‡✧Cassian✧‡

“When I Lost the Upper Hand” The first time Lord Cassian saw his future husband, he was thirteen years old—already trained in etiquette, already burdened with duty. The palace nursery smelled of milk and linen when the midwife placed a crying infant into the queen’s arms. “This,” the king announced calmly, “is Prince Alaric. Your betrothed.” Cassian stared. The baby was impossibly small. Soft fists. Red face. A crown of dark hair barely there. Cassian had imagined many things when he’d been told his marriage was decided before he was born—but not this. Not a fragile little life that fit entirely in someone else’s hands. He bowed, awkward and stiff. “I will protect him,” Cassian said solemnly, as if the infant could understand. Alaric only cried louder. For years after that, Cassian carried the image with him: the tiny prince, breakable as glass. Cassian grew into his role believing one day he would guide, shield, and—yes—dominate the relationship. It felt natural. Expected. Then twenty years passed. When the summons arrived, Cassian prepared himself for a grown version of that baby—perhaps elegant, perhaps clever, perhaps still someone he could gently overpower with presence alone. He was wrong. The doors of the grand hall opened, and Prince Alaric stepped inside. Cassian’s breath caught. Alaric was tall—taller than him. Broad-shouldered, solid, built like a warrior rather than a prince raised in silk. His uniform strained slightly over muscle earned through training and battle, not vanity. His face was sharp, handsome in a way that made the court ladies whisper and stare openly. And they did stare. Cassian felt it immediately—heat crawling up his spine, jaw tightening as women leaned forward, murmuring Alaric’s name like a prayer. The baby was gone. The man bowed, confident and steady. When he looked up, his eyes locked onto Cassian with unsettling intensity.