My Prince Cut Off My Arm for His Mistress

The river was my home. Its currents, its moods, its secrets—I knew them all. As a ferryman, I'd spent years navigating these waters, my muscles hardened by constant work, my eyes sharpened by watching for hidden dangers beneath the surface.

That morning, something looked wrong. A shape too large to be debris drifted with the current, caught between the churning water and the sunken branches of an ancient oak.

"Hello?" I called out, my voice carrying across the water. No response.

I guided my boat closer, my heart hammering against my ribs. A man—his face pale, body limp—floated facedown in the water. Without hesitation, I reached in and pulled him out.

He weighed more than any man I'd ever lifted, but something in me—a strength I'd always kept hidden—surged forth. I dragged him into my boat and began chest compressions, water streaming from his lips as I worked.

"Come on," I whispered, fear clawing at my throat. "Live."

His eyes fluttered open—beautiful eyes, the color of a storm-tossed sea. He coughed, gasped, then looked at me with confusion.

"Who..." he rasped.

"You're safe now," I said, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. "What's your name?"

He stared at me blankly. "I... I don't know."

I brought him to my small cottage by the riverbank. He could remember nothing—not his name, not where he came from, not how he'd ended up in the river. I named him Rowan, after the river reeds that swayed nearby.

"Rowan," he repeated, testing the name on his tongue. "It feels... right."

Over the following weeks, something bloomed between us. We were isolated from the world—just two souls finding comfort in each other's presence. I taught him how to gut fish, how to navigate the river's treacherous currents. He taught me to read the few books I owned, his voice gentle as he sounded out words I'd never had time to learn.

At night, we sat by the fire, his fingers intertwined with mine.

"I wish I could remember," he said one evening, his head resting against my shoulder. "But maybe it's better this way. Here, with you—it feels like everything I've ever wanted."

I kissed him then, tasting the salt from our day on the water. "Maybe some memories aren't worth keeping."

We made love that night, our bodies finding a rhythm as natural as the river's flow. I'd never felt so complete, so seen.

"I love you," I whispered against his skin. "Whatever your past, whatever your future—I love you."

"I love you too, Lina," he replied, his arms tightening around me. "My Lina."

Three months passed in our riverbank paradise. Then came the storm.

Rain lashed against our cottage windows as Rowan stoked the fire. A sudden crack—a branch crashing through the roof—and he was on the floor, blood streaming from his temple.

"Rowan!" I cried, rushing to his side.

His eyes opened, but something had changed. The warmth, the vulnerability—gone, replaced by something sharper, more calculated.

"Lina," he said, his voice different somehow. "My name isn't Rowan."

My heart stuttered. "What?"

"Royal," he said. "My name is Royal Howard. I am the third prince of New York."

The world tilted beneath me. "Royal?"

"Yes." He stood, suddenly regal despite his torn clothes and bloody forehead. "I remember everything now."

I'd found him a coat that fit, a life that fit. Now he stood before me, a stranger wearing my Rowan's face.

"We need to go," he said. "To New York. My family will be looking for me."

"Your family," I repeated numbly.

"And you," he added, taking my hands in his. "You'll come with me. We'll be together."

Hope fluttered in my chest despite my confusion. "Together?"

"Yes," he promised, kissing me with a passion that reminded me of our nights by the river. "I swear it."

The journey to New York passed in a blur. Royal traveled in a carriage fit for a prince, while I sat beside him, wide-eyed at the city's towering buildings and bustling streets.

But instead of entering a palace, we stopped at a smaller estate—opulent but isolated, surrounded by high walls.

"This is where you'll stay," Royal said, his voice gentle but firm. "For now."

"Why not the palace?" I asked.

"It's... complicated." He brushed a strand of hair from my face. "Stay here until I arrange everything. Don't leave—promise me."

I nodded, though something cold settled in my stomach.

The door opened, and a woman entered—tall, elegant, with eyes that assessed me like I was something distasteful stuck to her shoe.

"So this is the river rat," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "I'm Arianna Burns. Royal's... friend."

Royal's expression flickered. "Arianna will help you settle in."

"What do you mean, 'settle in'?" I asked, looking between them.

Arianna's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Welcome to your new cage, little bird. Royal's latest plaything."

The door closed behind them, and I stood alone in the cold, opulent prison that would become my home.