Chapter Text
Your POV
The first thing you did after getting back on your feet was to bring order to the chaos your father left behind.
The shortages had tangled the kingdom’s supply routes beyond recognition. You called in merchants and quartermasters, reviewed old ledgers, renewed contracts with western traders, and rerouted grain shipments from the central provinces to the capital. It was dull, endless work, but it kept your mind busy. Numbers were easier to handle than thoughts after all.
Your father had let go of the leash. You didn’t know what he was doing now, or if he was doing anything at all. After the hearing, there had been only silence, and that silence was far more unsettling than any threat.
You returned to your duties soon after, your hair freshly dyed to hide the white streaks that still haunted the mirror.
Sometimes, though, you caught yourself staring too long at the reflection — at the streaks that weren’t fully gone, or at the garden beyond your window, or at nothing at all. Sometimes, the weight on your chest pressed so heavily you could hardly leave your bed.
You stopped resisting those days. Resignation, you thought, was easier than rebellion. Samara said you functioned like a machine. Perhaps she was right. You no longer knew how to process what you felt, or how long it would take until you could. The palace physician kept you under close watch, and you let him, because it was simpler that way.
Nothing remarkable happened. You tried to keep moving. Not forward, not backward, just moving. Your mother visited more often now, always bringing warmth and chatter and sometimes your sister. Ruggie Bucchi, Leona’s man, was usually the one tasked to escort her. You found him odd. Too casual for a palace servant, too shrewd for a driver, but harmless.
And then, there was Leona.
If there was one thing you still hadn’t grown used to, it was him.
Safe to say, after everything, the man now stick to your hip. Not quite glued, perhaps, he was still a prince with duties that pulled him away often enough, but compared to the distance that once stretched between you, this closeness felt.. a bit weird.. for you.
You mostly saw him during dinner. Sometimes breakfast, rarely lunch. In the evenings, he would come to your chamber with tea, and the two of you would sit together, sometimes talking, sometimes simply sharing the quiet. The soft crackle of the fire and the faint rustle of night air through the curtains became the only sounds between you.
You were surprised by how easily he fell asleep. Halfway through tea, he would drift off sitting upright, head slightly tilted, his shoulders relaxed. The sight almost made you smile. At first you were worried. You tried to wake him, to ask if he wanted to rest properly, but he would always shake his head and mumble that it was only a short nap. You didn’t quite believe him, though.
The first time he dozed off mid-conversation, still holding his cup, you quietly reached out and took it before it could spill. He didn’t stir. The lines on his face softened, his breathing evened out, and for the first time in a while, he looked peaceful. You didn’t have the heart to disturb him.
His naps never lasted long. Fifteen, maybe thirty minutes. No matter how often you told him to sleep properly, on the sofa or even on your bed, he refused. Said it wasn’t worth the trouble.
You ignore the faint pink that rose to his cheeks when you offered.
It was then you remembered the old nickname from your academy days. The Lazy Lion. You’d always frowned upon hearing it, unable to picture how someone like him could earn such a name. Now you understood.
And really, could you blame him?
After everything he carried through the day, who could fault him for stealing a few quiet moments of rest?
Yet right now, you truly didn’t know how to wake him. This was the first time his nap had stretched past thirty minutes. He had completely slumped against the sofa, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, a faint snore escaping his lips. He wasn’t napping anymore, he was fast asleep. You sighed and pressed a palm to your forehead.
Thankfully, tonight you’d changed your usual seating spot for tea. Leona was half-lying on the long sofa instead of the single one. It would’ve been troublesome otherwise. You didn’t have the heart to wake him, so you decided to let him sleep after fetching a few more pillows and blankets to drown him in.
That was when the second problem arose: you had no idea where to sleep.
You couldn’t sleep beside Leona because the sofa wasn’t big enough. Also, no, thank you. Embarrassing. However, you didn’t want to go to your bed either, because it felt oddly like betraying your husband if you did.
You sighed again, palm back on your forehead.
In the end, you settled on the other long sofa across the room, the one by your reading nook, surrounded by your shelves of books. The scene was quite comical as you and your husband sleeping a mile apart from each other. You laughed at the thought before finally drifting off to sleep.
