly halted when you both entered the large familiar room. You both made your rounds, greeting the guests and embracing family, his family. Soon after, you watched Tom step to the side and reach for a bottle of what you could only guess was brandy.
“A dance?”
This was a phrase you heard dozens of times throughout the night, men after men swinging and swishing you around the floor. Some of which left you drowning in your own boredom, others capable of making you smile and laugh. There was no sign of Nikolai, this was odd to you.
Tom sat at the edge of the room, elbows sat on his knees while he drank himself to death. His cheeks were flushed a deep red, curls falling into his eyes. The most peculiar thing was the way he watched you, the way he would be able to speak and converse, yet still make sure to flicker his gaze back to you.
The dagger at your thigh made you feel a bit less helpless, like you had a bit of leverage. Though, the night quickly faded and everything was turning out to be incredibly mundane. Nothing was seemingly out of the ordinary, and when you took your out, a feeling of relief washed over you.
Your soft steps sounded as you made your way back to your chambers. It was easy for you to find the right moment to claim you were tired, and needed to retire to your bed for the night. Tom had left you for the entirety of the night, keeping to himself for the most part.
You grasped the brass handle, pulling it open to reveal a room full of servants meant to help you undress. You bid them all a goodnight and promised you could do it on your own, wishing to be alone. When the last of them departed, you lifted the tiara from your hair, unclasping the necklace and placing both of the priceless items on the wood of the table.
You heard the rattle of the door a second later, asking who was there. No response. You felt your pulse quicken, lifting up the skirts of your dress and pulling at the handle of the knife. You took a few paces backwards, jumping when you realized it was only Tom. His back faced you as he closed the door quietly, throwing his hands up when he turned to see you, dagger in hand.
“Y/N—put down the knife,” he said cautiously.
You hadn’t a clue why you were still holding it in a position like you planned to stab someone. The adrenaline, perhaps. Tom approached you slowly, making your head swim with thoughts. Some part of you was wondering why you hadn’t dropped your hand, and the other was telling you to stay just as you were. He was just as bad as any other man you’d encountered, wasn’t he?
“Give me the knife,” he held a hand out. “Just let me see it.”
“You’re drunk,” you muttered, smelling the alcohol on him.
“You truly do know how to sober a man up, though, don’t you?” He laughed.
There was something mocking about his words, like he knew you wouldn’t do anything. This set something off inside of you, that feeling in your chest only grew when you took the opportunity to step forward and act as if you were going to pass the dagger off to him. When he extended his palm, you pulled his wrist forward and did your best to slam his back against the nearest wall. Your right hand, firmly grasping the hilt of the blade, rapidly meeting his neck. You pressed it into his exposed skin, watching his pupils dilate.
“Feeling sober?” You asked, masking any bit of anxiety.
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
You felt the beat of his heart through his shirt, pressing deeper. This earned a shocked wince, making you take in a deep breath yourself. His expression was surprisingly calm compared to your own, making it even more difficult to grasp when he flipped the both of you very out of the blue. His significantly larger hand had flawlessly brought the dagger from your white knuckled fingers, and into his own.
You felt the cold blade against your hot skin, his breath fanning over the sensitive spot below your ear. Your chest constricted, never having been this close to him before. You could smell the mix of brandy and whisky on him, wondering if he could sense how fast your heart was beating.
“Quick. Just not quick enough,” he teased lowly.
Something about this position made you almost melt, just now noticing how dry your mouth had become. Tom’s head turned to look into your eyes, making you practically jump. There was something so intimate in the way he was looking at you, something so personal.
“God, you truly have no clue about the things you do to me,” his drunken words seemed to spill out.
“Don’t I?” You asked, feeling his free fingers slide against the skin of your jaw. “You despise me, hate me even.”
“I wish I hated you.”
These were the last words spoken between the two of you before the space between both of you was filled. Firm, but warm lips were being pressed onto your own. With hardly a second to react, you felt your hand slide up the fabric of his clothed shoulder and to the nape of his neck. Your fingers threaded themselves into his hair, tugging harshly as he kissed you harder.
You arched your back against the hard surface you were pressed at, listening to the clatter of the knife against the floor in the night. His now freed hand found your neck, gently curling around it and squeezing. The euphoric feeling sent a wave of pleasure down your back, a single whimper passing between your conjoined lips.
“Tell me you hate me,” he whispered to you, breaking away for only a moment.
“I hate you,” you kissed him. “I hate you,” you kissed him again. “God, I hate you right now.”
One of his hands remained around your neck, the other sliding down to your waist and flipping you around. His nimble fingers played with the buttons at the back of your dress, pressing sloppy kissed against your neck and throat. Once the dress fell to your ankles, he pulled several layers over your head. Before you could even get to unlacing the corset, his heavily ringed hands twisted into it, ripping it straight down the back.
You were left in almost nothing, a thin article of clothing covering you. His hand brought itself to your breast, kneading at the almost completely exposed skin. You let out a repressed moan as he cupped the swelling of your chest.
“Is this okay?” He asked between wet kisses, trailing generously down your collarbone.
“Yes,” you hardly got out.
He nodded against you, lips brushing the skin above the neck of your underdress. It slid down, exposing the tops of your breasts. His head dipped, tongue trailing behind, leaving goosebumps along your feverish chest. He bit gently, leaving you to pant as you felt his hand slide up your calf and onto your thigh, he undid the holster, listening to it fall to the floor.
Before you could even truly think, you were being placed on top of one of the wooden surfaces of your bedroom. Tom was on his knees, pulling your ankle to him lips and pressing a kiss to the skin. This continued up to your knee, nearing closer and closer to your aching core. His touch was like fire, spreading through your whole body.
Movement outside of your chambers made you stiffen, Tom sat up immediately. The sound repeated itself and you were both scrambling to get away from each other. Your discarded clothes littered the floor, corset ripped down the middle. Tom was clearly disheveled, but mostly dressed. You began to realize the extent of what you both had done.
You grabbed at a few of the pieces of fabric, finally looking up and meeting his eyes. You both stared at each other for a moment, and without a word, Tom slipped out the door and into the night.
⋆ teaser. ⋆ chapter i. ⋆ chapter ii. ⋆ chapter iii. ⋆ chapter iv. ⋆ chapter v. ⋆ chapter vi. ⋆ chapter vii. ⋆ chapter viii. ⋆ chapter ix. ⋆ chapter x. ⋆ chapter xi. ⋆ chapter xii. ⋆ chapter xiii. ⋆ chapter xiv. [C O M P L E T E D]
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