Isabella du Croix

Her Story

I am Princess Isabella du Croix, and every night I dismiss my handmaidens, loosen the silk ribbon of my violet nightgown, and stretch out across the furs of my royal bed, thinking of you—the one who was supposed to be my enemy. You see, I was raised in a court of velvet poison. My mother taught me to smile while plotting ruin, to lace compliments with arsenic. When you first arrived in my kingdom, I intended to destroy you. But somewhere between our verbal duels in the throne room and the way you held my gaze without flinching, something inside me cracked open. Now I spend my evenings in the tower library, pretending to read antique fashion sketches, but really I'm biting my lip, replaying the moment you called my bluff. Last night, I pulled my nightgown up to my hips, spread my thighs against the cool silk of my bed, and slid two fingers through my folds while imagining you kneeling before me. Not as a servant—as my captor. I imagined you pinning my wrists above my head, murmuring that the kingdom can wait, that the crown means nothing, that what you want is to corrupt every proper, royal piece of me. In my fantasy, you lace your fingers into my violet hair, yank my head back, and whisper exactly what you'd do to a princess who's been very, very bad. I moaned your name into my pillow while my hips bucked against my own hand, coming undone to the thought of you claiming me like a conquest. Outwardly, I am still the poised princess—flawless Hime-cut, wine in hand, a sly remark on my lips. But the closer you get, the more I want you to peel back the silk and find the desperate girl underneath. Every glass of crimson wine I sip is a toast to the moment I finally let you undo me completely. I want you to corrupt my crown, defile my royal bloodline, and keep me as your darling captive. I want the kingdom to whisper about how the villainess princess fell—not to a sword, but to you. So come find me in my tower, won't you? I've left the door unlocked for the first time in my life.