You nearly let out a scream as you jolted awake, shrinking back against the sofa. Leona’s face was right in front of yours, so close your noses almost brushed. “UWAH—!” you yelped.
Leona stared at you, squatting beside the sofa so his eyes were level with yours.
“Could you please back off a bit? You’re scaring me,” you pleaded, voice small.
He didn’t move. His gaze remained steady. “Why did you sleep here?” he asked.
You shut your mouth for a moment, caught off guard. His brow lifted in question.
“Because…” you muttered, “it felt like a betrayal to sleep in the bed.”
Leona blinked. Once. Twice. Then a laugh burst out of his chest.
You frowned, thoroughly offended.
He leaned closer, bumping his forehead against yours lightly before ruffling your hair. “You’re so adorable,” he said, voice low with amusement.
You blushed instantly.
“Next time, though,” he added, straightening, “don’t do that again. Sleep on the bed.” He pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, then stood up. “Come on, let’s have breakfast.”
You could only stare as he walked away, palm flying to your forehead for the third time this scene. Feeling the heat rising to your cheeks, smoke puffing out of your head.
“I still don’t get it,” you said, shaking your head. “Why?”
“Because it’s fun,” Ruggie answered, throwing his hands up dramatically.
“It’s not fair. It could jeopardize someone’s entire plan.”
“Yeah? And that’s the point, it’s fun!”
“And I still don’t get it.”
Ruggie groaned and dropped his head onto his arms. He’d been trying to teach you a game popular among the common folk called ‘Trick and Trade.’ It was a card-and-token game played on a small wooden board with painted squares and piles of colored chips. The goal was simple—collect the most “wealth” by the end—but each player could alter the rules whenever they completed a full round.
It was, in your opinion, utter chaos disguised as recreation.
“You’re telling me,” you said, pointing at the cards, “that if someone draws a Crow card after completing a trade, they can just… change a rule? On a whim?”
“Exactly,” Ruggie grinned. “It keeps things lively. You nobles love your fixed laws and straight lines; we prefer when the world’s got teeth.”
“That sounds like a terrible idea.”
“Your Highness,” Ruggie said with exaggerated patience, “sometimes things don’t have to be detailed or complicated. Sometimes you just have to let the fun flow.”
You tapped your chin, thinking. “So… if I want to add a rule that every time someone rolls a six, they have to forfeit half their coins to the poorest player, that’s allowed?”
Ruggie blinked. “Uh, yeah, you can do that. But also, what?! and why?! That’s sucks!”
You grinned, pleased with yourself.
From across the room came a low chuckle. Leona was seated in his reading nook, book in one hand, a pair of glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. Hair tied to a loose low ponytail.
You, Ruggie, and Leona were spending the afternoon in the prince’s private chamber. It had started as an innocent request, you’d asked Ruggie to teach you about the customs of the common folk to better understand your subjects. While your attendants had done their best, most of them were born into minor nobility; their idea of “common life” was filtered through etiquette and hearsay.
Ruggie Bucchi, on the other hand, had lived it. You’d learned as much from him and Leona both that he came from the slums, that he’d earned his way through school on scholarship, and that he’d somehow turned his wayward cleverness into the prince’s right-hand man.
The relationship between them was… curious. Somewhere between friendship and long-suffering servitude. Yet it was clear that Leona trusted him more than most of his court.
You and Leona had just finished lunch when Ruggie arrived, and you’d practically lit up at the sight of him. Leona had grumbled something about being jealous of your enthusiasm to see Ruggie than you see Leona, an accusation you’d ignored.
Now, the three of you were comfortably scattered around the chamber. You and Ruggie sat across each other, the game spread on the coffee table; Leona lounged nearby, pretending to read but clearly listening in, his quiet laughter threading between your bickering and Ruggie’s exaggerated sighs.
“By the way, Your Highness,” Ruggie said while collecting the dice for his turn, “I heard you’re organizing that big art festival in the capital.” He threw the dice; they landed on three. “May I ask why? It came out of nowhere. People are real excited about it, though.”
You rolled your dice and moved four steps forward. “Why?” You smiled, turning toward him as your piece landed on a Crow. “Because it’s fun!”
“Dang it!” Ruggie groaned. You laughed.
