Archive of Our Own

You would feel bad for badgering him if he wasn’t prone to disappearing like this. 

Prone to shirking off his duties like an entire kingdom didn’t rely on his guidance. 

You sigh for the umpteenth time amid the night-blooming jasmines. Fingers flex around the strapped leather grip of your sword, fastened to your hip. Your feet move on autopilot, carrying you through the garden on a path you’re all too familiar with, the grass shining with dew and crunching beneath your feet. 

Your shift just began after a grueling week of training. Yet, you’ve already been tasked by his royal advisor with locating your charge before fully shrugging into your coat. You’ve become something of a glorified babysitter these days, practically telling your liege when to eat.

If not for his advisor threatening to lop your head off—he could very well try—you would leave the king be. He hasn’t found much reprieve these days, what with neighboring countries pushing for peace treaties, reformation efforts to rebuild the outlying cities, and distant kingdoms shoving their daughters at him for marriage, amongst a slew of other issues.

It isn’t uncommon for your charge to slip away when the weight of the world is too much to shoulder. For him to retire to his private garden to catch his breath. He’ll never admit it aloud, but shouldering an entire kingdom on his own deepens the violet bags already hanging beneath his eyes. The sleepless nights. The impending anxiety stewing in his gut.

Only you know of the secret passageways that lead to his most favored spots in the garden, where his servants get lost trying to navigate the network of rose bushes arranged like a labyrinth to keep them out. 

It’s often your responsibility to fetch him since you work more intimately with him than anyone else. You know His Majesty’s habits like they were mapped on the back of your hand. You wouldn’t have it any other way; it’s nice to be the only person allowed into these private quadrants of his life.

A shock of white stains your periphery, peacefully nestled between swaying hydrangeas. 

You near him, noting that he’s propped up on an ironwood bench near the gentle harmony of the fountain. His head is lowered and crooked to one side, arms folded over a broad chest, lips slightly parted. A book rests open and forgotten on his thigh, legs crossed. You tamp down a smile when you realize he’s fast asleep.

“Your Majesty,” you beckon with a hidden fondness as your steps slow to a stop before him.

He doesn’t stir. Of course, you don’t expect him to. When sleep claims him, it’s hard to free him from its ivy-like crawl.

You kneel dutifully, bowing your head, your sword scrawling a line in the dirt. You caution his name again, the sound of your voice competing with that of the breeze threading through the leaves. 

Still nothing. Just the steady rhythm of his breaths and distant morning birds singing their symphony around you along with the babbling waterfall.

With a sigh, you incline your head to look up. And what a mistake that proves to be, traitorous butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

He’s a beautiful contradiction amid the soft stir of pastel flowers. A dark cutout of regality, slumbering like a dragon guarding its treasure. 

His hair is reminiscent of a thick blanket of snow, piling itself amongst the treetops. He wears summer skin in the midst of spring. Stretched taut over a pretty Roman nose, angular features, full lips. He’s ethereal, limned in the sun’s amber glow, a sight that could bring the end of days or sink ships to the bottom of the sea. Thick, furled lashes dance with dreams beneath furrowed brows. A gruff sound escapes his mouth as he lightly stirs before falling still again.

Even in sleep, he maintains the intensity with which he’s known to rule. Almost as if unconsciousness doesn’t grant him reprieve, either. 

A quaint smile touches your lips. You quell an impulse to soothe the divot between his brows with your thumb. To smooth out the tight press of his lips. A well-timed gust of wind kicks in, rustling the hair framing his face.

Your fingers twitch with an impulse to touch. To tuck those unruly locks behind his ear. You instead curl them into a loose fist on the ground, quietly chiding yourself for allowing such thoughts to trickle in. 

He is your charge—your king. Affectionate gestures like that are forbidden. A conflict of interest, no matter how harmless they may seem. 

Besides, you’re unworthy of touching him. There’s dirt caked beneath your nails and an ever-present film of grime adorning your cheeks no matter how much you scrub them. You’re commonborn, only noble by position. He should have someone of equal stature smiling at his side. A pretty, glittering doll in flowery dresses, well-versed in the tongue of nobility. In the art of being poised and prim.

You’re a mere servant. A shield to be used at his disposal, your hands battle-worn and skin sun-dusted. You threw away all hope for love when you took an oath, binding your life to his and pledging your fealty to him. 

He handpicked you to serve as his personal bodyguard, a decision you still grapple with several years later. Many seasoned knights served in the royal guard longer than you’ve held a sword. You would never do anything to jeopardize his trust, to betray his kindness. 

The affection that unfurls like lotus petals in your chest for him is deep-rooted. However, it results from serving under him for so long and nothing more.

At least…

That’s what you tell yourself whenever his gaze lingers a little too long, pilfering the air from your lungs. 

Or when his dexterous fingers brush over your wrist under the guise of reaching for something in front of you. 

When he presses a warm and possessive hand at the small of your back whenever you tour the citadel’s grounds with him, or he requests your input on something at his desk. 

When he flashes a rare quirk of lips that’s boyish and dimpled and disarming when he thinks no one else is the wiser.

You clear your throat, remembering yourself. Your voice is more assertive this time, dispelling the nebulous haze of your musings. “Your Majesty, please. You have to get up.” The urge to stroke his cheek returns. You squeeze your thigh to curb it.

As if the gods pity you, they grant you mercy, and that does the trick. 

His lashes flutter, and his voice is thick and raspy, rolling like thunder over the horizon in his chest. You watch him blink away the bleariness, the scarlet wash of his irises causing your heart to pull. 

Your king studies you as if making out the colors and texture of your face. You try not to shiver under his scrutiny, instead looking away as warmth inhabits your face. You’ve always found his eyes to be one of his most devastating features. They could easily glean through the mist of your mind, your guise, reading you like the yellowed pages of a tome, even without tapping into the dangerous power residing in his right eye.

Heat permeates through the thickness of your uniform when, after setting his book aside, he pitches himself forward, elbows digging into the pockets of his knees. He rests his chin atop his laced fingers, and you don’t need to fully look at him to see the smirk crooking his lips. The pulsing scent of energy and stripped sandalwood rolls off his skin, curling around your senses, threatening to root your tongue to the roof of your mouth.

The air between you is rife with tension. So thick, you can cleave through it with your blade. Your king watches you amusedly, and you do everything within your power to resist the bewitching pull of his gaze. The comfort and strength he exudes.

When he speaks, you nearly jump fifty feet out of your skin. His voice is as devastating as his eyes, puddling in your stomach, turning your brain to smog.

“I knew you were there all along. That’s why I didn’t bother opening my eyes. I was merely resting them.”

You scoff despite the anxiety scorching your innards. Closing your eyes, you retort under your breath, though loud enough for him to hear, “Sure, Majesty. You were resting your eyes while snoring with drool running down your chin.”

Your charge releases an indignant sound from the back of his throat, reeling back to touch his face, mortified. Your shoulders shake with your quiet laughter, and you hide the round tug of your lips behind your fist.

