Rhys woke as sunlight brushed his cheek, warm and soft. White hair spilled across the pillow like fallen silk, and he let out a quiet yawn, pale ice-blue eyes slowly adjusting to the light.
Something felt… wrong.
The bed was too hard. Narrow. Not his.
And then he felt it.
An arm—strong, careful—rested around his waist.
Rhys froze.
Slowly, heart beginning to thud, he turned.
He found himself staring at a face far too close to be unfamiliar. Handsome didn't even begin to cover it. A jawline so sharp it looked as though an artist had carved it from stone. A straight, noble nose. Long dark hair fanned around the pillow, framing features that were calm even in sleep.
The man's eyes were closed—but Rhys was certain they were beautiful.
His breath caught.
This wasn't his chamber.
This wasn't his bed.
And this was definitely not his doing.
Rhys's gaze drifted down, taking in the rise and fall of the man's chest, the steady rhythm of breathing. The arm around him tightened just slightly, instinctive rather than possessive—as if the body moved before the mind woke.
Protective.
Rhys swallowed.
Memories crept back in fragments: the banquet, the music, the taste of wine too sweet on his tongue. A strange heaviness. Darkness closing in.
Drugged.
His fingers curled into the blanket. Slowly—so slowly—he tried to shift away.
The arm around him stilled.
Then a low voice, rough with sleep, murmured near his ear.
"Don't move."
Rhys stiffened completely.
The arm loosened at once, pulling back as though burned.
The man's eyes opened.
Dark. Sharp. Instantly alert.
For a breath, they simply stared at one another.
Then the man pushed himself upright in a smooth, practiced motion and swung his legs over the side of the bed, turning his back to give Rhys space.
"My apologies, Your Highness," he said quietly. "You were not meant to wake yet."
Rhys sat up, clutching the blanket to his chest.
"…Connell?"
The knight froze.
Just for a moment.
Then, slower this time, he turned his head.
"Yes," he said. "I am here."
And somehow, despite everything—the confusion, the fear, the unfamiliar room—Rhys felt something settle in his chest.
Safe.
Rhys watched Connell carefully, the way one might watch a blade resting too close to bare skin. Not because he feared him—but because he didn't yet understand him.
Connell stood now, tall beside the bed, his presence filling the small chamber. He had already pulled on his shirt, movements precise, controlled. A knight's habits. His back was to Rhys again, deliberately so.
"You are in my quarters," Connell said at last. "The safest place I could take you."
Rhys's fingers tightened around the blanket.
"Why?" he asked softly.
Connell's shoulders tensed, just barely.
"You were taken ill at the banquet," he replied. "The wine was tampered with. I removed you before anyone else noticed."
Rhys frowned. "Removed me?"
"You stopped breathing for a moment," Connell said.
The words landed heavier than Rhys expected.
"I carried you," Connell added, quieter now. "There was no time to seek permission."
Rhys looked down at himself. His formal clothes were gone, replaced with a simple linen shirt—far too large, sleeves falling past his wrists. It smelled faintly of leather, steel… and something warmer. Something familiar, though he couldn't place why.
"You changed my clothes," Rhys said.
"Yes."
Connell said it plainly. No apology. No embarrassment.
"I checked for injuries," he continued. "And for poison marks. You were shaking badly. Fevered."
Rhys swallowed.
"You stayed?" he asked.
Connell hesitated.
"Yes."
Silence stretched between them.
Rhys shifted, feet brushing the floor. The stone was cold, but before he could pull back, boots scraped softly—Connell had already moved, setting his own cloak around Rhys's shoulders.
"You're still chilled," he said.
Rhys looked up at him, surprised.
Connell didn't meet his eyes.
"I kept watch," the knight went on. "All night."
Something in Rhys's chest tightened—not fear, but something warmer. Something dangerous.
"…You didn't have to," Rhys said.
Connell finally looked at him then.
"I did."
The words were simple. Absolute.
Rhys opened his mouth to say more—questions pressing at the edge of his mind—but before he could, footsteps echoed faintly down the corridor outside.
Connell's posture changed instantly.
Alert. Guarded. Predatory.
He stepped closer to Rhys without thinking, placing himself between the bed and the door.
"Stay quiet," he murmured. "Just for a moment."
Rhys nodded without hesitation.
Connell moved to the door, listening. The sounds passed. The danger—whatever it was—faded.
Only then did Connell breathe again.
When he turned back, Rhys was watching him with open curiosity.
"Connell," Rhys said gently.
"Yes, Your Highness?"
"…Thank you."
Connell bowed his head—but not deeply.
Not like a dog.
Just a man.
And for the first time, Rhys noticed something strange.
Despite waking in a stranger's bed, in a room that wasn't his own—
He wasn't afraid at all.
It was long past morning when Rhys returned to the palace.
He walked through the gates in his own clothes once more, robes neat, hair brushed back with careful fingers. His steps were unhurried. His eyes calm—too calm, perhaps, for someone who had vanished without permission.
Connell had hesitated to let him walk alone.
Rhys remembered that moment clearly: the knight standing just a little too close, jaw tight, eyes scanning every shadow as if the world itself might reach out and take him again. In the end, Connell had only stepped back when a summons arrived from the second prince—spoken sharp, impatient, unquestionable.
Connell left without making a scene.
That, too, Rhys remembered.
Now marble floors echoed beneath his boots as the palace swallowed him whole again.
"Your Highness."
Rhys looked up.
The head butler approached with measured steps, hands folded neatly in front of him, eyes already inspecting—posture, clothes, the absence of guards. Nothing escaped that gaze.
"The king has been worried since you disappeared," the man said, voice smooth but probing. "Where have you been?"
Rhys smiled.
It didn't reach his eyes.
"Worried?" he repeated softly.
The butler stiffened just slightly.
Rhys tilted his head, pale hair catching the light.
"Like my father would ever be," he said lightly. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
The butler's lips pressed into a thin line.
"Your Highness—"
"Just another way of saying I have no free will," Rhys finished, his tone calm, almost amused.
There was a pause.
Then the butler inclined his head. "The king awaits you."
Of course he does.
Rhys walked on without waiting to be led.
As he passed beneath the high arches, he felt it again—that strange awareness at his back. The absence of something solid. Something warm. Something that watched without judging.
He didn't turn.
But his fingers curled briefly at his side, as if remembering the weight of a cloak around his shoulders.
And somewhere deep within the palace walls, far from the throne room and its cold authority—
A wolf lifted his head and listened.