My Enemy, My Love

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔉𝔦𝔳𝔢

Luka [Jimmy]

One day later...

Something in his eyes made me believe that he had, in some small, resigned way, accepted his fate. Intuition never failed me, but that night I couldn't quite read his mind. It seemed as if he had found a way to hide his emotions, fortified enough as to mask his discomfort and frustration from those around us. But not from me. I saw it. Felt it. I noticed it as he held my hands in his, hidden beneath the satin drape as we swore our oaths to the King - oaths that bound us not to one another, but to our Kingdoms. 

To protect it. To serve it. To die for it.

The final ceremony, a series of preamble-laden matrimonial vows, were nothing more than meaningless sentiment dressed in pomp - and I was certain Thyme thought the same. But we both understood its significance. This was a union of two Kingdoms, Bangkok and Chonburi, bound together by duty, law, and the ambitions of our fathers. 

There was no escape from this arrangement now, no loophole to exploit, no refusal that wouldn't collapse the fragile alliance upon which our Kingdoms now depended. I was tied to him, and he to me, our petty conflict utterly irrelevant. Whatever bitterness - at school or at the palace - had to be buried. Forgotten. Yet I knew Thyme. He wasn't the sort to let go so easily. 

Perhaps I was acting foolishly for trying. For letting some of our differences go and making an effort to reconcile before the wedding tomorrow. Attempting to extend an olive branch. I told myself it was pragmatic, even noble - a gesture to ease the inevitable tension of our union. 

Perhaps it was selfish, too. A desire for peace that would aid my own transition from prince to king, allowing me to rule without the constant thorn of conflict piercing my side, dictating or complicating every decision we'd be forced to make together.

And yet, every entertainment of a functional partnership, of mutual civility, was instantly clouded by any thought of Thyme. More than once that evening had his irritating voice cut through my thoughts like a ball of static, spoiling that moment of personal meditation. Thyme and I would never see eye to eye. We wouldn't survive in one another's company for longer than thirty miserable seconds. Any notion that our marriage could be a successful one was quickly pulverised.

And, to reiterate, I still fucking hated his guts. 

So I did what any man would do when faced with the impending doom of matrimonial misery. After the party - and when all was quiet - I rode to the local whorehouse and spent the remainder of the evening in a haze of whiskey, women, and fleeting euphoria, indulging as though it were my last night on earth. And, in a way, it was. 

Mama's disapproval of such activities and Papa's inevitable fury if he found out only added a delicious edge to my defiance. To rebel was to live, and if I was to be shackled to a petulant brat like Thyme, then I would at least go down fighting - or, at the very least, fucking. Marrying Thyme was like signing a death wish and, honestly, I wanted to die a happy man.

Every touch, every kiss, every whispered promise of devotion from the women that night felt like an act of liberation, a reclamation of the freedom I was about to lose forever. Would I ever be able to risk my reputation again like this, relish in the touch of a beautiful woman, drink to the point of no return?

And what do I gain from marrying my worst enemy? Nothing but a life of torture. Thyme would only bring me pain. Pain, pain, pain. I could never love him, ever. Even if I tried to be civil, he would reject it and see it as a provocation, an insult. A threat, perhaps. I hated him. 

But as I closed my eyes, all I could see was his stupid face. 

My head had been fucking with me all that night, tormenting me with intruding visions of him. Thoughts. I prayed for it to cease, but my prayers had been ignored. Why, why was that happening to me two days before the wedding? It ruined me, confused me. Had Thyme bewitched me? Had his charm ultimately blinded me? 

Was it the way his eyes glistened in the candlelight, catching the light with an almost deliberate warmth, a seductive undertone hidden in their depths? Or perhaps it was the subtle inconsistency in his voice when he said my name, as though it tasted bitter on his tongue but lingered just the same. 

Maybe it was the way he laughed, a sound so rare it felt unearned, or the way he smiled - never quite fully, as if guarding some part of himself. Or was it how he turned his head just at the right angle, lost in deep contemplation or intense examination, as if the world itself revolved around his musings?

I hated how I thought about these little details. 

Hated that I was beginning to obsess over them. 

But somewhere, deep beneath that hatred, something else afflicted me.

Desire...not love. Just desire.

I wanted him. Hated him. Craved him. Loathed him. 

And tomorrow, he would be mine. 

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