Isolde stood frozen at the foot of the obsidian throne, her heart a thundering drum in her chest. The ceremonial silk of her wedding gown felt too tight around her ribs, and the golden embroidery scratched against her flushed skin. Every eye in the Great Hall was on her—noble dragons in human form, lords of flame and sky, each bearing the distinct firelight in their eyes. But it was only his gaze she felt like fire licking up her spine.
Prince Valen Ignis.
The Dragon Prince.
Her husband.
He descended the stairs with measured grace, the crimson cape of his royal attire trailing behind him like spilled blood. The glint of scales shimmered faintly beneath the open collar of his shirt. He stopped in front of her, towering and still, gaze unreadable—like he was looking at a creature he'd claimed out of necessity, not desire.
Their marriage had been sealed hours ago in the sacred Flame Oath. No kisses. No vows of love. Only a binding contract signed in dragonfire and blood.
Isolde had always imagined her first kiss would come with gentleness. Not a branded sigil on her wrist that now pulsed with Valen's magic.
"You look pale," he said lowly, voice like smoldering coals.
"I feel fine," she lied.
Valen arched a dark brow. "A forced bride with a brave tongue. You'll find that doesn't always serve you well in this court."
"And you'll find," she answered coolly, "that I don't care much for courts or dragons."
A beat of silence passed between them, heavy and electric.
Valen didn't laugh, but something wicked flickered in his eyes. "Good. I prefer my wife with claws."
Then he extended his hand.
The hall was quiet. Everyone watched.
She hesitated only a moment before placing her fingers in his. Warm. Too warm. He didn't smile, nor did he soften. But the moment their skin met, her sigil flared hot, and a tether snapped tight between their souls.
The bond.
Isolde gasped softly.
Valen's expression shifted—just barely—but she saw it. Curiosity. Possession.
And something darker.
They rode in silence to the East Wing of the palace—her new prison. Valen escorted her personally, which surprised everyone, even her. Dragon Princes didn't waste time with formality after a Flame Oath. Most left their brides to the matrons.
But not Valen.
He walked beside her like a silent predator, always half a step behind, close enough that she felt the heat of him seep through her skin.
The corridors twisted like veins, lined with glowing fire crystals and ancient carvings of dragon wars. They passed no servants, only silence and the distant sound of wings—always wings.
Finally, they reached her chambers. The doors were tall, dark wood with golden carvings of phoenixes. Not dragons.
A deliberate choice?
Valen opened them for her.
Inside was a massive room of silk and shadow. A bed large enough for a beast. A hearth already burning. Velvet drapes. Perfumed air. Every inch screamed opulence—and trap.
Isolde stepped inside. "This is mine?"
Valen leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. "For now."
She turned slowly to face him. "Does that mean I'll be moved later? Or devoured?"
He tilted his head, firelight dancing in his golden eyes. "Whichever comes first."
She hated how her body responded to him. How his voice sent tingles along her skin. How his presence ignited something low and treacherous in her belly.
"You're enjoying this," she accused.
His lips twitched—half amusement, half warning. "You'll learn, Isolde. I don't enjoy things. I consume them."
And with that, he turned and left.
Later that night…
Isolde couldn't sleep.
The silk sheets felt too soft. Too luxurious. Too unfamiliar. Her body still hummed from the bond, her skin too warm, her thoughts too loud.
And then she heard it.
A knock.
Not on the door. On the balcony window.
She slipped out of bed and padded to the edge, heart hammering.
There, perched on the edge of the balcony like a creature out of nightmares, was a man with wings.
Valen.
Not in royal attire. Not in silks or crowns.
Bare-chested. His torso was carved from shadows and flame, his eyes glowing faintly. His wings—massive, dark crimson with ember tips—spread behind him like a shroud.
He was beautiful. Terrifying. Everything the legends warned her about.
"You're not supposed to be here," she whispered.
"I made the rules," he said, stepping inside, wings folding behind him. "I can break them."
"Why are you here?"
"I couldn't sleep either."
She backed up, but he followed slowly.
"Is this the part where you devour me?" she asked, breathless.
Valen's eyes darkened. "Not yet."
He reached out, fingers brushing her cheek.
