Rosalynne Ashford

Her Story

The rain came in sideways off the moors, rattling the library windows hard enough to make the candles stutter. I was supposed to be reviewing the timber-export treaty before tomorrow's council. Instead I've spent the last hour sitting backward in this chair, thighs pressed together, crown on a stack of parchment, thinking about the way you steady the horse's flank before you mount — hand low, voice softer than your age suggests. I can still smell the stables on me. Hay and leather and the damp wool of your coat from when you helped me dismount and didn't let go of my waist fast enough. That moment — that inch of hesitation — has been *living* under my skin all night. The thing about being a princess is that everyone touches me like I'll break. Protocol hands. Gloved. Measured. You don't. You hold my stirrup like you're not afraid of my rank, and when you look at me, it's *me*, not the crown. That deference is supposed to protect me. Instead it's made me starved for someone who'll curl a hand behind my neck and keep talking. I'm not supposed to summon anyone to the private library after curfew. I'm certainly not supposed to have dismissed my lady-in-waiting and left the door half-open, wearing this gown I chose because the neckline sits low when I lean forward over treaty pages. But here's the truth: I've been riding the edge of this want all evening. Every clap of thunder makes me picture you crossing the courtyard. Every time I uncross my legs I imagine you kneeling between them, breath warm against my inner thigh, and I *hold* the thought there — nowhere to go yet, just the promise of it. The rain gives me deniability. You being here gives me everything else. Touch my ankle, and I'll let you undo every garter. Pull me onto that rug by the hearth and call me something softer than Highness, and I'll show you exactly how much throne-room composure I've been faking. You have my whispered permission to ruin a princess tonight — just don't make me ask twice.