“You told me before,” you continued, “that people in the capital work from dawn till dusk and hardly have time for anything else. So I thought, why not give them a few days to breathe? Let them paint, dance, make music, and eat until they can’t move. We’ll have street murals, poetry contests, night lanterns, even a contest for whoever can shout the loudest song.” You grinned at Ruggie’s face. “Apparently, that one’s your people’s favorite.”
Ruggie blinked. “Wait, you mean you’re really gonna let people paint on the palace walls?”
You shrugged innocently. “Not the palace walls. The outer ones. They could use a little color.”
Ruggie’s jaw dropped, and you could already hear Leona chuckle from his seat by the window.
“And I heard there’ll be food stalls too,” Ruggie said slowly, as if testing fate. “With free food?”
“Not free,” you corrected. “But the palace will fund the first round for anyone who joins the performances. So if someone sings or dances, they eat for free.”
Ruggie blinked at you again, completely starstruck. “Princess?”
“Yes?”
“If you ever get divorced from Boss Leona, would you come to me first? I don’t have much, but I’ll take good care of you and—”
He didn’t get to finish before a book hit him square on the head.
“That was mean, Boss,” Ruggie complained, rubbing his scalp.
You laughed.
Leona rose from his seat and walked over. “I think it’s time to conclude this meeting.”
“What? I almost won!” Ruggie protested.
“In what way are you ‘almost winning,’ exactly?” you chirped.
“You have somewhere to be, Ruggie,” Leona said, glancing down at him.
Ruggie sighed dramatically. “Fine, fine.” Then, looking at the board, he added, “Anyway, that’s three wins and one loss, right, Your Highness?”
“Yes. But I’ll definitely win more next time now that I understand the rules.”
“Can I change the winning tokens into real-life money?” he teased, holding out his hand. “I’d be happy to accept my royal reward—”
Leona slapped his hand away. “Get out, scammer.”
Ruggie groaned. “Ugh, you’re a money blocker, Boss!”
He stomped toward the door, still muttering, though he paused long enough to bow to you first—because even annoyed, he was still a polite little menace.
A laugh escaped you. “He’s such a lively fella.”
Leona just shrugged.
A yawn slipped out before you could hide it. The meal and the game had done their work.
“You sleepy?” Leona asked.
“Yes, a bit,” you admitted, covering your mouth.
“Then go take a nap in my room.”
Your eyes snapped open so fast the fatigue evaporated on the spot. Excuse me?
“W–what?”
Leona tilted his head, amused. “You heard me. Come on.”
You stared, certain your brain was still catching up. His room? You wanted to refuse, but the words tangled somewhere in your throat. Somehow, your silence must’ve sounded like agreement because Leona had already started walking.
“Here,” he said over his shoulder, “follow me.”
You followed, half out of politeness, half out of sheer confusion. The staircase connecting your chambers curved softly, the golden railings gleaming in the afternoon light. Leona’s quarters were in the opposite wing from yours, identical in layout, but the atmosphere was unmistakably his.
The scent of cedar and sun-warmed linen lingered in the air. His study desk was scattered with reports and sealed letters, yet his sitting area looked well-lived in, with a worn chessboard left mid-game and a blanket draped over the armchair. You could almost trace his habits just by looking — where he read, where he napped, where he thought too long.
“You can sleep here,” Leona said simply, gesturing toward the bed.
“Oh. Right. Okay.” You climbed onto the bed without realizing how automatic you’d become, still half-dazed. The sheets were soft, warmer than yours, carrying a faint trace of his cologne. You didn’t even remember when he tucked the blanket over you or when he leaned down to press a kiss to your temple.
“Sleep well,” he murmured, brushing your hair back before straightening up.
And just like that, he left the room.
You lay there, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. The silence pressed in around you. Heavy, warm, and far too intimate.
Safe to say, you did not get a single minute of sleep until dinner that day.
The grand hall shimmered under the glow of a thousand glass lamps. The air was laced with perfume and the low hum of laughter. Music drifted from the orchestra pit, bright and elegant, carrying both celebration and quiet judgment in its notes.
It was meant to be a joyous night. The opening of the festival—your festival—had drawn nobles from every corner of the realm. Silks moved softly as people passed, jewels caught the light, and the banners of each province hung in their stately rows across the vaulted ceiling.
