Ronan was still, in most ways, a young man playing at being a general—but also…
“Hm?”
He clearly hadn’t expected her to have conditions.
His heavy brows drew together, and something in the air around him shifted at once, sharp and cold as drawn steel.
A draft moved through the hall, lifting his long hair and the hem of his coat, giving him an even rougher, more dangerous edge.
They stood close enough that his sleeve brushed the back of Aisling’s hand, thin as a blade against her skin, sending a shiver straight through her.
Her heart pounded hard enough that she thought he might hear it, but she held her ground and didn’t move.
This was a risk.
Beyond their brief encounter that night, Aisling knew almost nothing about the kind of man Ronan truly was.
As for the stories people told about him, her experience at Solas Hall had already taught her not to trust history too blindly.
Besides, the way a man behaved on a battlefield had little to do with how he treated the women in his life.
A celebrated general could still be cruel to his own wife.
A man capable of terrible things elsewhere could still be devoted to his family.
So this was a test.
How Ronan responded to her now mattered greatly for whatever came afterward.
Aisling’s palms were damp, but she forced herself to remain calm.
She hadn’t planned to make demands when she came here.
But as their conversation had progressed, she’d realized that Ronan was more patient with her than she’d expected.
That gave her enough courage to push her luck.
She had no idea whether it would anger him.
To her surprise, he agreed.
“Go on.”
When Ronan had first heard that she had conditions, something inside him had bristled.
Since taking the throne, no one had ever made demands of him like this.
And now the woman he’d chosen was even threatening to refuse the marriage entirely if he didn’t agree.
The woman he’d chosen, refusing him?
Unthinkable.
Yet the moment he met her clear, steady, glasslike eyes, whatever anger had flared inside him disappeared just as quickly.
That steadiness was precisely what had drawn him to her from the beginning.
She could look him directly in the eye without flinching.
Impressive.
It was like discovering some rare treasure—stunning at first glance, yet somehow even more remarkable the longer one looked.
Aisling caught the expression on his face.
Despite his sharp features, his eyes had remained relatively calm throughout the exchange.
That eased her mind somewhat.
“First condition,” she said.
“Since you’re marrying me properly, as your true wife, I want to be treated with the same respect our people show a principal wife.
Respect me, and don’t force me into anything I don’t want.”
Ronan understood that easily enough.
She was southern, after all, and unused to the customs of the grasslands.
There was nothing unreasonable about her request.
“Agreed.”
That was fair enough as well.
He’d never had any interest in her dowry to begin with.
He nodded.
“Agreed.”
“Third condition…”
Aisling paused.
“What is it?”
The first two conditions had been easy enough, so Ronan assumed the third would be no different.
What she said next left him genuinely stunned.
Her eyes dropped from his face to his jaw, lightly shadowed with stubble.
She blinked.
“I want you to cut off your beard.”
“Hm?”
A low, questioning sound rumbled from his throat.
He truly hadn’t expected that to be her final condition.
His expression froze before shifting into something almost bewildered.
Among his people, there was no strict rule about beards, though most men kept them, particularly soldiers.
A beard lent a certain authority, and no one had much time to fuss over his appearance every morning anyway.
In this age, the appearance of a powerful man mattered less for handsomeness than for the weight it conveyed.
Most kept their beards short and neat, while a few civil officials preferred to remain clean-shaven for a more refined appearance.
Ronan was tall and commanding.
Even at his age, his presence alone carried enough authority.
He hardly needed a beard.
But he’d lived roughly for most of his life and had never bothered trimming it properly, allowing it to grow to roughly half an inch without much thought.
“Why?” he asked.
Aisling tilted her head, the tassels of her hairpin swaying with the movement.
“Because I like a clean, elegant face on a man.”
For once, a playful note entered her voice.
Her usual composure slipped just enough to reveal the lively, teasing side of the seventeen-year-old girl beneath it.
Ronan said nothing for a long moment.
The third condition seemed simple, but in some ways it was harder than the first two.
Those could be agreed to now and proven later.
This one required immediate action.
His eyes settled fully on her.
They lingered over her delicate, striking features before he reached up and touched his own jaw.
Perhaps some part of him imagined how mismatched they would look—her fine features beside his rough beard, as though something coarse had been placed next to something beautiful.
After a moment of visible hesitation, he finally nodded.
“Fine.
I’ll do it.”
He said it loudly, as though the words had cost him something.
Watching his expression, Aisling nearly laughed.
This Ronan was nothing like the merciless figure described in the stories.
Having gotten what she came for, she turned to leave.
Before she could take a step, a strong hand caught her arm. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
That same heat from the night of the assassination rushed through her sleeve.
“You’re the one who asked me to shave.
Why leave in such a hurry?” Ronan asked.
“Stay and see whether I look like the kind of gentleman you claim to like once it’s done.”
There was an edge beneath his words, a trace of irritation.
Perhaps her earlier comment about preferring clean-shaven men hadn’t sat entirely well with him.
He called for water and a blade before disappearing into the back hall.
Since he wouldn’t let her leave, Aisling had little choice but to wait.
She settled onto a low couch in the hall and began turning everything that had happened that day over in her mind.
She still couldn’t say exactly why Ronan had chosen her.
But it was clear enough that he had unusual patience with her.
As long as she didn’t interfere with his ambitions or cross whatever boundaries he kept for himself, he likely wouldn’t make her life difficult in most other ways.
That, at least, was good news she hadn’t expected.
Even so, marrying into a foreign land alone left her uneasy.
It was a place a thousand miles from everything she knew, filled with people whose customs, food, and even language differed from her own.
Everything stood between her and whatever life waited ahead.
And in that unfamiliar world, the only person she could truly lean on would be Ronan.
Her entire future would be tied to whether he continued to care for her.
That wasn’t the life she had wanted.
It was simply the road in front of her now.
Leaving Kilmore meant she might never see her family again…
Lost in those thoughts, Aisling heard steady, deliberate footsteps approaching.
Ronan emerged from the back hall.
She looked up.
Her eyes widened.
He looked like an entirely different man.
Aisling had always known he wasn’t unattractive.
Quite the opposite.
His forehead was broad, his brow strong, and his thick eyebrows gave him a rugged, masculine appearance.
His eyes were striking too—deep green, cold and fierce enough that most people would never look closely enough to notice their simple almond shape.
One corner was sharp like a hook, while the other curved gently.
With a high, straight nose, his entire bone structure—previously hidden beneath the stubble—was suddenly visible.
Clean-shaven, his jaw stood out sharply, pulling his features together into something unexpectedly striking.
He carried the blood of both his parents in his face, and now that his beard no longer concealed it, the southern influence of his mother was unmistakable.
Below his eyes, if one ignored the strong bone structure, he could almost have passed for any southern man.
It softened some of what might otherwise have seemed foreign about him.
Combined with his youth—his features still firm and lifted in the way young men’s were—and his tall, powerful build, he looked less like the ruler of a vast northern territory and more like a young general who had just climbed down from a warhorse, spear still in hand.
Which, in fairness, he was.
A young general who also happened to be a king.
Seeing Aisling staring at him, Ronan stepped closer until he stood directly over her, tall as a small mountain.
He looked down at her.
“Well?”