“Funny,” he says, and he gives you a pointed look. One he’s used to silence an entire crowd of hecklers, its sharpness boding danger.

You clear your throat, donning that straight-faced mask you’ve grown so accustomed to wearing. You’re friends—childhood companions—yet you know when to shift from candid to serious at the crack of a rifle. 

Recalling why you were initially sent to fetch him, you stand to full height, brushing the dust off your hands onto your thighs before snapping to attention. Your king raises a brow as if sensing something on your mind. 

“At ease,” he orders, his voice devoid of its usual sternness as he leans back against the bench, a long arm draped along the bench’s backrest, ankle propped on the pocket of his knee. 

You get a good look at the veins peering through the cuffed sleeve of his button-up, spilling down his forearm to puddle at the back of his hand. You swallow against the barbs forming in your throat, your mouth growing dry.

“Speak freely,” he says with a lazy flourish of his fingers, unaware of the war you’ve waged on your mind. 

You nod, your hands clasped together at the small of your back. “You have a brunch date with the Queen of Universum today, sir.”

He blinks as if this information is news to him before recollection forms between his brows. His Majesty scowls, drumming his fingers on the bench’s rim impatiently, a faraway glaze to his eyes. “Of course. Another noble here to throw their daughter at my feet.”

Your shoulders slightly drop at the dejection in his tone. You wish people weren’t so insistent that he take a bride. His father ruled just fine without one following the death of his wife. Still, having been around His Majesty so long, you understand why it’s imperative he marry and bear an heir soon. 

Your shoulder throbs dully—two wounds that refuse to heal even after all this time—serving as your reminder. 

You try to ignore how the thought of some pretty noble wrapped around his arm makes you bristle, green-eyed feelings stewing in your belly. It would never be you. Never could be you. You’re content with being his handler, watching him mutter obscenities over paperwork from your position, posted at the door of his chamber.

“How does that make you feel?” His Majesty suddenly asks, a teasing edge to his voice.

You blink, caught off guard. “M-Me?”

His chuckle is rich and endearing, and you unconsciously step back when he stands, swaddling you in his warmth and imposing height. Stuffing a hand into his pocket, he pokes your nose, and you go cross-eyed looking at his slender finger.

“Yes, you. How does it make you feel, knowing that so many women would trip over themselves to carry my last name?”

He’s trying to get a rise out of you. Trying to weasel something out of you you’ve tucked in the deepest regions of your mind for years. You don’t humor him; instead, you give him a haughty look, your chin defiantly jutting forward. 

“I think anyone willing to marry you is clinically insane.”

He laughs at your brazenness, your teasing, full-bodied and soothing. Dimples crater his cheeks, and the softness washing over his eyes causes a smile to twitch your lips. 

Without warning, idle fingers scorch your skin through the fabric of your jacket, easing down your arm, past the crook of your elbow, further still…

You’re breathless as His Majesty coaxes a hand from behind your back, and you watch with slightly parted lips and through the wispy sweep of your lashes as he draws it to his mouth. His eyes drill into the hulls of your soul whilst his molten lips brush your knuckles. He kisses them with such tenderness, such veneration, as if you’re an idol forged from glass, meant to be preserved in a museum.

The sound of your pulse pounding like a pile driver blots out every bit of noise around. Your throat thickens, tongue bolted to the roof of your mouth. 

“Good morning, by the way,” he drawls as if ensnaring you in a secret, his warm breath ghosting your skin, limber fingers scorching your hand to the bone. 

You snatch away quicker than you mean to. Smooth your palm down your side before pinching yourself, studying the blades of grass licking at your boots. You wish you hadn’t caught sight of the fleeting pain in his expression. Wish you hadn’t been the cause of it.

“W-We should get going, sir,” you divert, trying to hide the shakiness of your voice.

He pushes out a weighted breath, feeding the hand once curled around yours into his opposing pocket. “Lead on, then, dear friend.”

“Right.” With a curt nod, you turn on your heels towards the patchwork of greenery you emerged from.

He follows wordlessly, closely, a towering presence at your back, footfalls weighted in the grass, swallowing up the sound of your smaller ones. Complementing them. Static charges between you, imbued with something potent and undeniable. You practically feel his eyes boring holes into the space between your shoulder blades.

You try to no avail to quell your thundering heart. To ignore how your knuckles throb where his lips imprinted themselves on the rough stretch of skin. 

You wince, inwardly warring with yourself, praying that His Majesty keeps his hands to himself long enough to get through his meal with his esteemed guest. 

You could only dream he would behave.

Because His Majesty is as infuriating as he is handsome.

—

Willing His Majesty to behave and him actually doing so are two foreign points on a map. 

It’s kind of your fault, really. 

You almost don’t. Nearly preserve your aloofness, your decorum. But then you do let your formalities slip for the briefest second, and that’s what heralds this mess. 

A traitorous sigh slips past your lips, summoning the attention of your wintry-haired charge.

Warmth pours throughout your person, a prickly spike of embarrassment clotting your veins. You stiffen, staring at the dark, heavy curtains shielding the dining hall from the sun’s brilliant spill. You try valiantly to ignore how your skin tingles beneath the curious study of your king. How those scarlet eyes crinkle mirthfully, wittingly, and you know all too well no good will come from that look. 

He’s in a playful mood, isn’t he? And you’re about to serve as his conduit for entertainment. 

“Are you alright, dear friend?” he intones, loud enough for only you to hear, but below the monotonous prattle of his guest across the table. 

His voice curls around your brain, seeping through the folds of it. You straighten, arms stiffly folded behind you, quietly clearing your throat to ward off the spell of dizziness threatening to take hold. Curse him for sounding so devastatingly hot. For being so terribly distracting, so unfairly handsome.

You murmur an apology, not once taking your eyes off the far wall to look at him. To do so would be dangerous. Get you into more trouble. You hope by ignoring him, he’ll leave you be, but—

Well, His Majesty is a stubborn man, and once he gets going, there’s no stopping him. Especially when it comes to tormenting an old friend.

He fiddles with a fork on the dining table with long, dexterous fingers. Smooths out the wrinkles forming in the tablecloth, adjusting himself in his wing-backed seat into an uninterested slouch. “You’ve been awfully huffy today. Are you bored?” 

A little, you inwardly reflect. You don’t care much for politics. For these fickle conversations of wealth, alliances, and nobility. You merely follow orders, keeping your opinions to yourself unless they’re explicitly requested. 

Being a knight proves to be much more entertaining than serving as, say, a tactician or advisor. At least you can keep your hands and feet busy instead of rotting away at a desk, ripping out your hair and fretting over the intricacies of running an entire nation. 

You remain quiet, tuning out His Majesty’s attempts to get you to break etiquette. 

But, as mentioned before, your king is a persistent man. 

