power; The weight of crown.

Khloe floated in a world of warmth, weightless, untethered.

The pain was gone. The weight of the crown, the throne, the blood—gone.

She felt the soft kiss of a breeze against her cheek, the scent of fresh-cut grass and rich earth surrounding her. The golden glow of the afternoon sun bathed the palace training grounds, and laughter rang through the air—deep, masculine laughter.

It was a sound that sent her heart soaring.

She turned toward it, her chest tightening with a strange mix of relief and ache.

Dean.

He was there, standing tall, his bare chest glistening with sweat from the intense sparring session with Jason. His silver, wavy hair clung to his skin, his wolfish grin flashing as he wiped his brow. The sharp angles of his face, the raw strength in his stance—it all came back to her in a rush.

Her Dean.

She was watching them train, just as she always did, sitting beneath the shade of the royal willow tree.

Jason, her father's prized warrior, was the finest swordsman in the four kingdoms, but Dean—Dean was something else entirely. Where Jason was precise and deadly, Dean was feral, his movements fluid yet powerful, his instincts sharper than any blade.

She should have been training with Jason today. That was the rule. But she had never been one to follow rules.

Dean dodged a swift strike from Jason, twisting mid-air and knocking the blade from his opponent's grip. Jason smirked, retrieving his weapon.

"She's supposed to be training," Jason remarked, glancing toward her with an amused smirk.

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. "She prefers to watch."

"I prefer to enjoy my afternoon in peace," Khloe corrected, arching a brow. "Besides, why waste my time when I can have the best warriors train in my stead?"

Jason huffed a laugh, but Dean's expression softened as he turned toward her. There it was—the way he always looked at her. A gaze that made her feel like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Khloe cleared her throat, ignoring the warmth spreading in her chest. She wasn't a girl in love. She was a princess.

"Come, lunch is ready," she said, rising to her feet.

Dean wiped the sweat from his brow, while Jason sheathed his blade. They followed her toward the open-air dining terrace, where Olivia, Maria, and a few trusted maids had already begun setting the table.

Lunch was always a lively affair. Khloe enjoyed these moments—when she wasn't a princess, but simply a girl among friends.

Dean sat beside her, as he always did, his arm brushing against hers. Jason sat across from them, engaged in a heated debate with Olivia over the best way to fortify the castle walls. Maria laughed, shaking her head at their antics.

It was a memory so sweet, so perfect, that it hurt.

Because she knew what came next.

The dream shifted, warping at the edges.

Laughter faded. The sunlight dimmed.

But she was still there, trapped, watching it unfold like a play she had no control over.

She saw herself—young, innocent, untouched by grief—dismissing everyone after lunch, asking Dean to stay behind under the pretense of wanting to study vampire history.

Jason smirked knowingly as he left. Olivia rolled her eyes but said nothing. Maria simply bowed and walked away.

The moment the doors shut, Khloe was no longer the fragile princess the world saw her as.

She was fire.

She dashed toward Dean, grabbing his tunic, pulling him down toward her.

He inhaled sharply as she crashed her lips against his.

Dean stiffened at first, his body taut with resistance. He always did this—tried to fight it, tried to be honorable.

But the bond between them was too strong.

She felt the moment he lost control, the moment he gave in.

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer.

She moaned against his lips as his hands roamed her body, fingers pressing into her waist, her back, her hips.

They stumbled backward, their bodies colliding with the wooden bookshelf. A few scrolls tumbled to the floor, but neither of them cared.

Dean broke the kiss, his forehead pressing against hers as he panted.

"Khloe," he murmured, his voice husky, raw with restraint.

She tilted her head up, her lips brushing against his. "You're mine, Dean. You've always been mine."

His grip on her tightened. "You don't know what you're saying."

"Yes, I do." She cupped his face, her thumb tracing the scar on his jaw. "Stop pretending you can resist this."

A growl rumbled in his chest, low and deep. His golden eyes darkened.

His wolf was losing the battle.

And so was he.

Dean crushed his lips against hers, devouring her, claiming her.

Clothes were torn, discarded without care. She felt his skin against hers, his warmth searing into her soul.

They collapsed onto the bed, tangled in each other's limbs.

His hands, rough from years of labor, caressed her as though she were something fragile, something precious.

She wasn't.

She didn't want to be.

Not with him.

She wanted this—the heat, the passion, the wildness of it all.

She wanted him.

And she had him.

As they lay in the aftermath, breathless and bare, she curled up against his chest, his arm draped over her protectively.

Khloe closed her eyes, safe, happy, whole.

But then—

A voice shattered the moment.

Cullen's voice.

Ranting.

Demanding.

"I want to see my betrothed."

No.

Khloe stiffened.

Dean stirred beside her, his arm tightening around her waist. "Ignore him," he murmured sleepily.

She tried. She tried.

But the knocking at the door grew louder.

Then—

BAM!

The doors burst open.

It was through magic.

The world spun into chaos.

Cullen stood in the doorway, his golden eyes blazing, his expression twisted in disbelief and rage.

His gaze dropped to the scene before him.

To her, naked and tangled in the sheets.

To Dean, half-draped over her, his bare chest rising and falling with slow, satisfied breaths.

The air turned to ice.

Khloe felt exposed. Vulnerable.

Not because of what she had done.

Not because she regretted it.

But because no man—not even her father—had ever seen her like this.

Cullen had no right.

But it was too late.

The dream fractured.

Khloe felt it slipping, the warmth bleeding away, replaced with something cold, something dark.

Cullen's voice rang in her ears, distant but deafening.

"What. Is. This?"

She tried to speak, to move, but she couldn't.

She was trapped, helpless, drowning in the weight of her shame, her fury, her fear.

Then—

A scream.

A snarl.

Blood.

Khloe's eyes flew open.

She woke with a sharp gasp, her body drenched in sweat, her pulse racing.

Pain shot through her, a searing agony that forced her back down against the bed.

"Your Majesty!"

Olivia's voice.

Frantic hands pressed against her body, trying to stop the bleeding.

Jason loomed over her, his sharp eyes scanning the room, as if searching for threats.

But Khloe could still see it—the dream, the memory, the moment her life shattered.

Cullen's voice still echoed in her ears.

Dean's warmth was gone.

And she was alone.

Again.