The courtyard fell deathly silent after his mother’s public jab.
All eyes turned to Malachi, waiting to see how the King of the North would answer the challenge.
Malachi’s fingers dug painfully into Lauretta’s arm.
A cold, cruel smirk twisted his lips.
He looked straight at his mother and raised his voice so the entire assembly could hear.
“She’s awfully quiet because I rough-handled her last night,” he said, the words sharp and deliberate.
“The southern girl isn’t used to how a real king takes what’s his.” Loud, crude laughter exploded across the courtyard.
Warriors slapped each other on the back.
Some whistled.
A few lords chuckled openly.
His mother allowed herself a satisfied smile, her eyes gleaming with triumph.
Lauretta’s face burned with humiliation.
She wanted to sink into the stone beneath her feet and never rise again.
Malachi gave her arm one last bruising squeeze.
“Come, wife”.
She followed him silently through the parting crowd and up the wide stone steps into the keep.
The laughter and mocking comments chased them like dogs at their heels.
Neither of them spoke.
By the time they reached the upper corridors, Lauretta’s legs felt unsteady from the emotional blow.
A maid was waiting for them.
Malachi released Lauretta’s arm as if she burned him.
“Show her to her chambers,” he ordered coldly, not even glancing at his new wife.
“Make sure she’s presentable for dinner.” Then he turned and strode away without another word.
The maid — a stern-faced northern woman in dark gray — led Lauretta down a different hallway.
“This way, my lady.” The room the maid showed her was beautiful but impersonal.
Heavy furs covered a large bed.
A fire crackled in the hearth.
Along one wall stood a wooden rack with a new lineup of clothes: several rich wool dresses in deep reds and blacks, fur-lined cloaks, sturdy boots, and nightgowns.
Everything was finely made, clearly prepared for the new queen.
But there was no sign of Malachi’s belongings.
No second wardrobe.
No shared space.
This was her room.
Separate.
She was glad about that.
Lauretta sank onto the edge of the bed the moment the maid left.
Her hands trembled as she pulled the thick envelope from her mother out of her dress.
She turned it over, fingers brushing the seal, heart pounding.
What new expectations or warnings waited inside?
She started to break the seal— A sharp knock interrupted her.
The same maid opened the door.
“My lady, the dowager queen requests your presence at the table immediately.” Lauretta quickly tucked the envelope away again.
She rose, smoothing the wool dress with unsteady hands, and followed the maid to the family dining hall.
The long stone room was warm the smell of roasted meat and spiced wine overpowered everywhere.
Malachi’s mother sat at the head of the table like a queen in her own right.
Two older lords flanked her.
Malachi’s seat at the other end remained glaringly empty.
Lauretta took the chair indicated for her.
The dowager’s sharp eyes immediately assessed her.
“You look pale, girl,” she said, voice sweet but laced with venom.
“One would think the journey exhausted you.
Or perhaps it was last night’s… exertions.” A small smile played on her lips.
One of the lords chuckled.
Lauretta said nothing, hands folded tightly in her lap.
She forced herself to breathe slowly.
The dowager continued between delicate bites.
“It must be difficult adjusting to northern ways.
Southern girls are so… fragile.
Tell me, did you at least try to please my son, or did you simply lie there like a frightened rabbit?” The other lord smirked.
“She’s quiet tonight.
Perhaps our king really did rough-handle her as he claimed.” More soft laughter rippled around the table.
Lauretta’s cheeks flamed again.
She kept her eyes on her plate, barely touching the food.
The dinner dragged on.
Servants refilled wine glasses.
The empty chair at the head of the table remained a silent accusation.
the dowager set down her knife abruptly.
“Our king is late,” she said, looking directly at Lauretta.
“A good wife fetches her husband when he forgets his duties.
Go call Malachi to the table, girl.
His chambers are at the end of the east wing.” Lauretta’s stomach dropped.
She wanted to refuse, but every eye at the table was on her.
The dowager’s smile was expectant.
She stood and went to do as she was told.
She knew she couldn’t afford to fall into bad graces with her mother-in-law.
The maid from earlier silently pointed her toward the east wing.
Lauretta walked the cold corridor, heart hammering.
She reached the heavy door at the end of the hall.
It was slightly ajar.
Low, rhythmic sounds came from within — a woman’s gasping moans, the slap of flesh, a man’s low, guttural grunts.
Lauretta’s hand trembled as she pushed the door open further.
Inside, Malachi stood beside a large bed, trousers shoved down.
A dark-haired woman was bent over the edge of the mattress, dress rucked up around her waist.
Malachi gripped her hips with bruising force, thrusting into her roughly from behind.
The woman moaned loudly, pushing back against him, her fingers clutching the furs.
“Fuck, yes— harder, my king,” Mira gasped.
Malachi growled, one hand fisting in Mira’s hair as he drove into her with raw, punishing strokes.
His face was twisted in pleasure and release, nothing like the cold restraint he had shown Lauretta on their wedding night.
Sweat glistened on his bare chest.
The wet, obscene sounds of their fucking filled the room.
Lauretta stood frozen in the doorway, the scene burning itself into her mind.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Malachi didn’t notice her, lost in the rough rhythm, slamming into Mira again and again.