Shackled To The Enemy King

Because this time...He would do it properly.

He had heard her speak of everything—the banquet, the flowers, the colors she wanted woven into her dress, even the delicate details of what she would wear in her hair.

And because of him... She had never had it.

Catherine turned her head to look at him, her lips pressing together slightly.

She knew.

"Go get coffee yourself," she said, the old Katerina slipping through in that teasing, unapologetic tone.

"My legs hurt," she replied instantly, already shifting as though to escape to the couch.

What would he say?

She wanted to see it. Hear it. Be right there when it happened.

His hand tightened just slightly at her waist before he guided her away from the bed, firm but gentle, steering her toward the door. "Be good," he murmured. "Wait for me."

Maximilian leaned closer.

His thumb moved lightly against her back, a slow, absent-minded stroke that sent a quiet shiver up her spine.

Catherine froze.

Her breath caught, her entire body going still as the words sank in.

Not quite what he threatened, but close enough.

Catherine’s heart stuttered violently in her chest.

"I’ll get you a coffee, good sir," she said quickly, far too quickly, already stepping back, retreating before he could do anything more reckless.

The door clicked shut behind her.

"Shameless..." she muttered under her breath, though there was no real bite to it.

She shook her head lightly as she walked down the corridor, trying to steady herself.

Maybe something for her father too.

Anything—

-----

James Preston adjusted himself against the hospital bed, straightening his posture despite the evident discomfort. There was a certain awareness in his eyes now, sharp and measuring. He knew exactly what this conversation was about. It wasn’t how he had imagined it, this kind of talk, confined within sterile walls and the faint scent of antiseptic, but life rarely waited for perfect settings.

"I heard you’re taking Catherine to Europe," James said, his tone casual, though the weight behind it was anything but.

"I have a place in Central Europe," Maximilian replied, steady and composed. "I want to take her there."

"Yes, sir."

"I was told fathers usually keep a gun in plain sight during conversations like this," he said, a hint of dry humor slipping into his voice. "Thought I should at least know where it is if I’m about to be threatened."

James let out a genuine laugh, the sound fuller than before. "I do have a gun," he admitted. "But I don’t use it to threaten an honest man without reason."

Maximilian inclined his head slightly, though he didn’t sit just yet, not until James’s expression shifted again.

The air changed, subtly but unmistakably.

Maximilian met his gaze without flinching. He had expected this. If anything, he would have been disappointed if it had been easier.

"Sir," he began, his tone firm, respectful, leaving no room for misinterpretation, "I would like your blessing to marry your only daughter Catherine Elizabeth."

And for a brief moment, just a fleeting one, a smile touched his lips, something quieter and warmer.

"I suppose you haven’t known her very long," James said, his voice measured. "And then... There is the age difference."

Maximilian gave a small nod, acknowledging the point without resistance.

There was no attempt to deflect it.

Because he knew...

"And then there’s what you did to that Calhoun boy," James said, his voice laced with heavy implication.