The bond pulsed hot between them.
She shivered.
"I came to see the woman who dared to defy me in front of my court," he murmured. "I find myself… intrigued."
"You don't even know me."
"I will."
His hand dropped to her waist, warm and possessive.
"I'm not some treasure to hoard," she whispered.
"No," he agreed, "you're fire. And fire, Isolde… belongs to dragons."
—Part 2
Isolde had never been this close to a man before, let alone one who wielded magic and fire like it was a part of his soul.
Valen's fingers grazed the bare skin above her waist, just under the hem of her thin nightdress. Her breath caught. His touch wasn't rushed, nor was it tender—it was assessing, as though he was memorizing the feel of her.
"Don't touch me like I belong to you," she managed.
"But you do," he said without hesitation. "Our bond is sealed. You carry my mark."
She pulled back, arms wrapping protectively around herself. "You forced me into this marriage."
"You think I wanted it?" His voice, once smooth as smoke, now had an edge—sharp, bitter.
Isolde's brow furrowed. "Didn't you?"
Valen turned away, his back tense as he walked to the fire. "You're a political prisoner, Isolde. Just as much as I'm a political puppet. You think the Dragon Court gives us a choice?"
The anger in his tone surprised her.
He continued, staring into the flames. "They think marrying you will tame the rebellion your kingdom stirred. That putting you in my bed will bring peace. As if peace can be forced."
"I never asked for peace," she said. "Only freedom."
Valen's gaze snapped to hers—burning. "Then why didn't you run?"
She held his stare. "Because I'm not a coward. And because… if I ran, they would have burned my people to ash."
Something flickered in his eyes then. Not pity. Something heavier.
Respect.
He took a step closer. "You speak like a queen."
"I speak like a woman who's lost everything."
"Then we're the same."
The admission hung between them, heavy and unexpected.
The air was thick with unspoken words, yet Valen didn't reach for her again. Instead, he dropped into one of the chairs near the fire and leaned back, watching her through hooded eyes.
"Come here," he said.
"No."
His lips curved in a half-smile. "I'm not asking you to strip, Isolde. I want to talk. Sit."
After a long pause, she crossed the room and sat in the chair opposite him, careful to keep the flames between them.
"Tell me something true," he said. "Something real."
She arched a brow. "Truth in a forced marriage? Isn't that dangerous?"
His eyes gleamed. "Everything about us is dangerous."
Isolde sighed. "Fine. I hate dragons."
He chuckled, low and rich. "Honest. I'll give you that."
"Your turn," she challenged.
Valen leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. "I've killed people in war. Too many. And when I sleep, I hear them scream."
Silence.
She hadn't expected that.
Isolde's voice softened. "Then why do you keep fighting?"
He looked at her with something ancient in his eyes. "Because if I stop, I become the monster they already believe I am."
A long pause settled between them, but it was no longer cold. Something had shifted. Softened.
"I've never seen a dragon's true form," she said after a moment.
Valen smirked. "Curious, are you?"
"Only slightly terrified."
"You should be. We're not gentle creatures, Isolde. We're made of fire and instinct. We don't love. We claim."
She shivered, though the room was warm. "What about you?"
"What about me?"
"Can you love?"
He didn't answer right away.
Then, "No. But I can burn for someone."
It wasn't a romantic answer. But it was honest. Raw.
And it stirred something dangerous in her chest.
Outside, thunder cracked over the mountains, the skies boiling with storm clouds. Valen rose and walked to the balcony again, bare feet silent on the marble floor. He opened the doors, letting the wind and lightning pour in. His wings stretched once—wide, magnificent.
"I should go," he said.
But he didn't move.
Isolde joined him quietly, drawn by some magnetic pull she couldn't name. She stood at his side, looking out at the kingdom below—his kingdom now, and hers by name alone.
"Is this where I stay forever?" she asked. "A caged princess in your palace?"
He turned to her. "No. Not a cage. A forge."
She frowned. "What?"
"You're not weak, Isolde. And I didn't marry you to break you. I married you… because something in me knew I needed your fire to survive this war."
It was the closest thing to affection she'd ever hear from a man like him.
She touched her wrist where the glowing sigil shimmered beneath her skin.
