He dragged her out, his grip a vise that pressed directly into her wound with every step.
The pain was a bright, searing thread pulling tight up her arm.
Sweat flowing down cheeks.
On the dark, sweeping staircase, he stopped. His free hand braced against the cold stone banister. Without a word, he twisted her arm, forcing her palm upward.
The napkin was a soaked, scarlet ruin. He peeled it back, his movements unnervingly precise. Beneath, the wound was raw—a ragged, weeping line across her wrist where her own nails had bitten too deep.
"It hurts," she gasped, trying to pull away.
He didn't let go. His thumb brushed the edge of the cut, not gently, but as if testing its truth. A fresh bead of blood welled and traced a path down her pale skin.
"It should hurt," he said, his voice low, almost a growl. The controlled prince was gone; this was something sharper, more visceral. "You will not bleed so openly in my father's hall. Are you so stupid? How could you do this to yourself?"
"It was an accident," she whispered, her head bowed, her eyes locked on the stark contrast of his pale fingers against her bleeding skin.
She couldn't look at his lips, couldn't face the mask. All she could see was the damage she'd done, laid bare in his grip.
"Shut. Up," he said, the words a low command that brooked no argument.
Before Aurelia could react, he bent and scooped her up. He carried her like a child—one arm a firm band across her back, the other hooked securely beneath her thighs. The movement was so swift and effortless it stole her breath. Instinctively, her head fell against his chest. She could feel the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart through the layers of silk and velvet, a stark contrast to her own frantic pulse.
His gaze remained fixed straight ahead, down the staircase.
From this angle, tilted in his arms, she could study his face. The gold mask covered the upper half, but below it… the sharp, perfect line of his jaw, the sculpted hollow of his cheek, and his lips—pale, set in a firm, unsmiling line.
A treacherous, dizzying thought flashed through her pain-fogged mind: What if he looked down? What if he got closer? She imagined the brush of his lips, harsh and demanding, against hers—his hand cradling the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair, pressing his mouth fully against her own.
A kiss that wasn't gentle, but deep and consuming, as if he could taste her fear and her defiance and decide which one he wanted more.
The thought was so vivid, so shockingly physical, it felt less like a fantasy and more like a memory that hadn't happened yet.
But it was only a phantom, a desperate fragment spun from shock and exhaustion.
He wasn't even looking at her. He moved down the stairs with a predator's grace, silent and focused, as if she were nothing more than a troublesome burden he had chosen to relocate.
She didn't even notice when he carried her into a new room—not a healing chamber or a prison cell, but an armory.
Thud.
He dropped her unceremoniously onto a long, solid wooden table. It was low, like a wide bench or a platform for repairing gear, not a piece of proper furniture. The impact jarred up her spine.
The light from a wide, high window slammed into her, harsh and unforgiving, almost burning her eyes after the dim corridors.
Blinking against the glare, her vision cleared to take in the room. It was not just filled with weapons; it was defined by them. Swords and axes were mounted in grim rows on the walls. Arrows stood in quivers like regiments at attention. Bows of dark yew and polished horn hung from hooks. Every surface held blades: daggers, throwing knives, brutal short swords, and longer, elegant spathas. In the corners, spears and javelins stood upright, their iron tips catching the cruel light. A pilum was propped against a cabinet, its heavy, barbed head designed to pierce and bend, to be left in a shield—or a body.
It was a temple to violence. And he had placed her on its altar.
"What do you want to do to me?" Her voice was a thin thread of fear.
She scrambled backward on the table, her thoughts screaming.
He's going to kill you. Obviously. Fool, run!
He didn't even look at her. His gaze was fixed on a heavy oak cupboard, his hands moving with a desperate, focused urgency as they searched through a small wooden box—overturning vials, scattering dried herbs, seeking one specific thing.
"Please," she whispered, pushing herself toward the edge. "Please don't hurt me." Her movements were frantic, her boots scraping against the rough wood, her violet eyes wide with pure animal fear.
His search stopped. He saw it—a large, flat box of polished black wood, crafted like a slender suitcase. His hand closed around its handle with a decisive grip, and he turned, moving toward her with purpose.
Fuck. He's going to poison you. RUN.
Aurelia's mind screamed into motion a second before her body did. She scrambled off the table, legs wobbling, and then she was running—not to the door (blocked by him), but to the farthest corner of the room, where weapons lined the walls like a grim audience.
He didn't rush. He just kept coming, his boots echoing a slow, inevitable rhythm on the stone floor.
"Please don't kill me," she begged, a hot tear breaking free and tracing a path down her cheek. She pressed her back into the cold stone wall as if she could melt into it, squeezing her eyes shut tight.
She couldn't see him, but she could hear it—the measured, heavy rhythm of his steps.
Doim… doim…
The sound of his boots came closer, and closer, vibrating through the stone floor, until it stopped directly in front of her.
The air shifted, growing colder, heavier. She could feel his presence like a shadow falling over her, blocking out the harsh light from the window.
She didn't dare open her eyes.
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To be continued...