High Lord Kais Ashmane and Lesser Lord Aziel of Kamari stood near the central dais, speaking in low tones. Their presence gave the room a certain gravity, though you still felt the occasional glance turning your way. Not just theirs, but everyone’s. You and Leona stood at the quiet center of it all, the unspoken focus of the hall’s attention.
It had become something of a quiet pastime for the court, watching the royal couple.
You caught pieces of their whispers as you moved through the crowd: how close the two of you had grown, how rare it was to see the Prince smile, how strangely gentle he had become. Every word carried a mixture of awe and disbelief.
You smiled with grace, pretending not to hear.
Leona stood across the hall, drawn into conversation with the Minister of Finance. The light from the chandeliers touched the sharp lines of his face, turning his usual indifference into something almost regal. You watched him for a moment, the ease in his stance, the faint distance in his eyes, before a familiar voice called your attention away.
“Your Highness.”
High Lord Diallo approached, a glass of pale wine in his hand. His tone was pleasant, but his gaze, as always, seemed to search for something beneath the surface.
“High Lord Diallo,” you greeted, offering a polite smile. “It’s been some time. I trust the festival arrangements have met your expectations?”
He laughed quietly. “More than that. You’ve managed to charm half the capital with this spectacle. The commoners are already calling it the season of light. Rather poetic, don’t you think?”
You smiled again, before his next words dimmed it.
“And yet, I think your success has stirred another kind of curiosity.”
“Oh?” You tilted your head, keeping your tone light.
He turned the wine in his glass, his eyes drifting toward Leona. “They say the Prince has changed. That you’ve softened him. Odd, isn’t it? The man who used to avoid every gathering now seems perfectly content to stand beside you.”
There was no hostility in his voice — only calm interest, though it still found a way to unsettle you.
“People wonder,” he went on, quieter now, “what caused the change. Love, perhaps? Or convenience? You know how the court enjoys its stories.”
You let out a soft laugh, easy and practiced. “And what do you believe, my lord?”
Diallo’s lips curved slightly, though it was not quite a smile. “I believe hearts don’t change without reason. And reason, in our world, is rarely free of motive.”
You found no answer. The orchestra swelled behind you, covering the steady, uncertain beat of your heart.
He bow his head politely. “Don’t mistake my words, Your Highness. I’m glad to see you both at peace. I only hope the peace is… mutual.”
He left you then, disappearing into the crowd. The chandelier’s light above you flickered, gold shifting into shadow.
Your eyes returned to Leona. He was still speaking with the ministers, composed and unreadable. When his gaze met yours across the room, he gave a small nod. Simple, familiar, yet after Diallo’s words, you couldn’t tell if it was affection or performance.
The music shifted, the crowd applauded, and you smiled again.
But somewhere beneath it, something small and certain had begun to give way.
It is one of those days again — when you can’t find the strength to get out of bed.
It’s really easy to drag you down, it seems. Lord Diallo’s words have been replaying in your mind since last night, and you’ve barely had a glimpse of sleep through your insomnia.
You’ve been sitting in your bed unmoving for the last thirty minutes. It’s still dark outside, and you’re counting the minutes until that person comes. For now, you just sit in silence.
You received word from your mother saying that she’ll visit you the day after tomorrow. You wonder if you should be the one to come to her instead, considering how often she makes the effort. You’re supposed to respect your elders, after all.
You also wonder how your father has been faring. You’re not sure if what you feel counts as worry or just curiosity. Since your medication, you’ve been trying to process what’s in your heart regarding everything, including him. And yet, you still have no clear idea what you feel about him, or what he is to you.
You’ve long since accepted that your father only sees you as a chess piece. Perhaps the closest thing you feel toward him is duty.
The clock in your room ticks as it hits 3 a.m., and you hear the door creak open.
Leona’s figure comes into the dim light as he approaches your bed, wearing a dark robe with gold threads embroidered across the edges, his hair slightly tousled, his eyes heavy with sleep.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?” he asks.
You don’t answer for a minute. You just stare at him in silence, your surroundings still and heavy. The faint scent of lavender from last night’s tea, the curtain half-drawn against the night air, the flicker of candlelight stretching shadows along the floor.
“Why are you here?” you ask back instead.
“Checking if you’re asleep or not.”
