Page 2 of Knotting Sleeping Beauty

Then he came…

Two

KAEL

I don’t believe in fairy tales. I believe in three things: my sword, my instincts, and the fact that most problems can be solved by hitting them hard enough. I’ve built a kingdom on that philosophy. Taken the throne at twenty-eight when my father decided he’d rather spend his remaining years fishing than ruling, handed me the crown and said, Don’t fuck it up, son. Your mother and I will be at the lake house.

Inspiring stuff.

Seven years later, I haven’t fucked it up. Valdemar is prosperous, stable, and feared by every kingdom stupid enough to test us. I’ve fought two border wars, negotiated a dozen trade agreements, and broken the jaw of an ambassador who thought he could grab a serving girl at a state dinner.

I’m not a diplomat. I’m not charming. I’m not the kind of king who gives speeches. I’m the kind of king who shows up, handles the problem, and goes home to a night of smoking and drinking.

Sleeping princesses trapped in cursed towers? Not my thing.

And yet.

Yet.

Here I am. Standing at the tree line of the Thornhaven forest, staring at a tower wrapped in thorns so thick they block out the sun, because my mother looked me dead in the eye over breakfast and said, “Kael, sweetheart, you’re thirty-five and unmated and I love you but if you don’t at least try, I will haunt you from the afterlife.”

“You’re not dying, Ma.”

“I will die. Eventually. And I will come back as a ghost specifically to nag you about grandchildren. Is that what you want? A ghost mother hovering over your bed every night asking when you’re going to settle down?”

So here I am. Being a good son. Humoring my ghost-threatening mother. Standing in front of a wall of monstrous, ink-black thorns that look like they were designed by someone who really, really didn’t want visitors.

Ronan, my second-in-command, stands to my left. He’s eyeing the thorns with the expression of a man who’s been asked to eat something he finds offensive.

“Cheerful place,” he says.

“Shut up.”

“Just saying, Your Majesty. If I was a cursed princess, I’d want better landscaping. Maybe some flowers. I don’t know, a water fountain.”

I growl, “Ronan.”

He raises his hands, smirking. “Shutting up.”

Jace, my youngest guard, stands to my right. He’s twenty-two, built like a brick shithouse, eager as a puppy, and about as fucking subtle. He’s staring at the tower with wide eyes and barely contained excitement.

“Do you think she’s really up there, Your Majesty? The princess?”

I grunt, shrugging. “That’s what they say.”

“And she’s been asleep for all these years?”

I grunt again, nodding.

“And her scent drives every alpha insane?”

“Jace,” Ronan calls.

“Yes, sir?”

“Less talking. More standing there quietly.”

He nods. “Yes, sir.”