He sighs, slipping further down in his chair. Props his temple on his knuckles, an ankle resting on his knee whilst the free set of fingers drum on the chair’s arm. “I don’t blame you if you are. She’s not very entertaining, is she? Nor is she very bright.”

You snort before you can catch yourself. Quickly remember your decorum, a scowl twisting up your lips. Your eyes shoot to your wayward king. “Majesty!” you admonish on a whispered yell.

A smirk pulls at his lips. He playfully narrows his eyes at you from behind the shelter of his hand. Has you right where he wants you, feeding into his childish games. 

Just like old times. 

Your staring contest, however, is short-lived when the sharp click of porcelain echoes through the stilled dining hall.

“I’m sorry,” quips a voice doused in vitriol from the table’s other end, causing your attention to snap to its source. “Am I interrupting something?”

The Queen of Universum ingests the pair of you with sharp, mead-infused eyes, vexation tugging at her red-painted lips. Like two scolded children, you straighten, King Sylus sitting up in his seat with a brilliantly fake smile.

“Of course not. Please, continue with your monologuing,” he says with a theatrical flourish of his fingers. He would roll his eyes if he could; you just know it.

You disguise a laugh as a cough, piping up when the queen’s glare snaps to you. You try not to bristle beneath the weight it carries. Beneath the thin stretch of her lips. She doesn’t like you very much. Of course, you don’t care for her, either. 

She’s made it perfectly clear that she views you as a threat to her plans—marrying her daughter off to your king to forge an alliance between your countries, to spread her family’s reign. She’s mentioned more than once that your familiarity with the king is inappropriate, a threat to his crown. How scandalous it would be for him to take you as his bride instead of someone with noble blood.

You bite the inside of your cheek, fingers curling into a fist at your back until your nails bite unforgivingly into your palm. 

Like you don’t already grapple with the notion every time he touches you or smiles a little too charmingly in your direction.

You’re not fit to be a contender for his heart; not fit to be a queen. 

Her eyes thankfully slip away from you, refocusing on the center of your musings. Your relief is short-lived as an impish smile rounds her lips. You swallow thickly, the queen’s body language boding danger.

“Is it truly necessary for your lapdog to be here? Her presence is spoiling my meal.”

You blink rapidly. Incredulously, mouth spilling open, nearly swallowing your tongue.

Lap—

Lapdog?

I’m sorry, what?

If you had hackles, they would raise. Instead, your nostrils flare, the tendons in your neck pulling, jaw set in a rigid line. An omniscient smirk cants the queen’s lips. She knows just how to creep beneath your skin, how to wrap her claws around your pride and pull it apart. 

How dare she compare you to a bloody dog! You’re loyal, yes. At His Majesty’s beck and call. His shield. Have been for years. But to be compared to an animal, of all things—

He feels the malice sloughing off your skin in waves. Eyes you warily in his periphery before raising a hand to quell your silent rage.

“Down, girl,” he teases, and you glower at him. 

It seems he also wants to antagonize you with the dog jokes.

Leaning forward, your king perches his elbows on the dining table. Twines his fingers together, resting his chin atop his knuckles, a deceptively sweet smile boasting his teeth. Having known him for as long as you have, you can easily sense the irritation pouring over the tense set of his muscles. The stiffness between his shoulder blades, peering through the tailored pleat of his jacket.

“My lady,” he begins, words bathed in thin silk, “I’m not sure how you treat your subjects in Universum, and frankly, I do not care. But here, we address our people with dignity and respect regardless of race, color, status, or creed.”

The queen’s expression morphs into one of mortification. She straightens in her seat, a steady creep of redness inhabiting her cheeks as she studies the doily texture of the tablecloth. You resist an urge to cheer.

“While you are my guest, you are expected to behave with poise and grace. And I would greatly appreciate it if you did not disrespect my friend here like that again.” 

Scarlet eyes flit to you, shining with a spark of fondness—a tenderness that sets your body alight with heat—before returning to the queen. 

“Or anyone in my kingdom, for that matter. Understood?” His Majesty concludes with a raised brow, brooking no room for argument.

Pride swells in your chest, warm like the soft embrace of a fur coat on a wintry day. He’s shut her up in his own way. Read her to filth with the poise and regality of a man of his stature, and you’re envious of his composure. They don’t call him a king for nothing.

You straighten at his side, mouth twitching with the threat of an arrogant smile, and your chin lifts slightly. Triumphantly. 

She studies her lap, pulling at her fingernails. You watch a kaleidoscope of emotions scroll across her face before a nervous titter falls from her lips. 

“My apologies, Your Majesty. That was very inappropriate of me.” Her tongue darts out to wet her lips while she sweeps a chocolate ringlet of hair behind her ear. “I was only hoping that the two of us could have a little…chat.” She looks at you, a note of caution stirring beneath her lashes. “Alone.”

Sylus sits back with a scoff as if he’s just as baffled by her request as you are. It’s rare you leave his side. Rare that you’re not in his shadow, guarding every hair on his scalp. You’re even present when he’s sunk beneath the murky pull of sleep. 

“Does her being here pose some sort of threat to you?” he interrogates through a smirk.

“Not so much a threat as it is a distraction.”

A distraction to whom, you wonder. 

It’s a ridiculous request. You’re his bodyguard, for the gods’ sake. You wouldn’t put it past her to make an attempt on his life in your absence. Forgo the pleasantries and proposal for marriage and end his lineage here and now. Not that she could.

Your mouth works around a protest, yet it dies in your throat when your king calls your name after some time spent deliberating. He peers at you from his shoulder, and you snap to attention.

“Sorry, dear friend,” he says, tone sloping with repentance. “Would you mind giving us some space for a little while? I fear your presence is making our guest uncomfortable.”

You cast him a pensive look. Lips tremble and part. His expression softens, and he winks at you, turning up the dial of his charm.

“Do not worry. I will be fine. I promise.”

Of course, he will be alright. His Majesty is more than capable of handling himself. Sometimes, you wonder what purpose you serve. He’s a hulk of a man, brimming with untapped power and bleeding intimidation. Most days, you feel you’re by his side to create the illusion of protection. 

Remembering your place, you step back and excuse yourself with a deep bow. You caution one last look at your charge before pivoting, briskly making for the door, ignoring the thunderous drum of your pulse in your ears.

You feel his eyes track your every move as your boots click soundly over the glittering, marble floor. Feel the queen’s gaze drilling into your back, exuding a quiet smugness as if she’s won your war of wits. 

As the solid, ornate doors of the dining hall draw closed behind you, you catch wind of their conversation over your shoulder, and your heart plummets to your feet. 

“So,” begins the queen, voice steeping low and conspiratorially. “I hear you are in need of a bride.”

—

You’re a mess of grit teeth and unease on the doors’ other side.

You’ve paced back and forth for what feels like an eternity, warring with your emotions. You’re not sure what has you more on edge: having been made to look like a fool in front of your king, or the implications of that statement when you departed from the dining room. 

“I hear you are in need of a bride.”