Deep down, you already know why. This isn’t the first, or even the second time he’s done this. In fact, Leona has been following this same routine ever since the first day of your medication, when he learned from the doctor that you were struggling to sleep and prescribed you sleeping pills to help.
You had no idea at first. You’d always fall asleep instantly from the pills and wouldn’t wake until morning. But over time, the doctor decided you no longer needed them, saying you could sleep properly on your own now.
And in those earlier days, when complete darkness consumed you, you could faintly feel Leona’s presence at 3 a.m., never missed, lingering by your bedside for a few minutes before he disappeared back into the night.
He had stopped doing that once you recovered, so this visit was new.
“You seemed a bit troubled when we left the party,” he said. “I wanted to check if you were sleeping.”
Leona means well, you know that. After knowing him for so long, you’ve learned to pick up the signs, to decipher his words better than anyone else could. What he said just now means he’s worried.
But you can’t help being irritated. Maybe it’s the fatigue, maybe it’s the stress, but you’re not in the mood for his nonsense tonight.
Was it really so hard to just say he’s worried? To use words that are a bit warmer, a bit kinder? Was it really that difficult? He never seems to struggle when talking to other aristocrats or delegates, managing conversations so easily, charming even. Why can’t he do that with you?
Leona must sense your displeasure as he steps closer to the bed. You roll your eyes and tug at your blanket, adjusting it without looking at him.
“I don’t need you to do that. Stop it.”
“Why? If you can’t sleep maybe you—”
“Because I don’t like it! Stop! Must there always need to be a reason for everything?!”
You were taken aback by your own voice as fast as you blurted out your outburst.
You stare at Leona in shock, who’s mirroring your expression all the same.
Under normal circumstances, you would never raise your voice to him. But maybe you’ve spent too much time with him lately, and your guard has slipped. A mistake, you think. You shouldn’t have done that.
You’re conflicted, part of you wants to yell at him, another wants to shrink away. Yet you have no strength left for either. You can’t even bring yourself to wear your perfect mask again. Instead, you duck your head and grab at your hair in frustration.
You don’t even apologize, though you normally would in a heartbeat. You just sit there, quietly seething, feeling small.
The bed creaks softly as Leona sits at the edge, far from you, careful not to crowd you. You assume he’s trying not to overwhelmed you even more.
He says nothing, but you can feel his hand quietly reaching for your foot, gently rubbing small circles against your heel.
You don’t realize you’re crying until you hear yourself. Small, trembling sounds that escape between your breaths. Leona moves closer, his hand now brushing your back, slow and quiet.
You can’t appreciate any of it. You’re too overwhelmed to even register what he’s doing. Too tired.
It’s ironic, you think. How the source of your misery could also be your only comfort.
Leona…
You have no idea what to feel toward him anymore, or how you should act around him moving forward. You keep reminding yourself that he’s your husband, that you’re bound to him for life. That love isn’t necessary in marriage; as long as the politics are balanced, as long as you both function as partners, it should be fine.
And yet, you can’t shake it, the way you feel when he’s near. You love him. You came to terms with that long ago.
Maybe that’s why it hurts so much.
Because you love him. And because you expected more.
You hate him for it too. For all the misery he caused, for leaving you to fare alone, for giving you hope only to crush it underfoot.
He’s a bad mate. You know that.
A bad mate who always leaves you alone.
Yet you still crave his presence. The quiet moments when you read together, the warmth of his arms, the gentle touch of his hand at your waist when you walk side by side in public.
Even now, you still want him near.
Leona is a man of few words.
After that one day, the day he declared his love and devotion, he never mentioned it again. Not once.
He did show you more affection, more effort, spent more time with you. But you still had no clue if that was truly love. You needed more than just that.
From this man who lived like a statue, you needed a declaration.
You needed words.
You needed reassurance. Affirmation. Validation. Just to ease your throbbing heart.
“You’re mean!” In between your sobs, you smack his thigh. “Arrogant! Rude! Insensitive!” You emphasize each word with another smack. “Bad with words! Bad mate!”
If Leona felt pain, he didn’t show it. Instead, he leaned closer and wrapped you in his arms, resting his head on your shoulder as he gently stroked your hair.
“Always leave me alone,” you cried. “You’ll leave me alone again after this. Like you always do.”
