The Queen’s Dude

My coronation was supposed to be flawless. Dignified. Regal.

Instead, I caught a mercenary stealing fruit from the royal banquet table.

"Is that peach worth your fingers?" I asked, tiara still crooked on my head.

He blinked. "Worth a few kisses, maybe."

He bit into it with a wink. Juices ran down his chin. I nearly called the guards. Nearly.

I let him stay. Not because I was curious. Not because he was handsome in that devil-may-care, shirt-always-open way. Not even because I liked how he called me "Your Royal Highness of Eye Rolls."

I let him stay because no one else made me laugh when I was supposed to be perfect.

They tried to kill me during the spring ball. Subtle poison, hidden blade, masked dancers.

Dude stopped it with a fork, a chandelier rope, and his body.

"You're not dying tonight," he muttered, bleeding on my floor.

"But you might be," I replied, kneeling beside him. "Idiot."

He grinned. "Royal pain."

We kissed in secret—between strategy meetings, under starlit balconies, behind silk curtains. Every moment stolen. Every touch a risk.

He whispered things no king ever dared. Touched me like I was woman first, sovereign second.

And when I let him stay the night? The palace guards patrolled extra slow.

He left before dawn. Again.

No note. Just the faint scent of oranges on my pillow.

Queens don't chase.

But when I stood before my court, spine straight, crown gleaming, I wore a smile he gave me.

They say I rule with steel.

But they don't know it was forged in fire… and stolen kisses.