"Why aren't you answering?"

  I twitch my eyes out of annoyance.

  I don't want to fight him yet, this body is so weak.

  Let's play along.

  "Your Highness. I'm here to talk about the engagement."

  "I believe I told you that I don't want to be associated with your family. Or do you want to get married to me?"

  Walking back to the chair near his table I lean my back and staring at him then I smirk obviously planning a scheme but it's not, this is how I will survive.

  This is the only way I can exist as Ethan Lowes.

  Still staring at him I open my mouth to speak.

  "I want to propose a deal, Your Highness. Let's say I will give you a dog. Do you prefer it chained in a gilded yard, fed well but never allowed to bare its teeth—kept by a master who fears it might grow stronger than him? Or do you prefer a war dog, unleashed on the battlefield, trained to recognize enemies, loyal not because it is afraid, but because it trusts the hand that holds the leash?"

  "One owner keeps the dog close to feel powerful, then sends it charging blindly and blames it when it dies. The other knows when to loosen the leash, when to point, and when to pull it back before it's cut down."

  He looks at me narrowing his eyes as if he is examining me. He clearly doesn't remember this woman to be this bold. In fact I think he remember her crying when he said he doesn't want to get married to this woman.

  "Ha! Interesting."

  He has eyes of a crazy yet calculating person.

  "And where do I get this war dog that will trust his owner?"

  "You're looking at one."

  "Why would you want to become useful to me? You don't owe me anything. I didn't know you're thick faced."

  The crown prince stared at me for a long moment, like he was weighing whether I was a threat or a headache.

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  Possibly both.

  "To be useful," he repeated slowly. "That's what you claim you want."

  "Yes."

  "And you expect me to believe that this isn't some elaborate scheme by House Versailles to sink their claws into royal power."

  "If it were," I said dryly, "I'd be crying about love, fainting dramatically, or threatening to starve myself until you marry me."

  He grimaced. "Point taken."

  I shift my weight, then immediately regret it as the heels stab my soul. I straighten anyway. Pain is temporary. Pride is forever.

  He turns away, pacing once, hands clasped behind his back. A soldier's habit. I notice. Of course I do.

  "You know," he says, not looking at me, "I don't want this marriage either."

  "Oh thank the gods," I mutter. "That makes this much less awkward."

  He shoots me a look. "Don't misunderstand. Marriage is a tool. And a dangerous one. It ties hands. Clouds judgment. Gives enemies leverage."

  My eyes light up despite myself.

  "Yes," I say immediately. "Exactly that."

  He stops pacing.

  Slowly, he turns to face me again.

  "You agree?"

  "I approve," I correct. "Romance is inefficient. And most people make stupid decisions when they think with their feelings."

  For the first time, he doesn't look irritated.

  He looks... interested.

  "You speak like a commander," he says. "Not like a noblewoman."

  "I'm bad at being one," I reply. "But I'm excellent at following competent leadership."

  That earns a sharp look.

  "You think I'm competent."

  "I think," I say carefully, "that you know what a battlefield costs. And you don't spend soldiers like loose coin."

  Silence falls.

  Heavy. Evaluating.

  Then—unexpectedly—he lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh.

  "So that's it," he says. "You don't want power. You don't want affection. You want purpose."

  "Yes."

  "And violence," he adds.

  I tilt my head. "Only the necessary kind."

  He studies me again—really studies me this time. Not the dress. Not the jewelry.

  The eyes.

  "...You're dangerous," he says at last.

  I smile, small and honest. "Only if pointed wrong."

  Another pause.

  Then he straightens, decision made.

  "Very well, Lady Amethyst," he says. "Let's assume—purely hypothetically—that I accept this ridiculous idea."

  My heart kicks.

  "You will remain engaged," he continues, "as a political shield. In return—"

  "I become useful," I finish.

  His lips curve faintly. "You become mine to deploy. When the time is right. Where the rot is deepest."

  My grin widens.

  "Your Highness," I say, placing a hand over my chest in a mock bow, "I've been itching for orders."

  For a brief moment—just a fraction of a second—I see it in his eyes.

  Recognition.

  Not of a bride.

  But of a soldier.

  "...Try not to trip on the battlefield," he says dryly, glancing at my heels.

  "No promises," I reply. "But I'll make sure the enemy falls first."

  And just like that—

  The deal is struck.