“Hide?” I’d asked, watching the firelight play across his aristocratic features.
His smile had been sad, his gaze fixed on the embers. “It’s easier, sometimes. To be what everyone expects rather than what you are.”
I’d shifted closer then, our shoulders nearly touching. “And what are you, Leo? When no one’s watching?”
For a heartbeat, something vulnerable had flashed in his eyes. His hand had moved, fingers brushing mine in the darkness—deliberate, questioning. The contact had sent electricity up my arm, stealing my breath.
Then shouting from the perimeter had shattered the moment. By the time we’d addressed the false alarm, the walls were back up, and Leo had maintained careful distance for days afterward.
I shake away the memory, determination settling in my chest.
Not this time. He doesn’t get to run again.
The palace at dusk is a maze of corridors and courtyards. Staff nod respectfully as I pass, but I catch their curious glances and the whispers that follow. Word travels fast in royal households, and my interest in the prince hasn’t gone unnoticed.
I find my way outside, the evening air cool against my skin as I navigate toward the heritage gardens and the meditation arch.
The gardens grow wilder as I move deeper, the manicured lawns giving way to more natural growth. Ancient trees whisperoverhead, their leaves rustling secrets in the gathering dusk. This feels more like home—more like my tribal lands where natural beauty is valued over ordered constraint.
I slow my pace as the arch comes into view, its weathered stones glowing in the last rays of sunlight. And there—a silhouette against the dying light—Leo stands with his back to me, his posture rigid even in solitude.
I halt to watch him. There’s something almost sacred about witnessing him like this, an unguarded moment stolen from the world. His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, and then his head drops forward slightly—a rare display of the weight he carries.
The vulnerability holds me captive. How often does he allow himself this fragile peace? How rarely does the prince dissolve, leaving only the man behind?
As if sensing my presence, his back straightens, his head lifting.
“Go away, Rangi.” His voice carries on the evening air, though he doesn’t turn to face me.
There’s weariness threaded beneath his command. Defeat hiding in his cadence. It’s the quiet, desperate exhaustion only someone who’s shared foxholes and firelight with him could hear.
He’s not angry.
He’s exhausted and resigned.
I take a deliberate step forward, twigs and leaves crunching beneath my boots. “No.”
His shoulders tense further. “I’m not in the mood for company.”
“Too bad,” I reply, continuing my approach. “Because I’m not in the mood to be dismissed. Even if you are my prince.”
He turns then, finally meeting my gaze. The setting sun catches in his dark eyes, turning them to amber fire. Even with frustration etched into his features, he’s devastatingly handsome.
“What do you want?” The question carries more weight than its simple words suggest.
“I can see that you’re tired of pretending your crown weighs nothing.” I stop a few paces from him, close enough to see the tension in his jaw but far enough to give him space. “Let me help. Give me the truth.”
Something flashes across his face—pain, longing, fear—before his diplomatic mask falls back into place. “You don’t understand what’s at stake.”
“Then help me understand,” I challenge, taking another step closer. “Make me understand why you kissed me like you’ve been waiting years to do it, then ran like I burned you.”
The direct reference to our kiss makes his composure slip, a flush spreading up his neck. “It was a mistake.”
“Was it?” Another step closer. “Did it really feel like a mistake to you? Cause it didn’t to me.”
He turns away, but not before I catch the conflict in his eyes. “This conversation is over.”
I move quickly then, circling to block his retreat. “No, it isn’t.”