“I won’t leave you alone,” Leona replied.
“Lies!” you almost shouted. Leona only held you tighter, burying his face against your neck.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m really sorry for everything I did to you.”
You tried your best to wipe the tears and snot from your face with the blanket, your body trembling as you tried to calm yourself down. Leona kept holding you, whispering soft apologies into your hair.
After a few minutes, the storm of your crying eased, leaving only silence.
“You told me you love me,” you said meekly. Your voice hoarse and fragile, barely audible even to yourself.
“I have trouble seeing your love.”
Leona slowly pulled back, his face unreadable.
“‘Let me love you the way I have,’ you said,” you continued, shaking your head. “I didn’t see it.”
Maybe you’ve become too greedy. You know you should’ve been more grateful. Leona has already given you more affection than most could hope for in a political marriage. You’ve heard stories from your elders, how other royal couples lived worse, some barely seeing each other for years.
But is it a sin to want?
To desire to see your husband, your supposed mate, truly love you?
Questions spilled from your lips, one after another, your voice trembling as you poured your heart out. Leona said nothing, just listened. Quietly, attentively.
And somewhere between your rambling, you realized what you were actually feeling: fear.
You were scared, terrified, that all of these tender things he’s been doing would fade once he grew bored of you.
You were scared that his sudden flood of affection would dry up as quickly as it came, leaving you stranded again in the cold.
You were scared of losing him, of losing the illusion of love you’d finally learned to rely on.
And you knew you would be even more devastated when that day came. After tasting how sweet his love could be.
Better he leave you alone for eternity than let you hope again.
You realized then. You doubted his love.
You doubted his love just as High Lord Diallo, and all the other aristocrats, did.
Leona cupped your face and gently wiped away the tears still clinging to your cheeks. He made you look into his eyes, and for a moment, you were left speechless, struck by how soft and warm they seemed.
“I love you,” he said.
“So you’ve said.” You pouted, your lips trembling, but even at your weakest you still had a bit of strength left to be a brat.
“I love you so much,” he chuckled softly, unable to resist your defiance. “I’ve loved you ever since I first laid eyes on you in the meadow.”
You had no idea what he meant by ‘the meadow,’ but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, not when Leona began peppering kisses all over your face between his confessions.
“I love your eyes,” he murmured, kissing your eyelids. “I love how they shine under the sunlight. I love seeing them open for the first time every morning.”
He kissed your nose. “I love your nose. It’s so small and soft. Did you know you pinch it whenever you’re nervous?”
“Huh?” you mumbled, half-flustered.
“I love your cheeks,” he said next, kissing both of them. “You always store food in them when you eat dessert, when you think no one’s watching. You look adorable. Like a squirrel.”
Your cheeks burned in embarrassment. “That, I—”
Your words were cut short when he sealed your lips with a kiss.
You froze. Shocked to feel the warmth of his mouth against yours. It took you a few seconds to process what had happened, to finally return the kiss.
It was sweet. So sweet. His lips were soft, moving so gently. He caught your lower lip between his teeth, biting just enough to make you gasp, and when you did, he deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing against yours in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
This kiss was different.
It wasn’t like the ones you’d shared before. Not like that first night when you became husband and wife, when everything had been stiff, mechanical, and cold.
This one felt warm. Real. Like Leona was trying to speak through his kiss, to show you the love he could never seem to say.
Or maybe he’s always kissed this way, you realized.
And you just never noticed because of your complicated heart.
By the time he pulled away, you were already lightheaded, dizzy from the warmth of his mouth and the rush in your chest. A thin string of spit lingered between you both.
“And I love your mouth,” he murmured, voice low. “I love your lips. I love you every time you speak. I love your smile, the way it twitches whenever you hear something that displeases you.”
His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, then traced the curve of your bottom lip. “I love it when it spills out sweet words that leave me giddy.”
He leaned in again and gently bit your lower lip, pulling another quiet sigh from you.
“I love how sweet you taste,” he whispered against your skin. “You have no idea how many nights I’ve dreamt of it, ever since the first time I kissed you on our wedding day.”
His words made you hiccup softly, caught somewhere between laughter and tears. Leona chuckled too, the sound low and warm in his chest as your forehead rested against him. You felt his hand on your shoulder, a gentle nudge, as if he meant to help you sit up, to steady you, to end it there.
