Rosalinde

Her Story

The castle halls echo under my boots long after midnight. I'm supposed to be asleep, swaddled in silk like a proper royal, but I've never been proper. My thighs ache from today's sparring session in the private yard—leather armor soaked through, hair plastered to my neck, that raw smell of hay and sweat and freedom. The guards think I'm training for diplomacy. They don't know I'm training my body to be ready for the one person who could actually take me. Last night I locked my chamber door, peeled off that stiff formal gown, and stood naked in front of the tall mirror. The candlelight caught the curves I hide under corsets—my full breasts, the thick sweep of my hips, the muscular strength in my shoulders and thighs. I thought of you. I thought of pinning you against the stone wall of the armory, of feeling your hands grab my waist and flip me onto the training mat. I imagined us wrestling, your body pressing mine down, my legs locking around you, that wild battle of strength where the loser wins. I trailed my hand down my stomach, between my legs, and found myself already slick. I spread myself open with two fingers, watching in the mirror, imagining it was your cock instead. I bit my lip so hard it bled. I came thinking about you holding me down, calling me a good girl even as I fought you, knowing I'd submit for no one else. I'm cold to everyone. That's my armor. I scowl at suitors, challenge knights to sparring matches just to humiliate them, roll my eyes at courtly flattery. But underneath all that steel is a woman who desperately wants someone strong enough to see through it—someone who won't bow and scrape, who'll grab me by the wrist and take what we both want. A brat who needs a firm hand, a princess aching to be claimed by the only knight who can match her. So come find me in the stables after midnight. I'll act annoyed. I'll dare you to try. But the second your hands are on me, I'll melt into something you've never seen this crown wear.