The Reluctant Lady of Tarse: Chapter 1

The Return of the Unexpected

Milara Aderic sat in the parlor, her back stiff against the hard chair, feeling as though the weight of the world was bearing down on her. The room felt colder now than it ever had, the fire in the hearth flickering weakly, casting long, dancing shadows across the floor. The distant ticking of the grandfather clock was the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

Across from her, her husband stood—his frame taller and broader than she remembered, his dark eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her stomach tighten. Lucan von Tarse, the man her father had forced her to marry, had returned. Alive. And not just alive, but victorious.

Milara couldn’t reconcile the image of the rough, silent mercenary she had married in a hurried, meaningless ceremony months ago with the man who now stood before her—a man whose presence seemed to fill the room, imposing and undeniable. She had thought of him often during his absence, but only in the context of his inevitable death, as her father had promised. Yet here he was, a living legend, a hero whose name would be sung by the people of the kingdom.

Lucan’s voice, when it came, was low and measured, almost like a rumble in the distance. “Milara,” he said, his gaze unwavering, “It’s been a long time.”

Her mouth went dry. "Lucan," she replied, surprised at how foreign his name sounded on her tongue. She hadn't expected to say it again—at least not in this context. “You... you look well.”

The man who had once been little more than a soldier destined for death now stood in front of her, his weathered face marked with the scars of battle, his eyes gleaming with the coldness of a warrior who had survived the impossible. His hair, once short and clipped, had grown out slightly, wild in a way that seemed to echo his untamed spirit. His jaw was squared, his posture so rigidly confident that it made her heart beat faster.

“I’m more than well, wife,” Lucan replied, his lips curling into a smile that bordered on the edge of something darker. “I’ve survived hell, and now I’ve returned with more than just my life. I’ve returned with victory.”

Milara felt a sharp pang in her chest. Her father’s words echoed in her mind—He won’t return. She had planned everything around that assumption. She had expected to be free, to escape the shackles of this forced marriage and reclaim her own future. Now, that future was slipping through her fingers, like sand in a gale.

"You’re a hero now," she said, her voice faltering only slightly as she fought to keep her composure. She wasn’t sure whether she was speaking out of genuine awe or if it was just the formality of the moment.

Lucan’s grin deepened, though his eyes stayed cold. “A hero? Hardly. Heroes are made of stories told to children. I’m a survivor, Milara, and that’s the only thing I’ve ever truly been.” His tone was smooth, yet it held an undertone of something that made her skin prickle. “I’ve survived for one reason alone—because I choose to survive. And now, I’m here to claim what’s mine.”

Milara felt her pulse quicken. She wanted to retort, to remind him of the cold, calculated plan her father had laid out for them both. A marriage that would be nothing more than a formality, an arrangement to keep appearances intact while Lucan went off to die on the frontlines. But the words caught in her throat. Lucan was not the man she had married in name alone. He was more than that now—more than she could have ever imagined.

Her eyes shifted to the window, where the light of the afternoon sun had already begun to fade, casting long shadows over the garden. She had been waiting for him to leave again. She had been waiting for the moment when the war would take him from her, just as it had taken so many others. But now, she found herself caught in the present—frozen in time, unable to look away from the man who stood before her, more real than ever before.

“I never imagined I’d be standing here like this,” Milara said, struggling to find her voice again. “You should have died in the war, just like we expected. Like we planned.”

Lucan’s lips twitched in what might have been a smile, but it held no warmth. “Ah, yes. The plan.” He moved closer, his boots clicking softly against the hardwood floor. “I remember that plan, Milara. You were going to be a widow before you could even become a wife, weren’t you? I was supposed to die on some battlefield while you counted your riches and disappeared into the shadows of the world.” He stopped just a step away from her, his presence so close now that she could feel the heat of his body radiating toward her. His hand reached out slowly, his fingers grazing against the hem of her sleeve.

Her breath hitched, her eyes darting to his hand before snapping back to his face. He was too close. Too intimate. Too real.

“Did you really think it would be that easy?” Lucan murmured, his voice dropping to a low, almost dangerous whisper. “That you could marry me, wait for my death, and then slip away unnoticed?”

Milara stepped back, her heart racing. “I didn’t think it would be easy. I thought it would be over.”

“Over?” Lucan chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I’m not the one who’s over, wife. And you’ll find out soon enough.”

The words hit her harder than any blade could. What had she done?

“I’ll be departing for the battlefield again soon, Milara,” Lucan continued, his gaze never leaving her. “But rest assured, when I return, we will finish what we’ve started.”

Milara’s pulse thrummed in her ears. “You dream big, don’t you?” she forced out, trying to hold onto her sarcasm, her deflection. She was caught in a whirlwind of emotions. Fear, anger, confusion. And—desire. It was there, deep within her, something she didn’t want to acknowledge.

Lucan’s grin widened, but there was no mistaking the command in his eyes. “Dreams are for the weak. I take what’s mine, Milara. And right now, I want my wife.”

His hand reached out again, and before she could protest, his fingers closed around her wrist, pulling her toward him with surprising gentleness. Her breath hitched as he brought her body flush against his, the strength of him overwhelming her senses.

“Shall we head to the bedroom now?” Lucan whispered into her ear, his breath hot and dangerous. The words sent a jolt of heat through her, but her mind screamed in protest. This wasn’t what she had signed up for. She wasn’t ready for this.

“Pardon?” Her voice barely escaped her throat, disbelieving.

He pulled back slightly, his grin a mixture of satisfaction and something far darker. “I’m in a bit of a hurry,” he said with a lazy, dangerous smile, his hand still wrapped around hers, unwilling to let her go.

Milara’s thoughts spiraled. This wasn’t what she had expected. None of this was part of the plan. She had thought she could manipulate the situation, take the money, and disappear. But Lucan’s presence—his undeniable power, his confidence—was tearing apart every escape route she had thought she had.

“Lucan, please,” she stammered, the urgency clear in her voice. “I—"

His lips brushed against her ear again, and this time, there was no teasing. Just raw desire.

“Don't worry, wife,” he whispered, “You’ll adjust.”

And in that moment, Milara realized something she hadn't wanted to admit—Lucan von Tarse wasn’t just a mercenary. He was a man who took what he wanted, when he wanted, and she had no choice but to brace for the storm he was about to bring.