Chapter 5 – Bound by Fate, Torn by War

Michael’s grip on Elizabeth’s wrist was firm, his touch searing against her skin as he dragged her through the stone corridors of the council hall. The elders' voices still rang in her ears, their decree echoing in the vast chamber like an iron-clad verdict—marriage, a forced union to bind their warring nations. She had spat out her refusal, her voice trembling with rage, and Michael had done the same. But now, here they were, running.

The doors of the great hall swung open, the gust of the cold night air striking her face as he pulled her towards his horse. “Enough, Elizabeth,” Michael growled, his voice deep, husky with frustration. “We’re leaving.”

She struggled against his grip, but he was too strong. He lifted her effortlessly onto the black stallion, mounting behind her, his arms caging her in. The heat of his body, the raw strength in his frame, made her chest tighten. His scent, dark and intoxicating, curled around her senses. She hated how familiar it felt.

The horse tore through the dense forest, hooves pounding against the earth like the drumming of her heart. Neither of them spoke. Not until Michael pulled the reins, bringing them to a clearing bathed in silver moonlight. Towering trees loomed around them, their leaves whispering secrets in the wind.

Elizabeth slid off the horse, her breaths sharp, uneven. “You had no right,” she hissed, spinning to face him. “No right to take me from there.”

Michael dismounted in one swift motion, his gaze dark, unreadable. “No right?” he echoed, stepping closer. “They want to bind us like pawns on a chessboard, Elizabeth. They want to use us.”

“They already have,” she shot back, her voice cracking. “And you played along, didn’t you? You played along when they tore us apart.”

Michael’s jaw clenched. “I never wanted to leave you.” His voice was lower now, rough with something dangerous. Something she couldn’t bear to name.

Elizabeth let out a bitter laugh, stepping back. “Then why did you?”

“I had no choice!” His voice thundered through the clearing, raw and broken, vibrating in the night air. “Don’t you see? Everything they’ve done—it was to break us, to mold us into what they wanted. But I can’t—” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t pretend anymore, Elizabeth.”

Her chest ached. The years of separation, the agony of watching from afar, of pretending she didn’t care—it all came crashing down at once.

She turned away, but before she could take another step, Michael caught her wrist again.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Let me go, Michael,” she pleaded, though her body betrayed her, trembling at his touch.

His grip softened, but he didn’t release her. Instead, he reached up, brushing a strand of her hair away, his fingers ghosting against her cheek. She sucked in a breath as his touch sent shivers down her spine.

“Elizabeth,” he murmured, stepping closer, pressing their foreheads together. His breath fanned against her lips, hot and uneven. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms. She wanted to push him away. She wanted to hate him. But she couldn’t.

She couldn’t.

Instead, she let out a shaky breath, her eyes fluttering shut as he traced his fingers down her arm, his touch like fire against her skin. He pulled her against him, his grip tightening around her waist, as if letting go would be the death of him.

“Damn you, Michael,” she whispered, tilting her head slightly, her lips brushing against his.

And that was all it took.

Michael crushed his lips against hers, raw and desperate, his hands roaming her body as if trying to memorize every inch of her. His touch was possessive, claiming. She gasped against his mouth, fingers digging into his shoulders. Every nerve in her body was alight with something primal, something she had fought for too long.

His lips trailed down her neck, teeth grazing her pulse. She whimpered, hands fisting his shirt, her legs barely able to hold her up.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured against her skin, his voice thick with desire.

She could barely speak, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. “Michael… this… this isn’t right.”

But she didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

Their hands were frantic now, desperate to explore, to remember, to relive. Her fingers traced the scars on his back, each one a reminder of the war, of the years lost between them. He shuddered under her touch, his body pressing her against the rough bark of a tree.

“Tell me you don’t feel this,” he growled, lips ghosting over her collarbone. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

And then, she surrendered.

Surrendered her dignity, her walls, her resistance.

Because there was nothing left to fight.

Michael’s hands roamed her bare skin, his fingers tracing the curves of her body as though committing them to memory. His touch was fire and reverence, possession and worship all at once. His lips followed, pressing against every inch of exposed flesh, each kiss branding her as his.

She arched against him, her fingers weaving into his hair as she let herself fall, let herself be consumed by the force of him.

He held her like a man starved, like he would devour her whole. His arms tightened around her, his breath ragged, whispering her name like a prayer.

Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes, but she didn’t know why. Maybe it was relief. Maybe it was grief for the years they had lost. Maybe it was the realization that no matter what the prophecy said, no matter what fate had written, she was his.

And he was hers.

The moon watched, a silent witness to their reunion.

Fourteen Years Ago...

The grand hall of the palace was filled with laughter, the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine thick in the air. Children ran through the corridors, their giggles echoing between the stone walls.

Among them, two stood apart.

A boy and a girl.

Michael had been only twelve, his dark hair always slightly messy, his tunic slightly too big for his lean frame. Elizabeth was ten, with golden curls that bounced whenever she moved, her eyes bright and mischievous.

Their parents had introduced them formally, shaking hands with the pretense of diplomacy, but the children had found each other long before that. In the gardens. Under the willow tree. In the library, where Michael would read aloud to her, and Elizabeth would roll her eyes, pretending to be unimpressed.

“You’re going to be my wife one day,” Michael had declared boldly, with the confidence only a boy on the cusp of adolescence could have.

Elizabeth had laughed, scrunching her nose. “Not if I can help it.”

He had grinned, tugging on one of her curls. “You’ll see.”

Back then, there had been no war.

No destruction.

No prophecy.

Only two children, standing on the edge of something they couldn’t yet understand.

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