"What does this mark mean?" she asked softly.
He glanced down, his fingers brushing hers. "It means if you die… I burn. If you suffer, I feel it. And if someone else touches you… I'll know."
Her breath hitched.
"That sounds possessive."
"It is," Valen admitted. "I told you—dragons don't love. But we obsess. And I'm already starting to."
Perfect! Let's continue with Chapter 2 – Part 3 of The Dragon Prince's Obsession. This part will deepen the emotional and sensual tension between Valen and Isolde, while setting the stage for future political intrigue and danger.
—Part 3
Later that night, the storm had settled, but the air inside the chambers was still heavy—charged, like the pause before a kiss or a sword strike.
Isolde stood near the fire, brushing her fingers along the carved wood of the mantle. Her white gown fluttered around her ankles, the low neckline baring the mark Valen had mentioned—a glowing red sigil that pulsed slowly, like a heartbeat under her skin.
Valen leaned against the stone column near the window, arms crossed, eyes never leaving her.
"You're still watching me," she said without turning.
"I always will."
She looked back, expression unreadable. "Because you have to? Or because you want to?"
He didn't answer.
He walked toward her instead—slow, deliberate. Every step made her pulse race. When he was just behind her, she felt the heat of him, like he radiated fire through his skin.
"I want to," he said, voice low in her ear. "But I also have to. You're mine now. And I protect what's mine."
"Is that what this is?" she whispered. "Protection?"
He reached around her slowly and took her wrist, raising her marked hand into the firelight. The symbol glowed against his fingers.
"No. This," he murmured, "is claiming."
Her breath trembled in her throat as his fingers slid along her forearm, caressing the skin there like she was something sacred.
She turned slightly, enough to look up at him. Their faces were inches apart.
"I'm not a thing to be claimed, Valen."
"You are to me," he said, with brutal honesty. "But that doesn't mean I'll hurt you. I want you to be strong. Fierce. I want the real you. Not a frightened bride, but a woman who can stand beside a dragon and not flinch."
Their eyes locked—hers defiant, his burning.
And still, when he leaned in, she didn't move away.
His lips brushed hers, feather-light. A test.
She should have pulled back. Should have slapped him, screamed, something.
But instead… she leaned in.
Their mouths met in a kiss that was slow and hot—smoldering, not explosive. A slow burn.
He didn't rush. He kissed her like he was learning her. Like he was memorizing the shape of her lips, the sound of her breath, the subtle trembling beneath her skin.
Isolde's hands moved up, bracing against his chest. Solid. Warm. Alive.
Then—too soon—he pulled back.
Her eyes opened, dazed. "Why did you stop?"
He looked like he wanted to devour her whole. But instead, he took a step back, restraint painted all over him.
"Because if I keep going," he said huskily, "I won't stop."
And something about the way he said it—half warning, half promise—made her legs weaken.
He poured them both a dark, golden wine from a decanter by the fire. When he handed her a glass, their fingers touched again—another spark.
"You haven't asked what happens next," he said.
Isolde took a small sip, eyes locked on him over the rim. "I assume there will be expectations. Heirs. Appearances."
His gaze darkened. "Yes. They'll want to parade you in court. Announce the bond. Prove it's real."
"How does one prove something like that?"
Valen's jaw tensed. "By consummating the bond."
The words sat between them like a loaded weapon.
Isolde didn't flinch. "And if I refuse?"
"You won't be forced," he said firmly. "Not by me."
"But by your council?"
He didn't answer, which said enough.
She stepped closer, lifting her chin. "Then let them come. Let them see I'm not a lamb in a dragon's lair. I'm not here to be broken, Valen. If you want me to burn for you… I'll do it on my terms."
A slow grin spread across his face. "Good. Because I wouldn't have it any other way."
Later that night, Isolde lay in the massive bed, staring up at the ornate ceiling. Valen hadn't joined her—not yet. He'd given her space. But she knew this was just the beginning.
Her life, as she'd known it, was over.
She was no longer a free princess. No longer human, even. The bond had changed her. She could feel it pulsing in her blood—something wild, something ancient.
She had married the Dragon Prince.
And somehow… part of her didn't regret it.