The Gilded Cage

Lyra felt the weight of the ceremonial diadem, but the heavier weight was the knight's silent presence three steps behind. Her silver markings itched beneath her gown, a constant, taunting reminder. Sir Kaelen's eyes weren't on the adoring crowd, she realized with a jolt—they were on the shadowed alcoves, the shifting guards, the potential threats. Her father's decree was a shackle, and this man was its living lock. A playful, rebellious heat rose in her chest, a desperate need to prove she didn't need a keeper, even one whose calm gaze made her skin prickle with something other than anger.