My Enemy, My Love

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔈𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱

Lord Saetiao [Khaotung]

The temple bells tolled low, carrying over the courtyard like waves of sorrow pressed into sound. I stood amongst the lords of Kelasin, draped in somber silks, my chest wrapped in the black sash of mourning. The air smelled of incense and rain-soaked ash, a fitting perfume for the memory of Ban Yung—our men slaughtered, their bodies desecrated by the Westerners, their souls now commended to the heavens.

I bowed my head as names were read aloud, each syllable cutting deeper into the silence, each syllable another nail driven into the coffin of our pride.

And then I saw him.

Lord Chuo.

He stood across the ceremonial platform, flanked by men of influence, his expression solemn—until his eyes found me. A flicker of amusement bent his lips, subtle, cruel, as if the death of so many had delivered him a private joke. I clenched my jaw, unable to look away, as his gaze held me captive like a snare. Even when courtiers spoke to him, he did not release me.

At last, after whispering his farewells to his companions, he crossed the platform, cutting through the sea of mourners until he stood before me.

"Lord Saetiao," he greeted, voice low and rich. "A grievous service... and a necessary one. Our men deserve every prayer tonight."

"Yes," I answered curtly, bowing my head to hide the heat in my face. "Every family deserves to know their sons are remembered."

We lingered in silence, watching the monks stoke the fire at the altar. Then, inevitably, Chuo tilted his head toward me.

"A horrific battle," he said. "Bloody beyond imagining. And avoidable, had Bangkok's kings acted with proper haste. Their coordination is poor, their judgment slow. Reinforcements came too late. Half of Ban Yung burned before anything could be done."

I bristled. "You would dare say such things here? Now? You speak of our sovereigns as though they are cowards. They did what they could, and they sent enough men to bolster our lines. It was not their fault the West fought like animals."

His mouth curled, half sneer, half grin. "Not their fault? Or simply their incompetence?"

My hand twitched at my side. "And what—" I hissed under my breath, "—you believe you could have done better? You, Lord Chuo? A man of Kelasin?"

His eyes glimmered in the torchlight. "Yes. I could have."

I turned sharply to him, my voice low and venomous. "You court treason speaking so freely."

"Do I?" he murmured, tilting his head. "Or do I merely speak aloud what others think but dare not admit?"

I wanted to strike him then, right there before the altar. But he held me fast with that infuriating grin, that unshakable poise that always made me feel smaller, weaker, desperate to outmaneuver him.

The ceremony concluded, and I left swiftly, unwilling to hear more. Yet his words poisoned my mind the entire way to my carriage. Could I use them against him? If he had been overheard, if witnesses could be gathered, I could accuse him of treason outright. Execution would free me from this cursed engagement, from the torment of his smirk.

Execution...

And yet, as I thought of it, a strange hollowness stirred in me. The thought of Chuo's absence—forever—made something tight coil in my chest.

I had just placed my foot upon the carriage step when his voice sliced through the night.

"Lord Saetiao!"

I froze. Slowly, I turned.

He approached, a wolf stalking its prey, his robes whispering against the flagstones. "I forgot," he said with mocking grace, "to wish you a good night. And to remind you—I look forward to meeting again soon... to discuss our wedding plans."

Before I could retort, he leaned in close. His hand—rough, commanding—snapped around my neck, pulling me until our faces were inches apart. I could feel his breath, warm and deliberate, smell the faint trace of rice wine on his lips. My face burned, my heart hammered so loudly I feared he might hear it.

I hated him. Hated how he could unmake me with a single touch.

And yet... I wanted more.

Something broke loose inside me, something wild and ravenous. I crushed my mouth against his. The kiss was brutal, desperate. His body pressed against mine, unyielding, but I seized control, forcing him back with my hunger.

A sound escaped him—a moan, soft but unmistakable. The sound alone nearly undid me. In a reckless surge, I dragged my hand down, cupping his crotch, squeezing with deliberate pressure. He stiffened, biting back another noise, his amusement flickering into something darker, hotter.

Gods, I wanted him.

But no. Not here. Not now. I tore myself away, breaking the kiss with a smirk that masked my own trembling.

"Goodnight, Lord Chuo," I said, voice low, mocking his earlier words. I released him, savoring the flicker in his eyes. Then, without another glance, I stepped into the carriage and let the door slam shut. My chest heaved. My lips burned. My hand still tingled from touching him.

At home, I scarcely had time to compose myself before my footman approached with a sealed letter. The royal crest. Bangkok.

I tore it open.

To my Lord Seatiao,

It is with profound grief that I must inform you of the death of Lord Anurak, Commander of our armies, who fell during the battle at Ban Yung. His valor cannot be measured, nor his loyalty repaid. He fought for his kingdom until his final breath, and his sacrifice will forever be remembered in the halls of our ancestors.

To celebrate his life, I invite you to attend his funeral in Phuket on the twenty-first, to honour him in the presence of the royal family and our people. 

May the gods bless his soul and grant our kingdom the strength to endure these trials.

With sorrow,
Thyme & Luka, Kings of Bangkok and Chonburi

The parchment trembled in my hands as I set the letter down. Another funeral. 

Another life lost. 

Through my contemplation, my lips still tingled with the memory of his kiss.

And for the first time, I wondered if this union might destroy me—or save me.

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