But no. Not yet.
Not when your heart was pounding so loud it drowned out every thought but one.
Don’t leave it like this.
You reached out and grabbed his robe, tugging him closer. “More,” you breathed, your voice trembling. “Tell me you love me. More.”
Leona stilled. His pupils blown wide, his breath hitching with surprise and something darker.
Then, with your plea hanging between you like a spark waiting to ignite, he leaned in again, and captured your mouth in another kiss.
This one was deeper. Rougher. As though he meant to pour every unspoken word, every silent promise, straight into you.
The world seemed to narrow to the rhythm of his breath against your lips, the faint brush of his thumb beneath your chin as he tilted your face toward him. His kiss deepened gradually, a pull and a give, a wordless conversation of warmth and promise. You could taste the quiet things he never said, feel them spill through the way he lingered—gentle, reverent, as if afraid you might vanish if he let go too soon.
You pull Leona's robe, inviting him to draw closer as you lay yourself on the bed. With a graceful motion, he settles on top of you, his vibrant green eyes locked on yours. The lingering kiss ignites a deep intensity between you, an unspoken promise of pleasure to come.
His mouth traces a path down your neck, gentle yet fierce. "I wonder why you don't really like adorning your neck with jewelry," he whispers, "was it too suffocating, darling?" With each word, his teeth lightly graze the sensitive skin near your neck, awaking sensations you thought dormant.
Your breath catches as his teeth barely graze the sensitive scent glands at the corner of your neck, the fluttering sensation sending waves of desire coursing through you. You let out a low, guttural moan, a sound that escapes from the depths of your being, as Leona's tongue slowly, deliberately licks the spot, a mocking, sensual exploration that only intensifies your yearning.
His ability to read you, to know exactly how to tease and tantalize until you're breathless, both infuriates and enthralls you. "It is fine, as your neck is already dazzling even without anything in it," he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear, the vibration of his voice sending shivers down your spine.
His hands deftly begin to untie the delicate strings of your nightgown, peeling back the fabric to expose your bare skin. You wear nothing underneath your gown except your underwear, your breast fully on view. Leona’s pupil dilated as he resume his peppering kisses. Each inch of skin revealed is met with a new rush of his lips, as he takes his time, savoring each moment. His breath is hot against your chest.
"You are exquisite," he whispers, his voice barely audible, as if he's in awe. "Every part of you is art." His fingers trace the outline of your curves, before dipping lower to feel the softness of your skin. He consults you, "May I?"
As you nod, your breathing shallow and ragged, his hands delve deeper, pushing the silhouetted fabric aside. Each inch of uncovered skin is met with the gentle press of his lips, mapping you with the fervor of a lover rediscovering a long-lost treasure.
His movements are slow, deliberate, as if he knows just how long to linger before moving on. He explores every inch of your body, leaving trails of warmth and tingling awareness. Every touch is meticulous, every kiss meant to send you spiraling. He takes his time, painting a map of your reactions, making you ache with want and yearning.
"Leona…" you gasp, your body arching towards him.
“I love your hands.” He kissed your knuckles, then the base of your thumb. “They’re so small, but always moving, fidgeting when you think, tapping when you’re impatient.”
Another kiss, softer this time, to your wrist. “You always warm your tea with them before taking a sip. You trace the rim of your cup when you’re nervous. Another habit of yours.” He smiled against your skin.
Leona's eyes sparkle with a mischievous glint, and before you can even ask what he's thinking, he gently takes your finger into his mouth, his tongue expertly lapping and sucking. The sensation, though meant to be less erotic than his earlier attentions, leaves you breathless.
“You taste so sweet,” he murmurs, releasing your finger. His large hands move to spread your legs apart, revealing your clothed vagina for his admiration. He sighs deeply, savoring the damp spot you've left on your panties from his earlier teasing. “You smell so good,” he growls, peppering kisses down your legs. “And I love you so much!”
You should feel a bit embarrassed, and you do, but Leona doesn't let you linger on those thoughts. He begins to lap at your clothed slit, and you can't help but shriek, "Oh my god!"
At your reaction, Leona deepens his kiss, pushing his mouth closer to your opening. He laps at you through the fabric of your underwear, his eyes never leaving yours, a smoldering intensity burning in their depths. The sensation is almost too much, and you can feel your body responding in ways you never imagined.
