Bride to the Cursed: a Snow White retelling

Chapter 18: Kingly Loser

When Dane finally succumbed to sleep, it was to restless thoughts of Cassandra.

Cassandra, his pretty little wife of ten years, who acted like an empty-headed doll that enjoyed throwing tantrums.

Cassandra, who in three months had transformed into an enigmatic beauty with wiles and courage and a sharp tongue.

Cassandra, soft and pliant in his arms, kissing him back with a passion and fervour that set fire to his very being.

Cassandra, who he hated—and should continue to hate—for having deceived him, even as another part of him admired the clever way in which she'd disguised herself and played him like a fool.

Cassandra, who stood confident before him in all her naked glory the morning she reappeared in his bedchamber.

Cassandra, who could soon be whisked off to a faraway kingdom as a princess, escorted out of his life exactly the way he wanted.

Cassandra, writhing beneath another man's body, crying another man's name, bearing another man's child—

Dane sat up in bed, hand running through his hair as he took in the dim light filtering through the windows. He'd finally fallen asleep late at night, and here he was, wide awake at the first break of dawn, all because Cassandra refused to leave him alone in his dreams. All because she was the only thing he could see every time he closed his eyes.

Fucking Cassandra Rivera.

Frustrated, he pulled on a simple tunic and breeches and made his way down to the barracks, his expression stormy enough to keep every passing servant from entering within a three-feet radius of him.

Despite the early hour, men filled the training grounds; some in the fighting ring, others arranging the latest supply of weaponry and armour.

He should be pleased to see that his council had already diligently begun their preparations, but he couldn't find it in himself to feel pleased about anything.

With a lazy gesture of his hand, he dismissed all who had paused in their tracks to greet him, and headed for the weapons stand.

The wooden racks by the fighting ring featured an impressive array of weaponry, from the traditional long swords and spears of their kingdom, to the scimitars and maces favoured by Easterners like the Uviellans, to the whips and throwing axes of the Serrasi, to the wooden staves preferred by the warrior priestesses of Meltec. These racks signified the cultural diversity that his predecessors strived to cultivate, the friendships they built, the knowledge they exchanged with their neighbours.

And here he was, bringing war to his very doorstep when he wasn't even ready to defend. The people were right. They were always right. What was he but a king cursed to bring death and doom?

But he wouldn't have taken up the mantle of king if he wasn't prepared to fight. For he would fight, for his kingdom, his people, mayhap even... even for the lying, deceitful bitch who'd been fighting in her own way to get back to his side.

Turning his back on the weapons, he strode into the fighting ring and threw himself into hand-to-hand combat with the men.

Before becoming king, he'd been in charge of the kingdom's military affairs for many years. Though times were peaceful, there were enough skirmishes with bandits and outlaws to keep him busy. In those times, he regularly trained with his men, making sure he earned their respect from being one of them, and not by virtue of his birth.

Since the coronation, he'd skimped on his physical training, and he'd expected himself to be rusty, but not so utterly incompetent.

With one sweep of a leg, his opponent had Dane dropping to the ground with a wince, kicking up a cloud of dust around him. He should've rolled to the side. He should've, but it'd been a while since he'd been thrown this way. In his momentary lapse, he allowed his opponent to fall on him, his muscled forearm pressing into Dane's throat.