It repeats itself like a warped record. The conversation was inevitable. Doesn’t mean you have to like it. 

It’s the entire reason Universum’s queen has frequented your kingdom so much. Trying to set him up with her daughter, a princess, under the guise of uniting your people. You both know she’s greedy for power following her husband’s untimely demise, and His Majesty is teeming with it. 

You scoff, stopping your march to lean against the double doors, arms crossed over your chest. With a shuddering breath out, your face turned skyward, and your eyes shuttered closed, you try to compose yourself. 

If you keep huffing and puffing about like this, you might convince yourself that you care for your king more than you should. More than you’re allowed to. 

When you’ve begun to settle your nerves, the chorus of boots striking the carpeted floor piques your interest. 

You open an eye as dark figures of varying heights and builds ease into frame, moving past you, carrying laughter and camaraderie with them. Crownsguardsmen. 

They regard you with quick bows and wary smiles, their banter lulling to a dull murmur in the face of their superior. You acknowledge them casually, still propped against the oakwood doors, not at all in the mood for formalities. 

Amid the gaggle of guards, a set of curious sienna eyes alight on you, widening with recognition before crinkling with glee. 

The smaller guard shoves through her comrades, briskly approaching you as her teammates move out of sight as a single unit. You study the top of her sleek, brown hair before she stops before you. And you stiffen, stammering as she snatches up your hands, her excitement palpable. 

Tara. 

You recognize her as a new recruit with youthful eyes and enough enthusiasm to power the entire citadel. 

She reminded you of yourself when you first joined the king’s army. A young woman with a target on her back because of her gender and status. She possessed exceptional prowess with an array of weapons and vast knowledge of the kingdom’s technology. Yet, she was constantly beleaguered by her comrades and, oftentimes, her trainers.

You threw around your brass a little, ensuring she was treated as fairly as her male counterparts whilst she trained as a knight. Sometimes sparred or studied with her on your rare occasions of downtime. You were there to congratulate her when she’d been appointed a member of His Majesty’s royal guard.

With King Sylus on the throne, the Crownsguard became more progressive, opening its doors to anyone willing to lay their life down for him. Too bad a bunch of egotistical, chauvinistic airheads still occupied his ranks. 

“Good afternoon, ma’am!” Tara sing-songs, overflowing with zeal. 

You wince at the pitch of her voice, the brilliance of her smile. But you find her infectious, a soft chuckle escaping your lips. You unwind one of your hands from her grasp, ruffling her hair affectionately. Had she been anyone else, you would’ve reprimanded her for forgoing the proper customs and courtesies. 

But are you really in any position to lecture anyone about etiquette right now?

“Good afternoon, Tara.” You’re surprised by the mildness of your voice. The fondness of it.

If she had a tail, it would surely be wagging. Your innards color with warmth at the thought. You’ve found someone else you want to protect almost as much as your king.

“How are you today, ma’am?” she asks, dispelling the nebula of your thoughts. 

Averting your gaze, you sigh, recalling what’s got you so out of sorts in the first place. You cross your arms, your spine reacquainting itself with the intricate carvings of one of the dining room’s doors with a muted thunk. “I’ve had better days.”

Tara’s expression pulls into one of curiosity. “Something the matter?” 

She steps closer, bursting your figurative bubble. With her hands clasped behind her back, Tara scrutinizes you, ducking this way and that, giving you a visual inspection. 

“Come to think of it, isn’t His Majesty having brunch with the Queen of Universum right now?” She pensively taps her lip with her index finger, eyes narrowing in thought. “Behind you?”

You flinch, watching her from down your nose. She’s eerily perceptive for someone so young. Invasive, pummeling you with a hundred questions a minute. 

“That’s strange. Aren’t you normally by his side? Did something happen? Did you get into trouble?” Tara goads, nudging you with her elbow.

You scoff, pushing off the door. For all the years you’ve known your king, you’ve never been in trouble with him. Garnered the ire of his advisor once or twice, sure. Pissed off his royal entourage with your sharp tongue, maybe. But you don’t think Sylus harbors a malicious bone in his body for you. You don’t think he ever could.

You cross the hall, perching your hands on an adjacent windowsill. The marble texture is cold beneath your palms. Grounding. You study the mixture of historical and modern architecture marring the horizon, a scene reminiscent of a dragon’s maw. 

The land of Insomnia brims with life beyond The citadel’s walls, a nation once war-torn slowly rebuilding itself under the guidance of your genial king.

“No, I’m not in trouble.” You turn, sitting on the ledge. Your voice descends as if you’re having a conversation with yourself. “But not everyone seems to like the idea of me at the king’s side.”

Tara moves towards you with a placating smile, taking up one of your hands and squeezing it. “The queen doesn’t like you very much, does she?” 

Your silence serves as her answer. 

The younger woman pats your hand, thumb smoothing over the rough patch of skin stretched over the clutch of it. “Well, I could’ve told you that.”

You cut your eyes at her in warning. What’s with everyone testing your patience today? Picking on you?

“You’re competition,” Tara matter of factly adds, maneuvering to lean against the windowsill beside you. 

You study the weathered tips of your boots before your gaze slowly rises to Tara. Her eyes gloss over with tenderness. With pity as a slow creep of heat inhabits the pit of your stomach. You avert your gaze, boring into the dining hall’s doors. 

You don’t have to ask what she means by that; you’ve heard the statement numerous times as of late. Your king’s recent treatment of you doesn’t help matters, exacerbating the rumor that you’re more than just his loyal subject.

As if sensing your internal plight, Tara decides to shift gears. You’re grateful for the reprieve, getting too hung up in your mind again. 

“So, do you really think the queen killed her husband?” she whispers, leaning in with a conspiratorial hand cupped around her mouth.

You chuckle. Leave it to Tara to fill the space with gossip. “I couldn’t say. But I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s a bit of a bi—”

As if on cue, the grandiose doors of the dining room groan open, spilling the artificial light inside onto the carpeted floor. You and Tara snap to attention like two youths caught dawdling, stone-faced, the remnants of your conversation corked in your throats. 

How anticlimactic, you muse, watching several figures emerge from the room until your eyes alight on a familiar, riotous mop of white. 

Your breath thickens in your throat as scarlet eyes capture yours. The lips beneath them quirk before the towering silhouette they belong to, strides past you.

Tara’s hand brushes yours. You don’t have to look to know she’s giving you the most impish side-eye. 

The queen turns on her heel to face your king, her entourage scuttling about behind her. She’s half-hidden by the mass that is His Majesty, but beyond his bulk, you make out her red lips curving into a deceitful smile. Bile singes the back of your throat, your fists tightening at your sides. 

“It’s been a pleasure, Your Majesty.” She punctuates her words with a small curtsy and head tilt. 

His Majesty stuffs his hand in his pocket, his wispy hair sweeping over broad shoulders. Boredom lances through his deep timbre, and you imagine his eyes rolling with disinterest. “The pleasure was hardly mine.”

