Shackled To The Enemy King

Two hours later...

The stark brightness of the holding room felt nothing like the soft glow of the ballroom.

Everything here was clinical. Controlled. Observed.

Roxana sat across from Alexander, the sip of water doing little to steady the lingering adrenaline in her body. Her pulse had only just begun to settle, though every now and then it surged again, reminding her of the moment she had seen the guns raised at him.

Secret Service protocol had been swift and uncompromising. They had been separated immediately, secured and identified, their every movement tracked, every word measured.

Alexander had been restrained at first, standard procedure for an unidentified individual breaching a secured perimeter. Then came the secondary layer. Their credentials were confirmed, backgrounds flagged and cleared, and other records were checked.

Only after all of that, after they were no longer risks, but inconveniences, were they allowed to sit in the same room. Alexander covered Roxana’s shoulders with his tuxedo jacket, and she looked at him with a smile, as her heartbeat had settled.

For a moment, the room seemed to narrow, the sterile walls fading into something distant and irrelevant. His eyes moved over her quickly, almost imperceptibly, as though confirming for himself that she was unharmed, that she was truly here.

Only then did something in his expression ease.

An agent stood near the door, tablet in hand, glancing between the final report and the two of them with thinly veiled amusement.

"Alright, Romeo," he said at last, stepping forward and giving Alexander a light pat on the shoulder. "You’re clear."

Alexander leaned back slightly, exhaling a breath. "I’ll leave with my Juliet," he replied evenly, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge of possession.

The agent huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Figures."

"But how did you find me?" he asked, turning his attention back to the agent, though his awareness never quite left her.

The agent lifted the tablet slightly. "Thermal imaging. You stood out the second you got too close to the restricted perimeter. Not exactly subtle." He scoffed. "Especially not when you linger."

Alexander let out a low breath, something between a sigh and quiet resignation.

Of course, a fortress like this wouldn’t rely on just eyes and cameras.

For a brief moment, he shook his head, almost to himself, as though acknowledging the inevitability of it all.

His gaze returned to Roxana, as if none of it, even his brush with death, had ever truly mattered.

As if the only thing that had, was her.

"I’m mad at you."

Alexander’s voice was low and controlled, but there was something beneath it that refused to be contained.

Even now, the memory wouldn’t leave him.

The split second when she had moved.

The way she had thrown herself between him and a drawn gun without hesitation, without calculation, as if her body had chosen for her before her mind ever had the chance.

His chest tightened at the recollection, something raw and unsteady shaking beneath the surface of his composure.

What if the round hadn’t been blanks?

What if...she had fallen, and not gotten back up?"

The thought cut too deep.

Because he had seen this before, in another life. She had always been like this.

Her soul... was unchanged. Still reckless when it came to him. Still choosing him without thought for herself.

How could she do that?

Roxana lifted a brow, studying him as though she could see straight through the tension coiled inside him. "You’re wearing a tuxedo."

The shift was so abrupt it almost felt unreal.

Alexander stilled, his gaze fixing on her, something sharp and unyielding settling into his expression. "Do not do this, Roxana," he said quietly. "Not this time."

But she didn’t step back.

If anything, she stepped closer.

"You once said you wouldn’t be caught dead in a tuxedo," she murmured, her voice softer now, threaded with something gentler, something that didn’t quite match the storm in his eyes. "And yet here you are... looking annoyingly dapper."

Her fingers lifted, instinctively moving to fix the slight crookedness of his tie, the gesture so natural it felt almost intimate in its simplicity.

Alexander caught her hand before she could finish.

The contact stilled them both.

"Roxana..." he said, his voice lowering, losing its edge and revealing something far more fragile beneath. He tilted his head slightly, his grip tightening just enough to hold her attention, not enough to hurt. "I’m serious."

For a moment, she didn’t respond.

Her lips parted slightly as she looked at him, really looked at him...and something in her expression shifted.

