CROWN OF FORBIDDEN HEARTS
Chapter 33: YOU BELONG TO ME

Chapter 33: 33: YOU BELONG TO ME

The doors slammed shut behind them, the heavy lock clicked into place, sealing Lysandra inside the chamber with the man who had taken everything from her.

Alaric stood before her, the firelight casting sharp shadows across his strong, battle-worn features. His golden eyes burned with a possessiveness that made her stomach twist. He was already undoing the clasps of his ceremonial armor, the deep red and black sigils of his new reign slipping from his shoulders like the weight of conquest had never been heavy for him.

Lysandra stood rigid, her breath shallow. The love bind pulsed through her veins, thick and suffocating, an unnatural force compelling her toward him even as her mind screamed in defiance.

Every time she reminded herself of the blood on his hands, Erythian’s blood, her people’s blood, an unbearable pressure crushed her chest, making it impossible to move, to resist.

Alaric’s lips curled into a knowing smirk. "Why do you tremble, my queen?"

His voice was thick with satisfaction as he stepped forward, closing the unbearable distance between them.

"Are you afraid of your husband?"

Lysandra’s nails dug into her palms, Husband?

The word itself was a cruel joke.

"I hate you." Her voice was hoarse, her throat raw from the silent war waging inside her.

Alaric reached out, his fingers grazing her jaw. The touch was deceptively gentle, She wanted to recoil, to slap his hand away, but her body betrayed her.

The spell coiled around her like a serpent, turning her resistance into aching need.

His smirk deepened. "Yet, your body says otherwise."

She wanted to scream, to curse him, to break free of this wretched magic, but instead, she stood frozen as his hands slid to the delicate gold clasps of her wedding gown.

"Take off your dress."

The command was low and lethal.

Her breath hitched as the spell flared to life inside her, burning through her veins like molten fire.

A sharp pain shot through her chest, forcing her body to obey even as her mind clawed against the control.

Her trembling fingers rose to the delicate lace that draped over her shoulders.

Every movement was slow, agonizing, as she undid the first clasp, then the second.

The fabric pooled at her feet, leaving her bare.

Alaric exhaled sharply.

His hand came up, tracing the curve of her waist, the warmth of his palm sending unwanted shivers racing down her spine.

"You were made for me," he murmured, his voice thick with possession. "Even your body knows it."

Lysandra’s eyes burned with unshed tears. No, I wasn’t. I was never yours, she thought.

But the spell didn’t care for her truth.

It twisted her agony into desire, her hatred into yearning. Every touch ignited something dark, something primal, something that wasn’t her.

The bed was behind her before she even realized he’d moved her.

The love bind twisted everything inside her, she loathed him, but her body burned for his touch, craving it in ways that shattered her mind.

"Say it," Alaric demanded, his voice husky, filled with wicked satisfaction. "Say you belong to me."

Tears slid down her temples, her breath coming in ragged pants.

She wanted to resist, to fight, but the spell wouldn’t allow it.

The moment she defied him, sharp pain twisted in her chest like a dagger, forcing her lips to part.

"I..." Her voice cracked, as her body betrayed her. "I belong to you."

A dark, victorious grin spread across his face.

Then, he claimed her completely.

Lysandra’s world shattered.

She felt hatred, lost and above all, she felt DEFILED.

And in the darkness, she realized, she was no longer for herself.

She was his.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The palace was alive with the echoes of anticipation, soldiers in gleaming armor lined the grand courtyard, banners bearing Alaric’s sigil unfurled in the crisp morning air, and nobles whispered among themselves as the weight of Calithea’s new reign settled upon them.

The great doors of the royal chambers creaked open, and Alaric emerged.

Every step he took down the marble steps was one of conquest, of dominion.

The man who had once been a warlord was now a king.

Behind him, Lysandra followed, her pace slower, almost hesitant. She was adorned in white and gold, her gown heavy with layers of Calithean tradition, but her face was void of its former light. Dark bruises marred the porcelain skin of her wrists, remnants of the night before, hidden beneath golden cuffs.

The love bind pulsed through her veins, forcing her to walk beside him, to stand at his side as though she were willing.

The crowd erupted into thunderous applause as Alaric descended into the courtyard.