An indignant sound salts the air, dredged from the queen’s throat. You bite back a laugh, recalling what got you sent out in the first place. Tara flinches in your peripheral, tamping down a laugh herself. 

Ignoring your king’s waywardness, the queen squares her shoulders and straightens her spine, her head held high. She clears her throat, holding out her hand for your liege to take. When he does nothing, she waggles it expectantly, wordlessly demanding he kiss it.

You watch the scene unfold with bated breath, tight lips. Inwardly cheer when Sylus scoffs, turning away from his obstinate guest. He waves a tired hand over his shoulder, summoning two guards stationed by the hallway’s entrance.

“Please ensure the queen makes it back to her car. Safely or harmed, I don’t care,” he tacks on under his breath.

The guards acknowledge him with nods and move to flank the queen and her royal retinue. The woman huffs, stomping her foot like a child deprived of their favorite snack. She grabs the train of her dress and brusquely spins before being led out, carrying her jilted air with her. 

You resist a smile. Pride spools heavy in your chest. It’s almost like your souls are linked; your king’s never cared for rude nobles and their politics, mirroring your sentiment. 

He conquers the space between you in three measured strides. Pilfers the air from your lungs as electricity and pheromones spark between you, and you’re drawn into the ruinous stir of his eyes. 

Sensing the shift in the atmosphere, Tara dismisses herself with a bow, but not before discreetly nudging you in her retreat. Sylus barely acknowledges her, busy memorizing every detail of your face. Every tight breath slipping through your parted lips, every feathery flutter of your lashes.

You rapidly blink as if remembering where you are, keenly aware that the pair of you are alone.

The king’s proximity throws you off-kilter. The earthy scent and comforting warmth he exudes permeate the thickened layers of your uniform, wrapping around your heart, squeezing, leaving you raw and exposed. Your jaw ticks.

His expression slackens, brows knitting in the inner corners, and he coyly cocks his head to one side. “Are you alright, dear friend?” The texture of his voice is gritty as sandpaper, yet it’s disarming in a way that leaves you weak-kneed with a heavy tongue.

“H-Huh?” comes your foolish reply. You could kick yourself for how lovestruck you sound. 

Your king chuckles, a genuine sound reserved for intimate moments like these, tucked away from the prying eyes of his court. Your lips twitch before a slender finger pokes the space between your eyes, dispelling the dreamlike fog that once loomed overhead.

“I asked,” poke, “if you,” poke, “are feeling,” poke, “alright? You look a bit flustered.”

You swat his hand like an enraged feline, to which he chuckles, all manner of refinement thrown to the wolves. He’s as bratty as ever, a reflection of that child you once knew who’d shove you off the hill to be king of it. Who knew that immature prince would grow to take an entire kingdom onto his shoulders?

You clear the phlegm from your throat, taking a step back, haughtiness meddling with your features as his hand falls listlessly at his side.

“I’m fine, Majesty. Though I’d be better if someone learned to keep his hands to himself.”

The monarch in question feigns innocence, blinking owlishly, a dramatic hand splayed over his heart whilst he reels back. “What? I thought you liked it when I badgered you like this. When I kept you on your toes.”

You scowl, crossing your arms and impatiently tapping your foot. “Not when it borders sexual harassment. Need I remind you of your briefings, sir? Should we revisit them?”

He sputters, mortification descending on his face. 

You bite back a snicker. He’s much too handsome like this—playful, boyish, unguarded. An affectionate smile crests over his mouth when you let a bewitchingly sweet laugh slip. He takes a step forward, swaddling you in prickly static, dwarfing you by a good head and shoulders. Your traitorous heart thumps something wild, threatening to leap from your chest as the mirth melts from your face.  

“Would you believe that woman came here to coerce me into taking her daughter’s hand?” rasps your king, voice descending into a secret. 

You swallow, staring between his eyes, unconsciously leaning back. You nod when words fail you. Bristle as a set of spindly fingers creep down your forearm in pursuit of your hand, scorching through the fibers of your coat.  

Your breath catches whilst His Majesty brings your hand to his lips, and he kisses it with as much fervor as he did in the gardens. It’s a simple gesture. An innocent one that feels perverse in a way, burning down to your core, the molten heat creeping back up to take residence in your neck and face.

“The only hand I wish to hold,” he smooths his thumb over the notches of your knuckles like a blind man committing their texture to memory, “is this one.” Another brush of full lips makes you wince as if branded by a hot iron. 

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. Not with him so close, nor with the potency of his gaze drilling down to your soul. You wonder if he’s trying to kill you when he tugs you to him, a possessive hand falling to your hip. 

Whatever oxygen was left in your lungs abandons you in a sharp gasp, making way for a pleasant fuzziness and overwhelming heat. He snakes his arm around your waist before dipping you like in a dance, and your hand instinctively clasps around his shoulder to keep from crumbling to the floor.  

Hooded eyes pan in, filling your vision with nothing but a beautiful wash of red. His stare centers in on your mouth, and he leans closer until your breaths intermingle, and your limbs feel like jelly, and you’re lightheaded, and…and—

You screw your eyes shut, pushing your palms against his catastrophically rigid chest. He’s a dream forged by the gods. Temptation sent to lure you astray.

“Majesty!” you gasp. You sound so incredibly pitiful, so breathless, and it makes you sick. “Majesty, please. You can’t—we can’t—” You twist your head, pillow-soft lips grazing your cheek instead of your mouth, pleasant tingles of sensation humming throughout your body.

“Can’t what?” he breathes, voice strained with the effort of containing himself whilst he roots his nose against the tender space behind your ear. He draws you closer against the hard press of his body whilst nosing along your jaw, ingesting the saccharine and warm scent wafting off your skin.  

Your shoulder throbs beneath your uniform where two raw indentations reside. They’ve never fully healed after two years, the pain announcing itself in intimate quarters like this with your king. It’s a reminder of your anchor to him, to what truly lives beneath his skin, and why it’s imperative you keep your distance. 

“The maids, the guards. What if—” You scramble for every excuse not to give in. Not to betray the oath you took to protect him. To always put him first, to never fall for him. “—what if someone sees us, Majesty?”

A bitten-off, barely there growl cleaves through your ramblings. Lithe fingers encase your jaw, coaxing you to look at your charge. A glacial thrill shoots through your body at the sight that greets you. White, mussed hair falls perfectly into his face, lips parted and glistening invitingly, eyes wrinkling with a mixture of anguish and yearning. He reminds you of something beastly, fighting to reign in his instincts. Fighting not to lose control as his pupils tighten to slits. 

“You’ve known me for decades, yet you still insist on calling me that.” 

He gathers your cheek into his pleasantly warm palm, angling your head further back. You fight to keep your eyes open, your fingers curling into the fabric of his blazer. You’re spilling over the edge. Teetering over that blurry line between daydreams and reality. 

“I wish you would stop with the formalities. Majesty this, Your Majesty that.” Scoff. “Is this your way of shutting me out? Pushing me away?”

