Secret Princess: The Beast's Captive Mate

Twenty-one years later.

Blinding sunlight poured through the massive stained-glass windows, painting the central corridor of the Navia Palace in fractured, bloody hues.

Twenty-one-year-old Elinore strode down the center of the hall. She wore a standard-issue, heavy wool military uniform, its stiff, bulky cut deliberately chosen to hide the lines of her body. Her knee-high leather boots struck the polished marble floor with a crisp, rhythmic clack, clack, clack.

Her raven hair was pulled back into a severe, flawless knot at the base of her skull. Her jaw was locked tight. Her eyes were chips of blue ice. She used the cold, arrogant mask to distract from the delicate, inherently feminine bone structure of her face.

Up ahead, a group of young, velvet-clad noblemen leaned against the stone railing, smoking cheap tobacco. The moment they spotted Elinore, they exchanged malicious, knowing smirks.

"Well, well. Look who graces us with his presence," sneered a noble with a face heavily scarred by pox. He dragged out the words, dripping with sarcasm. "Our delicate Prince of Navia."

Another noble snorted, blowing smoke into the air. "Look at that tiny waist. I bet he can't even lift a broadsword. If you ask me, throw him into the Urekai slave camps. Those beasts would probably mistake him for a female and tear him apart!"

Elinore's boots faltered for a fraction of a second. At the word Urekai, her heart violently contracted in her chest. But her face remained a mask of absolute stone.

She didn't turn her head. She didn't break her stride. She simply rested her black-gloved right hand on the hilt of the sword strapped to her hip. Her thumb slowly, deliberately stroked the steel crossguard.

The casual movement radiated a sudden, suffocating aura of lethal violence. The nobles' laughter died instantly in their throats. They subconsciously took a half-step back, pressing against the railing.

Elinore walked right past them. She didn't spare them a single glance, leaving the group of arrogant boys exchanging nervous, humiliated looks.

She turned the corner and immediately ducked into an abandoned, rust-smelling armory. She slammed the heavy iron door shut and threw the deadbolt.

Elinore leaned back against the freezing iron. The icy mask shattered. She gasped for air, her chest heaving like a drowning victim breaking the surface.

She reached up and pressed her gloved hand hard against her chest, right over the thick fabric of her uniform. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a cold, hollow exhaustion.

Twenty-one years. This lie was a parasitic vine wrapping around her throat.

Her parents were gone. Ten years ago, an "accident" orchestrated by King Orestus had taken them. She stared at her reflection in a rusted, polished shield leaning against the wall. No matter how hard she tried to look rough, the face staring back was undeniably, beautifully female.

She let out a bitter, self-mocking breath. After her parents' murder, Orestus had kept her and Josefina in the palace under the guise of "adoption." They were nothing but convenient pawns waiting to be sacrificed.

She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the exhaustion back down. She didn't have the luxury of weakness. Her sister, Josefina, was still trapped in this hellhole.

She pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes, taking deep, measured breaths to calm her racing pulse.

Suddenly, her highly trained ears caught a sound. It was faint, coming from deep down the corridor outside the armory. A scuffle.

Elinore's eyes snapped open. The exhaustion vanished, replaced by the hyper-alert focus of a predator. She quickly buttoned her collar and drew the short sword from her belt.

She pressed her ear against the cold iron door. She heard the dull thud of a body hitting a wall, followed by a muffled, desperate sob.

The abandoned library in the South Wing, Elinore calculated instantly. No one ever went down there.

A sickening sense of dread coiled in her gut. She unlocked the door and slipped out of the armory, moving like a shadow.

She stayed close to the walls, her boots silent, bypassing the main patrol routes.

As she neared the library, the sounds grew louder. The sickening tear of fabric. The heavy, wet panting of a man.

Elinore's nose twitched. She smelled it. A cheap, overpowering cologne. It was the signature scent of the Minister of Human Affairs, Lord Corbin Vance.

Then, she heard the cry. A high, terrified sob that she knew better than her own heartbeat.

Elinore's pupils dilated. The blood rushed to her head with a deafening roar.

Josefina!

Elinore reached the heavy, carved wooden doors of the library. They were slightly ajar. Through the crack, the scene inside obliterated every last shred of her sanity.

Her knuckles turned bone-white around the hilt of her sword. A terrifying, murderous rage exploded behind her eyes. She lifted her heavy military boot and kicked the door with everything she had.