Someone Named Asher

Isabelle was sprawled across my bed like she owned it, her bare legs stretched out, one lazily draped over the other. My shirt—my fucking shirt, hung loosely off her frame, slipping down one shoulder, exposing the smooth curve of her skin.

She had positioned herself with deliberate care, her back slightly arched, her chest subtly pushed forward, lips curled into what she likely thought was an irresistible smirk. The pale blue dress she'd worn earlier was discarded at the foot of my bed, a silky heap of fabric carelessly tossed aside, like she couldn't strip fast enough.

Pathetic. Did she really think this would move me? That her body, so carelessly offered, could stir something in me?

No. If I were the kind of man who could be swayed by soft curves and inviting flesh, I wouldn't be this man. The delicate dip of her waist, the fullness of her thighs, the effortless way she sprawled across my bed like an invitation—it did nothing for me. It never had.

It wasn't that she wasn't beautiful. I could acknowledge that, in the same way someone might admire a painting in a museum—detached, distant, appreciating it for what it was without any desire to reach out and touch. Because beauty meant nothing when it didn't stir want.

And she never had.

Because she wasn't someone whose collarbones begged to be traced with my fingers, someone whose eyes held entire storms within them.

Someone named Asher.

Asher, with his piercing gaze and the way he moved—like he was trying to disappear, shoulders slightly hunched, steps careful, as if making himself smaller would keep the world from seeing him. But I saw him. I always did. He pulled me in without trying, without meaning to, and that was enough to leave something behind—something heavy in my chest, something I wasn't supposed to feel.

And yet, I did.

It was never just about wanting him. It was knowing I couldn't have him. That no matter how much I craved those stolen glances, those fleeting moments at the Gilded Spoon, they would never be enough. That the one person I wanted was the one I had no right to reach for. And I—

"Finally." Isabelle's drawled, cutting through my thoughts. She propped herself up on her elbows, the movement slow, deliberate. Calculated. She parted her legs just a little wider, enough to make it painfully obvious she wasn't wearing anything beneath my shirt—dammit.

I clenched my jaw. The room suddenly felt suffocating, like the walls were pressing in, thick with the stench of desperation—her desperation.

"I was beginning to think you'd take all day sulking with Daddy and the council."

Her voice was dripping with amusement, like this was all some joke to her. Like she actually believed she had some kind of control here.

I exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through my hair. Of course, she'd pull some shit like this. Because clearly, I hadn't had enough bullshit for one day.

I left the door wide open. Not by accident. Not because I forgot. I left it open for obvious reasons.

Isabelle, of course, didn't care. She lounged on my bed like a cat in the sun, stretching herself out, acting like she had all the time in the world.

I didn't step inside. I stuck close to the door, leaning against the frame, arms crossed. "Get dressed." My voice was flat, tired. I wasn't in the mood for whatever game she thought she was playing.

She blinked up at me, her smirk deepening, feigned innocence painting her features. "But I'm dressed Mal," she said, tilting her head ever so slightly. Her legs shifted—spreading just a fraction wider—her chest arching forward in an exaggerated breath.

I clenched my teeth. This is the woman my father wanted me to marry? Yeah. Right.

"Get. Dressed." My voice came out sharper this time, words edged with impatience. "Or I'll throw you out of my room just like that."

The smirk wavered, just for a second. Then she frowned, pouting like a child who had just been told no for the first time in her life.

"What is wrong with you?" she whined, her tone shifting from sultry to indignant in an instant. "We're getting married, Malcolm. There's no need to be shy." She leaned forward, voice dropping into something lower, silkier. "I just wanted you to have a little taste of what you'll be enjoying in our marriage."

A taste?

My stomach twisted, revulsion creeping up my spine like ice.

Like I was some starving man desperate for whatever she deemed fit to offe. Like I had no choice but to take it, to accept her.

Did she really think I would have ever looked her way if not for that stupid engagement I had no say in?

I exhaled slowly, steadying my breathing. "Then wait until we get married," I bit out, my patience snapping. "For now, just get dressed and get the hell out of my room."

This time, I didn't bother lowering my voice. I didn't care if my father and his precious council heard me. In fact, I wanted them to hear. Let them know that their perfect little princess is nothing but a cheap whore.

Isabelle huffed in frustration, throwing herself off the bed with an unnecessary amount of dramatics. "What is your problem?" she snapped, flipping her hair over one shoulder as she glared at me.

I leveled her with a glare. "I'm not repeating myself."

She rolled her eyes, then, without an ounce of hesitation—grabbed the hem of my shirt and yanked it over her head.

I turned away so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. Does she have no shame?

Behind me, I heard the rustle of fabric, the shuffle of her slipping back into her discarded dress. I kept my eyes on the wall, my jaw locked so tight it ached.

"Done," she finally said, her voice clipped with irritation.

I hesitated before glancing back. Fully dressed. Thank the gods. I sighed in relief, finally stepping into the room. "Now leave me alone, please."

Isabelle folded her arms, tilting her head like I was the one acting irrational. "But I'm fully dressed now." She said it like that was supposed to mean something.

"So?"

"I see no reason why—"

"Get out! I need a moment alone." I cut her off before she could finish.

She stared at me, eyes narrowing as if she wanted to argue. But then, with an annoyed flick of her hair, she stormed past me, deliberately bumping her shoulder against mine as she went.

I didn't move until she was over the threshold. Then, without hesitation, I grabbed the door and slammed it shut behind her. Hard.

"Annoying. Spoiled. Brat," I muttered under my breath.