You haven’t the gall to tell him yes, too distracted by the flats of his nails dragging along your cheek, sweeping errant hair strands behind your ear. You shudder, and he pans in, your mouths but a whisker’s width apart.  

“If you carry on like this, I may have to punish you for your insolence.”

You suck in a breath at the underlying threat in his voice. You know it carries no weight. He’d never lay a finger on you outside of affection. But how wonderful it sounds, to be punished for your insubordination. 

Your noses brush, mouths ghosting over each other whilst careful fingers curl around your nape, creeping into your hair. You fear that you might faint, the heat spooling in your belly threatening to burn through layers of flesh. You’re clutching the lapels of his jacket for dear life now. Torturing yourself, wanting to conquer what little space remains between your mouths and—

Forbidden. 

The accursed word echoes in your mind like the weighted chime of a church bell. It resounds so miserably in your mind, reminding you of your place. Your duty. You’re no noblewoman. No contender for his heart. 

“Please don’t,” you utter between a laugh and a sob. Begging is unbecoming of you, but when it comes to protecting your king and his crown, you would fall to your knees if you had to.

The body against yours stiffens. An anguished sound tears through His Majesty’s chest, crackling like a hearth fire. You feel terrible for denying him again. For pushing him away like you always do. But many women regularly throw themselves at his feet, willing to ease his affliction—women of noble blood, of virtue. 

Grief furrows his brows, his eyes sweeping over your face, pupils rounded. A forlorn twitch cants his lips. He exhales loudly, shakily, his thumb cruising over the outward arc of your brow, his gaze tracking the delicate movement. 

“Of everything I own within these walls, within this kingdom, you’re the one treasure that manages to elude me the most.” 

His eyes snap to yours, and you shiver beneath the weight they boast. He could easily flex his power over you. Command you to stay still while he ravages you. But that’s never been his style, has it? Another trait of his drawing you deeper into his spell. 

“Why do you run from me? Why do you continue to deny me? Why continue to deny yourself? I hear how your body calls to me. Your heartbeat, your scent. So ripe. So untainted.” 

The exasperation enmeshed with desire in his voice makes your stomach lurch. 

I’m not denying anyone, you wish to say. I just…I don’t know. I don’t—

“Where in the hells is he?!” a familiar voice ricochets through the empty hallway—your saving grace. 

Seems his advisor is on a rampage again. You’ve never wanted to kiss the eccentric man more.

“Impeccable timing as always,” sighs your king, rolling his eyes. He reluctantly releases you, his hands at your waist until your legs remember they are meant to support you. 

Just as you spring apart, and you begin smoothing out the wrinkles in your uniform, your hair abruptly spills in warm tendrils down your neck, puddling around your shoulders, water-falling from its usual coiffure.

You blink incredulously, taking note of the impish smirk canting the king’s lips as something silver gleams in your periphery.

You watch with horror as he twirls your hairpin between dexterous fingers before bringing the warm, tarnished metal to his lips for a kiss. It’s an intimate sight. An image that makes a shiver wrack your spine, makes you dizzy, and you don’t know whether to be flattered or mortified.

Witnessing it somehow feels more shameful than if he’d actually kissed you.  

“Y-Your Majesty, give that back!”

The monarch in question chuckles something smoky, dangling the ornate pin out of reach when you swipe at it. He has an unfair advantage over you. You contemplate kicking him in his shin, figuring the risk of losing your foot, and possibly your position, is well worth it. 

Your breasts scrub against him as you struggle on tippy toes, clawing at your hairpin with the ferocity of a cat. And as your nipples knot beneath the rough glide of your uniform, you are reminded of the devastating press of His Majesty’s body.

By the gods, it’s too much. You’re sure your face is all types of mortified now, heat spuming beneath your skin.

“My, my. Throwing yourself at your king like this. How scandalous,” he purrs, enjoying your plight a little too much. His twisted way of getting revenge for you staving off his advances. “What would the maids make of you now?”

“Your Majesty, that is my mother’s,” you pant, stepping back with beseeching eyes. 

He clicks his tongue, studying the pin as if it houses all the secrets to your bloodline. “That makes the spoils of victory that much sweeter.”

You watch with puffed out cheeks as he tucks the hairpin into his breast pocket, the jaded metal gleaming condescendingly at you. 

“Consider it collateral.”

For what, you haven’t the foggiest. 

With all the smugness of the world, your king presses past you, his hands in his pockets. You stomp behind him, fighting to keep stride with his longer ones, clawing at his pocket when a moment presents itself. 

You try to sweep your hair into some semblance of neatness before the pair of you meet his advisor. Before curious eyes can form questions where there should be none. 

You hardly miss the enamored smile rounding his lips as he peers at you over his shoulder. 

“You lunatic,” you curse beneath your breath, barely concealing the note of affection inhabiting your voice.

—

Of the many ways for a young woman to find herself in peril…

Well, you know the lot of them thanks to a certain white-haired monarch.

You figure he’s the most beautiful thing ever to grace this kingdom. Watch him with childlike wonderment as he sits hunched over his desk, silver brows pinched over the wire frames of his glasses, lips thinned with concentration. 

His Majesty’s been like this for at least an hour, working through the stacks of paperwork littering his study. He occasionally releases a thoughtful hum, tapping his fountain pen against the lacquered surface as he flips through a binder housing official documents. 

Rafayel must’ve really gotten to him today.

The royal advisor cornered you in the king’s study following your brush with danger. He huffed something about ball preparations and coral reef preservation, hands on hips as he demanded that Sylus “sit still and do some actual work.” 

You couldn’t help the snicker that tore itself from your body, watching the two bicker from the door like an old married couple. 

Not much has changed about their dynamic since your childhood.

Rafayel threw his hands up with resignation, and Sylus turned up his chin over crossed arms. 

“I’ll handle it,” His Majesty clipped, clearly done with their conversation, inspecting an adjacent wall as if it were more entertaining. 

Rafayel sighed and marched to you, pinning you with an iridescent glare. He thrust a finger in your face, his irritation emanating off him in waves.

“Make sure he doesn’t leave this office until all of those documents are signed. And no making googly eyes at each other, you hear me? You know he has the attention span of a goldfish.”

You replied with a curt nod, stepping aside to allow the exasperated advisor to leave. 

The heavy door slammed behind with finality, leaving you and your charge in prickly silence.

A part of you wished that Rafayel stayed to maintain the peace. Because the moment he left, the air shifted, weighted like storm clouds rolling over the citadel. And you felt like a sheep that had wandered into the maw of a wolf’s den.

“A picture would last longer,” says Sylus, drawing you back to the present. 

He scrutinizes the documents laid out before him, not once looking up. He knows your silences—their different meanings—too well. Parses through them like the yellowed pages of the books on his shelves.

Straightening, you clear your throat, tamping down the heat in your cheeks. You’ve been caught staring again—a regular occurrence between you and your king. 

Can it be helped, though?