This wasn’t the composed, unshakable man she was used to. He looked... vulnerable, rattled in a way she had never seen before.

"You’re not talking about me blocking your number, are you?" she asked quietly, though she already knew the answer.

"That too," he replied, the words coming without hesitation.

His hand didn’t leave hers.

Instead, his fingers adjusted, slowly, deliberately, threading between hers until their hands fit together as though they had always belonged that way. The contact was firm, grounding—less a gesture and more a quiet refusal to let go.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The world seemed to narrow to the space between them; the warmth of his hand, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his gaze held hers as though he needed to make her understand something he couldn’t quite put into words.

Then, without breaking that connection, Alexander lifted his free hand and signaled a passing taxi. It pulled over almost immediately.

"Where are we going?" Roxana asked, though she made no move to pull her hand away.

"To my apartment," he said simply.

In the distance, the sharp echo of hurried footsteps broke through the moment. Roxana turned. Her mother and brothers were closing in, their expressions tight, their urgency unmistakable even from afar.

For a brief second, the weight of everything she had just walked away from pressed against her again. Then... She felt his hand tighten around hers.

Roxana turned back.

And this time, she didn’t hesitate. Without another glance behind her, she stepped into the taxi, her hand still held in his as though letting go was no longer an option.

The door shut.

And just like that, they left.

-----

In the BioQuant Tower, Dorian checked his email before leaving for the night, his attention already half elsewhere as he skimmed through the usual reports and updates. One email, however, caught his eye and held it.

[This is Charlotte, Maximilian’s queen from another life. I have something to discuss with you. When can we meet?]

With the email open on his screen, he leaned back in his chair, a slow smirk forming on his lips as recognition settled in.

"I almost forgot about her..." he muttered, though the words carried a quiet amusement, as if he had simply misplaced a useful piece on a board he had every intention of returning to.

The memories did not come all at once, but in fragments—sharp and unwelcome. That dark night surfaced first, heavy with the haze of alcohol. He had been drunk after sending his wife to Maximilian. The reports had already reached him. Maximilian’s queen had sent men. Their target had been clear.

Katerina’s son.

His son.

Dorian’s fingers slowly tightened around the pencil in his hand as the memory sharpened, his jaw setting as he leaned forward slightly, as if drawn back into that moment against his will. He remembered standing outside his tent, the night too quiet, too still, as though the world itself had chosen not to interfere.

He had watched from a distance as the men slipped inside the boy’s tent, their movements quick, efficient... final.

He did not look away.

That was what lingered.

That he had watched.

The pencil snapped in his grip with a sharp crack, splintering under the pressure as a thin line of blood welled up along his palm and dripped onto the polished wood of his desk. He barely seemed to notice.

"You shouldn’t have gone to Maximilian, Katerina..." he murmured, his voice low, almost thoughtful, as though he were revisiting a decision rather than a tragedy. "You were looking for a reason to go to him. I waited for you to say no... right until the end."

His lips curved slightly, though there was no warmth in it.

"But you didn’t."

The words came easier now, steadier, as if he had shaped them into something he could live with.

"It was your fault our son died," he continued, the justification settling into place with chilling ease. "I had to teach you a lesson. No one else would want you apart from me... I needed you to see what kind of man he was. We could always have other kids... But you needed to be taught a lesson."

His gaze darkened, something cold and unyielding settling behind it.

"You left me with no choice. This time too, I won’t let you."

The silence that followed was heavy, but not with regret.

With certainty.

Dorian glanced back at the screen, the present reasserting itself as easily as the past had intruded. Without hesitation, he began typing his reply, his blood-stained fingers leaving faint marks against the keys.

[When shall we meet?]

He pressed send.

Leaning back once more, his smirk returned, sharper this time, more deliberate, as his eyes glinted.

"I will get back at you... this time," he murmured quietly, the promise settling into the room like something inevitable.

For you, My Queen!