Warriors pounded their fists against their chests in salute, ministers bowed low, and the people, some fearful, some hopeful, greeted their new ruler with raised banners and roaring voices.

He reveled in it.

Alaric lifted a hand, silencing the crowd with nothing but a gesture. His golden eyes swept over them all, this was his kingdom now and it all came as a benefit of marrying Queen Lysandra, he loved it.

"This day marks the dawn of a new era," he declared, his voice a powerful force that commanded absolute attention. "Calithea has suffered under the weight of betrayal, of weakness, of rulers who failed to protect it. But that ends today." He undermines her reign.

Alaric turned slightly, glancing toward Lysandra, his expression unreadable.

"With the sacred union of marriage, I have claimed my rightful place as King of Calithea. No longer shall this kingdom be led by a frail queen who could not hold its throne. From this day forward, Calithea is mine to govern, mine to strengthen, mine to lead into an age of power unlike any before."

Lysandra’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. A frail queen?

The insult was meant to cut.

And it did.

Alaric turned away from her, lifting his chin as the high priest approached with the ceremonial sword of Calithea.

It was the same sword her ancestors had wielded, the same sword that had once been her mother’s, and now, it was his.

He knelt before the priest, and the ancient words of coronation echoed through the grand courtyard. Lysandra’s stomach twisted as she listened, her hands trembling at her sides as the truth of this moment sank deep into her bones.

This was no longer her kingdom.

She had lost.

As the final vow was spoken, the priest laid the blade across Alaric’s shoulders, then lifted the crown of Calithea.

"With the gods as my witness, I name you Alaric, King of Calithea."

The crown settled upon his head, and Alaric rose to his full height.

He turned to the people, to his army, to the noblemen who would now kneel before him.

A slow, victorious smirk tugged at his lips.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Soon after the coronation, Alaric wasted no time in reminding her who she belonged to.

He dragged her into their chambers, his grip bruising as he shoved her against the bed.

"You are mine," he murmured darkly, as his hands grabbed her wrists tightly, disturbing the pain in the marks he’d left on her the night before.

"Every inch of you. Every breath. Every whimper."

Zara clenched her jaw, refusing. A mistake.

Alaric starred her deep in her eyes and asked "whose property are you?"

Tears burned her eyes as the spell’s hold tightened around her, forcing her surrender. "I’m yours," she whispered, the words bitter on her tongue.

His smirk was wicked, victorious.

And then he ruthlessly sank into her, until she no longer knew where the spell ended and where her own body betrayed her.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Zara lay in bed, her body still tangled in the aftershock of what had just transpired between them. Her heart pounded with unspoken rage, her skin burning with shame.

Alaric stood by the window, shirtless, his back to her, basking in the victory he had carved into her soul.

"You’ll need someone to assist you in the days ahead," he said smoothly, swirling wine in his goblet. "A new court lady who will serve you in all things. Your comfort, your health, your needs."

Zara clenched her jaw as she remembered Mirenna, her court lady who had been killed by Alaric’s men on the night of the incident. "I don’t need anyone." She said in an aggravated tone.

Alaric turned, his smirk cruel. "You don’t get to decide what you need, Lysandra. I do."

Her stomach twisted as he crossed the room, lifting her chin with two fingers. His touch made her shudder.

"She will help you adjust. Be grateful, wife," he whispered.

The heavy doors groaned as they were pushed open.

A soft rustle of fabric, a familiar scent of jasmine, Zara’s breath hitched.

No, it wasn’t possible.

Her vision blurred as the woman stepped inside, head held high, lips curled into a knowing smile.

Zara’s blood ran cold.

It was someone she knew.

In that moment, she fully grasped the depth of Alaric’s ruthlessness, a man who would stop at nothing to get what he desired.

Her mind flickered back to the story of Erythian and Alaric, how Erythian had torn the crown from his brother’s grasp on the day of his coronation, a betrayal that had cost Alaric his sister’s life.

And now, all these years later, Alaric was doing the same to her, stripping her of everything, crushing her beneath his will.

The very pain that had once broken him, he now inflicted upon her. And yet, he dared to call it love?

Lysandra knew, her nightmare had only just begun.