The man is gorgeous in every sense of the word, glowing like the cinders he was forged from. And you would be a fool to deny that, though you’ve barely succeeded in reining yourself in thus far.

You swallow. Try to tear your eyes from the pulsing veins in Sylus’ forearms—he discarded his jacket and rolled his sleeves to the crooks of his elbows a little while ago. Unwound his tie and undid the first two buttons of his shirt, his waistcoat wrapped snugly around his torso.

Gods bless his tailor for their precise and patient hands, yet curse them for being so meticulous. 

The sun swathes Sylus’ silhouette in its ethereal glow, its rays pouring through the ceiling-high windows of his study whilst it seeks refuge behind the horizon. 

He’s something like an angel in this light. Someone untouchable. And if he knew you were comparing him, of all people, to something ethereal, he would have you turned into a saddle. 

You lapse into the disorder of your thoughts as your charge works quietly, face impassive, yet your hands wrench tight at your back.

You don’t deserve his affection, what with the grime caked beneath your nails and the scars littering your body. His Majesty should court someone as beautiful as he is. Someone who will bring honor to his kingdom, who will help him rebuild and unite a world torn asunder by darkness. Not you, a commoner. His sword. Someone “noble” by association and not by the blood coursing through your veins. 

As if sensing your inner turmoil, Sylus sighs, fetching another stack of documents. He pierces through your ruminations again with that smoky voice fringed with amusement.  

“How long do you intend to stand there gawking at me like that?” 

He levels you with those brilliant eyes, pilfering the air from your lungs. His lips curve into a challenging smirk, chin resting on his palm like you’re the most intriguing thing.

You stiffen, cursing your wandering eyes, throat constricting. “I’m not. I mean, I-I wasn’t, Majesty—”

“And how do you expect me to focus with you so far away?” he interjects with a raised brow. 

“Huh?” 

“Sit,” Sylus beckons, motioning to the crimson, velvet settee beside his desk like it’s the most natural thing in the world to invite the staff into the most intimate bits of his world.

You swallow. No good will come from this. It never does. You were already so dangerously close to losing your composure earlier. 

“I shouldn’t—”

“Sit.” 

And there it is—that tone which leaves no room for argument. A command layered beneath a friendly coaxing. You have no choice but to obey.

You pad to your king’s side after he shows no signs of letting up. Sighing defeatedly, you fall onto the cushions, folding your hands together in your lap, spine stiff as steel. This is also routine between the pair of you.

He’s always had something against you standing guard at his door, like that isn’t your sole purpose. So you’re often held captive while he works, still as the paperweight on his desk. 

It most certainly has nothing to do with him being irrevocably taken by you.

You puff out your cheeks, eyes skittering every which way but on your wayward king. You feel his gaze drilling into the side of your head. Feel him shamelessly staring at you through your periphery, and it takes all of you not to shrink into yourself.

Fine. If a staring contest is what His Majesty wants…

You throw caution to the wind, fixing him with your own stare. His lashes flutter behind his lenses, eyes wrinkled at the corners. And then he smiles, a disarming, boyish thing boasting those perfect teeth, those canines. 

Wordlessly, he drags the settee closer by one of its legs, then squeezes your rigid hands settled on your thighs, his hand big enough to engulf them. So pleasantly warm and roughened from years of wielding a blade. 

You tense, your breath lodged in your throat, heart jackhammering in your ears.

Hot. 

Terribly so. 

He always is. The action alone is enough to make you lightheaded, whilst his thumb makes slow expeditions over your knuckles.

“Now I can focus,” he says. Couples it with a deep chuckle as you sputter, the sound of it vibrating your spine. He then retracts his hand to take up his pen with renewed vigor. Like you are his battery pack, recharging him with a simple brush of skin. 

You silently simmer, a ghostly pout descending onto your lips. You’re bereft of the loss of contact, but what for? This is nothing new, the fleeting touches and stolen glances. So, what’s got you so out of sorts today?

Though your nerves flare from the proximity, you’re thankful for it. From this angle, you get to see all of him. Greedily take in the sight before you—this work of art. Temptation forged by the gods. 

His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. The scent of him overhauls your senses. Biceps ripple beneath his snug, silken dress shirt, tendons in his neck jumping enticingly. 

You battle a sudden inclination to kiss his throat, saliva puddling in your mouth. You wonder what pretty sounds you can emit from him. If you can turn him to mush the same way he does to you each day. But as if tuned to your less than savory thoughts, your shoulder pulses, quietly reminding you of your place—that you’re his prey. 

Silly woman, you chastise, shaking your head. What in the world are you thinking about? Where did these primal thoughts suddenly come from?

You sit like this in silent contemplation for a beat, transfixed on every twitch of his muscles. The scribbling of his pen is the only sound exchanged between you. You pick at your nails, feeling obligated to fill the stillness. 

It’s strange—you’ve known each other for decades, yet it’s become nearly impossible to speak comfortably with him these days. What, with him growing more bold with his affections, and you slowly whittled down by them. 

“Are you—”

“Do you—”

Scarlet eyes flit to yours over the layering of your voices. 

Sylus huffs a soft laugh, leaning back in his seat. Your lips quirk the slightest, butterflies skittering about in your stomach. You’re beaming inside, because who else gets this level of attention like you?

“Apologies,” he says, turning to give you his full undivided attention. “What were you about to say?”

“Ah, nothing. Um, what were you going to say, Majesty?” 

Suddenly, the onyx buttons of your uniform are so very fascinating, warmth flooding your skin as you toy with them.

“Do you have plans for the long weekend?” 

You perk up. Find it hard to meet his gaze, but you admit, “Not really.”

“Really.” He taps his chin thoughtfully.

“Yes, Majesty.”

“You are free from your duties tomorrow, yes?” There’s a hint of a pout in his voice. How dare you do anything but be at his beck and call. 

You nod in confirmation. Honestly, you need it, what with you working tiring hours as a glorified babysitter. You care deeply for your king. However, keeping up with him and his wayward spirit is taxing on its own. Couple this with your unchecked feelings for him, and you have quite an exhaustive cocktail.

Your only warning is the rustling of paper.

Suddenly, the couch dips beside you. He’s moved faster than you can process, a blur of white and black. No doubt a product of his inhuman strength.

He swaddles you in his overwhelming heat and commanding presence. A gasp rends itself from your throat. Your knees bump, thighs graze. He is comfortably close, and it’s become much too hot again. You feel restricted by your uniform. Has it always had this many layers?

Your king looks to you with impish delight. Drapes an arm across the backrest, closing in until your skin prickles from the static charge. “Will you be accompanying me, then?”

You reel back, spine colliding with the chair’s arm. “Accompanying you? Where?” 

Impatience meddles with his voice as his face falls. He leans away, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I assumed your superior would’ve informed you of tomorrow’s excursion.”

The mere mention of your commander causes your brow to twitch. “He hasn’t told me a thing, Majesty.”

