My Enemy, My Love

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔗𝔴𝔬

Luka [Jimmy]

The look in his eyes said it all—he wanted to kill me. As we turned to face the crowd, our hands bound with satin and the vows complete, I could feel the tension radiating from his arm. It wasn't subtle; it was a quiet war, his body leaning ever so slightly as if to pull away from me. The second the ceremonial knot was undone, he stepped aside with all the grace required of him but none of the warmth. He was out of reach, and it was clear he intended to stay that way.

It bothered me. Only slightly. 

I studied his face, searching for any trace of feeling, but there was nothing—he seemed lifeless, hollow. Dead, even. Yet, I understood his frustration perfectly. He still did not accept this, and despite the miserable attempts his parents had made to convince him otherwise, his stubbornness wouldn't give way. If he had been given even the smallest chance to run, he would have taken it without hesitation.

And I reveled in his frustration; his pertinacity only made me want him more. 

The game had only just begun, and I was far more patient than he gave me credit for.

For the most part that evening, we avoided each other, performing the roles expected of us. Thyme was polite, detached, and entirely uninterested in the idea of "us," while I moved through the crowd with purpose, motivation, and a sense of self-respect. Marriage was not the sole requirement in the fulfilment of my duties - as co-ruler, I had alliances to forge, favours to secure, and whispers to overhear. 

I did it for us. For our future. 

Every handshake and every exchanged smile was a calculated move to elevate our position, parade our potential as the future kings, and magnify our importance in, and influence over, the noble society. 

And then came the West.

Rumours had been circulating for months, growing louder with each passing week. The Western kings, with their insatiable ambition and desire to occupy one throne, were on the brink of war, pushing eastwards against the vulnerable borders of small neighboring provinces. Already, towns had fallen, their banners replaced with the sigils of conquerors. And now, revolutionaries— springing from the West —threatened to overthrow the well-established nobility and return to the ancient laws of democracy. 

These brutal rebels had exerted influence in Bangkok, Chonburi, Chiang Mai and Phuket, leaving our kingdoms vulnerable and in severe danger of total collapse. 

Until recently, I had dismissed these rumours as the inevitable noise of politics. But Thyme's father had been more forthcoming in private conversations leading up to the wedding, his grim warnings impossible to ignore. Bangkok and Chonburi were not immune to the rising storm, and this union - this loveless, turbulent marriage - was a means of protection and security. For the first time, I began to see the precision - the urgency - behind the arrangement.

We needed each other, whether Thyme liked it or not.

I could not dwell on the West entirely. Not tonight. Not when my husband refused even the smallest gesture of elicit goodwill. It was maddening in its own way, this war between us, but I knew that forcing the issue would only deepen the divide. I had to be patient. The tension would have to ease eventually - wouldn't it? He must have known, just as I did, that this hostility served no one.

It would certainly not serve the threat our kingdoms faced. 

What I didn't know was his mind on any matter. He never spoke openly of the West, never betrayed even the slightest flicker of concern or conviction. Perhaps he thought of it often, as I did, or perhaps he didn't care at all. It was impossible to say. Maybe he did not wish to think on it. 

After all, he had more dire matters to handle. Those being me. 

Then came the announcement. The hall fell silent, save for the soft rustle of fabric as heads turned toward us. "I invite the Princes to celebrate their matrimony with a dance," the herald declared. He tapped his staff twice on the marble to indicate the continuation of music. 

I caught Thyme's eye, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw something - defiance, maybe even dread. But he didn't flinch. Instead, he stepped forward, offering his hand as decorum demanded.

And so, we danced.

The music began, a slow and sweeping waltz, and the crowd watched us. His hand found mine reluctantly, his other settling on my waist with the stiffness of someone holding a newborn baby. I could feel the tension in his every movement, his reluctance obvious. Palpable. 

"You look like you'd rather be anywhere else," I said, my voice low enough for only him to hear.

His lips pressed into a thin line. "And yet here we are."

I smirked, leaning in just slightly as we turned. "You could try smiling, you know. It wouldn't kill you."

"Wouldn't it?" His tone was dry, uninterested. 

We moved slowly, cautiously, our bodies locked in the rhythm of the dance, though our words clashed like swords. The crowd around us blurred, their eyes a distant pressure I could ignore. "You're going to have to get used to this," I said, my voice softer now. "To me. To us."

His gaze flicked to mine, and for a moment, I saw something I didn't expect. Not anger, but something quieter - resignation, maybe. Defeat. Or understanding. Evidently, our argument from the night before still lingered in his mind, and he made sure to hold that grudge. 

"Don't mistake this for acceptance," he murmured. "I didn't want this."

"No," I agreed, my tone light but sharp. "But neither did I."

The music swelled, and we turned again, our movements flawless as if we'd done this a hundred times before. For all our differences, we were perfectly matched in this moment. It felt unusual...unreal.

"I want to make this work," I said finally, the words leaving my lips before I could stop myself. 

He looked at me, his expression unreadable. "That makes one of us."

When the dance ended, I felt his grip on my hand linger just a fraction too long. It was fleeting, almost imperceptible, but it was there. And in that moment, I wondered if the distance between us might one day narrow, even just a little. 

Wishful thinking. 

I was a fool for believing it. 

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