─── written lit. since i don't have much to show until the full fic is out, you can anticipate heavy slowburn, lowk enemies to lovers, subplot from other ships (ruegard & percabeth), fake dating, profanity, eventual smut and other rake activities from luke lol ♡ send an ask or comment if you'd like to be added to the tag list !!

𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑—the way luke castellan occupies space within the palace drawing room as if he has been carved into the very architecture. he does not just sit; he reclines with a threatening sort of grace, his boots buffed to a mirror shine that seems to mock the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of mayfair.

“a saint!” percy gushes, his youthful exuberance rattling the fine bone china on the tea tray. your stepbrother, the youngest prince of the ton and a boy whose heart is far too large for his own legal safety, looks at luke with nothing short of amazement. “truly, sister, luke has won three bouts at the boxing saloon this week alone. he is the champion of the square!”

you do not look up from your embroidery, though the needle punctuates the silk with a violence that suggests you are stitching a shroud rather than a rosebud. “a champion of ruffians and pugilists, perhaps,” you remark, your voice as cool as a january frost in the highlands. “i fail to see how bruised knuckles qualify as a personality trait, percy. though i suppose for mr. castellan, it is a significant upgrade from his usual brooding silence.”

the princes and the dukes of the other countries are distant memories compared to the persistent, irritating reality of luke castellan. for five years, you have been away, building some sort of a reputation overseas as a woman of rather strong opinions, a lady who views the marriage market with the same nonchalance one might afford at a livestock auction. you have returned to london not to seek a husband, but to watch over your stepbrother while your mother and the king enjoy the honeyed air of florence. you have been tasked as the temporary mistress of the palace, yet luke treats the royal residence like his personal clubhouse.

“your sister has a sharp tongue, percy,” luke says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice without ever lifting your gaze. it is a haunting sound that seems to linger in the air between you. “it’s a wonder she hasn’t accidentally cut herself with it yet. tell me, my lady, did they run out of charms in monaco, or did you simply decide that being thorny was much more efficient than being courtly?”

you let out a polite huff and finally look up, your eyes narrowing. luke is leaning against the mantelpiece now, the pink and orange hues of the sunset light catching the unruly waves of his dark curls. he is devastatingly handsome in the way a storm is beautiful—all trouble and impending chaos. you've labelled him a sponger, a man who has made himself a fixture in your life ever since your arrival, simply by refusing to be ignored.

“i find that charm is often wasted on those who lack the intellect to perceive it,” you reply, setting your embroidery aside with deliberate slowness. you stand, your skirts rustling with a hurried hiss that doesn't go unnoticed. “and since you seem to have mistaken this drawing room for a tavern, i shall leave you to your delusions. percy dear, do ensure that when mr. castellan departs, he takes his circus with him. the palace is already quite full.”

“oh, i’m not leaving yet,” luke counters, smoothly gliding into your path as you make for the door. he is tall—impossibly so—and he smells of blueberry jam from tea earlier and whatever perfume his housekeep have selected for him, a scent that feels dangerously invasive in the stagnant heat of the afternoon. “i promised your brother i would review his form for his fencing lessons. besides, i find your company far too educational to abandon so soon.”

“educational ?” you scoff, refusing to take a step back even as he invades your personal space. you are the daughter of an honourable and respectable woman in all, and you would not be cowed by a man whose greatest achievement is being the most persistent headache in the ton.

“indeed,” he murmurs, leaning down so that his words are meant only for your ears, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear. “i am learning exactly how many layers of difficulties i have to get through before i find the mischievous charm everyone says you’re hiding. it’s a fascinating study in persistence.”

“you will find only more hurdles, mr. castellan,” you retort back, it alerts you quietly—the way your heart betrays you with a sudden, traitorous thud against your ribs. “i suggest you find a different subject for your ‘studies’ before i give you my own hand in the way you least expect it.”

he lets out a low whistle that sends a shiver down your spine—one that has nothing to do with cold. “and will that hand be in marriage?” he teases, his brown eyes dancing with a challenge that makes your blood simmer with loathing. “all jokes, my lady.”

he steps aside then, bowing with a flourish that is far too graceful to be sincere. you sweep past him, your head held high, though the heat in your cheeks feels like a brand. you hate him. you truly, deeply despise the way he turns your quiet life into a series of breathless encounters.

he is a rake (as per the columns of lady whistledown), a palace parasite, and a vexation you do not wish to acknowledge. ever .

and so, as you reach the safety of the hallway, you realise with a twisted dread that you have never felt more alive than when he is trying to ruin your day.

— please do not copy , translate or repost any of my works anywhere.