With an exhausted sigh, Sylus forges onward. “Well,” he begins, leaning forward with his elbows pressed into his powerful thighs. “There is a bazaar in town. On the outskirts of the citadel.” 

He scans your features to gauge your reaction. Searches for any opposition. You urge him forward with inquisitive brows.

“I planned to go…browse.” Sylus wets his lips, looking elsewhere, an incredulous laugh in his throat. 

Had he been anyone but your king, you might’ve mistaken his sudden shift in demeanor for bashfulness. Since when has he been uneasy about buying cheap trinkets?

“Your commander was more than enthusiastic about joining me. I figured he would’ve invited you as well.”

A pang strikes your chest, searing like white lightning. 

And here you thought you were all friends. 

Though you’re never too keen on the idea of His Majesty leaving the citadel alone, you also know that he prefers to travel discreetly. A ring of bodyguards and staff looming around would only draw attention. Besides, it isn’t too often that he gets to leave the castle without some official business tacked onto it. 

And Caleb is more than capable of fending off any attempts on your king’s life, the cocky bastard. 

“I wouldn’t want to impede, Majesty,” you say haughtily. The offer had slipped Caleb’s mind, and you feel bad for directing your ire to your king.

“I want you to come,” he insists, patting your hands, a disarming lilt to his voice. “That is, if you would like to join us.” 

You sigh, lips twitching into a small smile. Try as you might, you’ve never been able to resist him like this. “I would love to, Your Majesty.”

The tight line of his shoulders loosens, and he’s yet to let go of your hands. The air shifts when his eyes find yours again, and the world grows fuzzy and muddled around you. 

 “Might I make one final request since you seem to be feeling generous today?”

You nod, tuned to his every movement. “Don’t push it. But, of course, Majesty.”

Without warning, your hair waterfalls onto your shoulders, spilling from the crude bun you had fashioned it into after he had so graciously stolen your mother’s hairpin earlier.

You stammer, an astonished look taking up residence on your features.

He’s done it again.

Sylus’ expression melds into one of endearment. He beholds you with boyish fascination, engraining every spasm of your lips selfishly into his memory. 

“I prefer you like this,” he whispers, breath wafting across your molten cheeks, followed by the cautious scrawl of the backs of his fingers. “You should wear your hair down more often. It’s pretty.”

You can’t help the warmth that wades over you at his request. Your heart swells with something indescribable. He always knows how to disorient you with his satiny, manipulative words.

You resist a whimper whilst Sylus slides his knuckles across your face towards your temple, twining one of your locks around his finger, and gently pulling. He wears that look again—the one he dons before trying to kiss you. Lovedrunk and mesmerized, utterly taken.

Something in your slowly frays. Finally. Maybe you will let him get away with it this time. 

Your tongue darts from betwixt your quivering lips to dampen them. Eyes half-slit. You glance at his mouth, watching with bated breath as it pans in.

To hell with it, you resign as his fingers creep like spindly spider legs around the nape of your neck. He threads them in your tresses, drawing you closer into him. 

To hell with being his bodyguard. To hell with his monarchy and your feeling like the lowest on the totem pole. 

You’re hyperaware of his mouth so close, your breaths fusing, mind reeling. 

If not for the door thrown open noisily behind you, you might’ve finally let your king have his way—might’ve finally succumbed to your own desires.

Sadly, the universe has its uncanny way of reminding you of your place.

“Your Majesty,” says a timid voice from the study’s doorframe. “It’s almost time for your meeting with your council.”

Impeccable timing, indeed.

—

One month later, his clinginess starts to make sense as you shackle your king’s neck with a rusted, abused collar. You can count on one hand how often you’ve had to do this in the past year. 

You step back after sliding your fingers over the stubble on his cheeks. His eyes harbor a deep sadness despite the smirk on his face, baring a pointed canine. 

“What? No muzzle this time?”

You scoff, kneeling before him, defiantly peering into his slitted eyes, a harsh forefinger pressed between his bare pectorals. “If you keep talking, I’ll have one of the twins fetch it from the car.”

He chuckles at your brazenness. Leave it to him to try to lighten the mood in an atmosphere rife with tension. Thick with urgency, sweat, and fear. He tests the cuffs around his wrists and ankles, ensuring they won’t give too much when they’re put to the test later.

As if on autopilot, you reach out to ease sweat-slicked hair from his forehead, and he pauses, those brilliantly devastating eyes drinking you in. 

He swallows, studying the ground. For the first time in a long time, you’ve seen true fear stain your king’s visage. 

“One day, I won’t leave this cage as the man you know and love.”

You scoff, masking your anxiety as you placatingly pat his thigh. You stand, swiping his coat on the way up, dust speckling its sleeves. You have to be strong. You’re slowly falling apart at the seams but must remain fearless. He needs all the strength you can lend him right now.

You give him a quick look, a brief upward pull of your lips, before turning away from your king, the cage’s heavy door squealing shut behind you. You err in your steps when he calls your name. Slightly tilt your chin over your shoulder, stricken with something cold.

“When that day comes, I expect you to uphold your end of the bargain,” he says, his voice like a death toll in the mildew-laden prison.

Your grip on his coat tightens, jaw set in a terse line. “That day will never come,” you murmur, more to yourself than him. Your chest swelling with emotions, you hurry up the sandy stairs towards the structure’s entrance. 

The twins address you with curt nods as you pass them on your way to the car. Night and soaring evergreens stretch overhead like a yawning beast. The moon peers through the treetops, sluggishly cresting its way to the center of the sky, deceptively innocent despite the treachery it heralds.

You sling His Majesty’s coat across the vehicle’s backseat. Stiffen when a familiar glint of oxidized silver catches your sight from behind his breast pocket. You grit your teeth, leaning your back against the car door to grant yourself a moment of respite.

“How do you stand this, watching him endure this pain? Does it ever get any easier?” you recall Tara asking, her eyes glossing over with a thin film of tears as she squeezed your hands and bit her lips.

She was still fresh to this lifestyle. To this harrowing secret lurking beneath the kingdom of Insomnia. You couldn’t blame her for being scared witless. No one wanted to see the king in pain. Only a handful of people knew of his true nature. The beast that gnarled beneath his skin and rearranged his bones into the structure of something inhuman. 

It never does, you think, pushing off from the car and slamming the door shut. 

Your boots crunch soundly over dead grass and splintered twigs as you make your way back to the twins. You squeeze Kieran’s shoulder reassuringly, giving him a tight-lipped smile. He nods, his somberness hidden beneath the gaudy beak of his mask. 

It never gets easier, hearing him scream like that. Bloodcurdling and raw, reminiscent of a demon clawing its way from the hells. Hearing him call to you in a voice so broken, you feel its talons sinking into your heart. You’ve just grown more skilled at hiding your pain. Holding back your tears. Tearing yourself apart for not being able to stave off an invisible force that’s plagued his family’s bloodline since bearing a crown.

What good are you if you can’t protect your liege from himself?