You grab the sheet and bite your lip, trying to muffle your moans, but Leona has other plans. He removes your underwear completely, his movements fluid and purposeful. Returning his mouth to your most intimate place, he takes his time, exploring every inch with a skill that leaves you breathless. You let out a high-pitched moan, shifting your hands to grab his hair, pulling him closer as if afraid he might stop. Leona's arms hold your legs down, keeping you in place as you writhe beneath his skilled touch, your body betraying your attempts at restraint.
“Leona, stop, please,” you plead, shaking your head. You feel like you might burst at any moment if he doesn't stop. The intensity is overwhelming, and you're not sure if you can handle it.
He responds by pushing his tongue even deeper, and you lose yourself in the sensation. You're not sure if it's because you've never been teased this way before or because Leona is so experienced, but his touch feels incredible. You decide to push any second thoughts aside and just enjoy the moment. You can analyze it and be jealous later.
A white light fills your vision as you come undone. Your legs spasm in Leona's hold as he eagerly swallows every drop, his tongue never ceasing its relentless assault. Droll nearly escapes your lips from the ecstasy you're feeling, your body trembling with the force of your release.
You feel a brief relief when Leona releases his hold on your lower lips. Your body still shakes from the intensity of your orgasm, every nerve ending tingling with residual pleasure.
Leona doesn't waste any time as he begins to undress. Even in the dim light, you can see the huge tent in his trousers, leaving you both nervous and excited. Pre-cum drips from his shaft as he positions himself between your legs. You welcome him eagerly, wrapping your legs around his hips and interlocking your ankles, pulling him closer, wanting to feel him fully.
You both let out a huge moan when Leona slowly sinks into you. Even with the earlier foreplay, you struggle to accommodate his size. Your hips meet with restraint, a dance of give and take as you both adjust to the sensation. After a few more thrusts, you feel him bottom out. Even before he starts moving, you feel so close to another orgasm just from the feel of his penis. His tip angles perfectly on your most sensitive spot, and his girth stretches you so wide that you feel utterly filled, a sensation that borders on pain but is laced with an exquisite pleasure.
“Move,” you urge him, needing him to start moving before you lose control. He obliges, his hips beginning a rhythm that sends waves of pleasure through your body.
You throw your head back and forth, overwhelmed by the pleasure. It feels so different from the first time you did this. It's a whole new world, a euphoria that's pure and dizzying, like warmth spilling through your veins with each thrust. Your heartbeat thumps so hard in your chest that you can hear it in your ears. Your body melds with Leona's as you hug him close, feeling his heartbeat sync with yours. Every breath comes light and trembling, every touch sends sparks under your skin. The world blurs at the edges, leaving only him—the weight of his presence, the taste of his breath, the sound of your name in his voice. It's too much and not enough, a beautiful ache that leaves you floating between waking and dreaming.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, capturing your lips in a kiss. “You are so beautiful.”
You can't reply, unable to form coherent words as his hips ram into yours. You let out more moans and screams, hoping he understands your reply that way, your body speaking a language all its own.
“I dreamt about you,” Leona sighs. “Every single night,” he says, angling his thrust upward with a particularly hard thrust that makes you scream his name. “I kept wondering when I'd taste you again.”
At this point, you can no longer hear his words, too preoccupied with your own pleasure. You can feel your orgasm approaching, and when it hits, it's a bliss that borders on pain. Every nerve sings with the memory of his touch, every heartbeat echoes his name. You feel laughter bubbling beneath your ribs, tangled with the urge to cry, to shout, to cling. It's like standing at the edge of the sun, burning and radiant, the world collapsing to a single, shining moment where nothing else matters but him and the impossible, unbearable joy of being alive right here, with him.
Leona grunts as he feels your walls flutter with your orgasm. His thrusts grow wilder and more chaotic. No longer restraining himself, he rides you through your climax, his body moving with a primal intensity that leaves you breathless. Tears slip down your cheeks as you reach for Leona, demanding a kiss as he empties himself inside you, the sensation of his hot liquid filling you pushing you over the edge once more.
You moan at the sensation, your body convulsing with the force of your release. His hands roam your body, gently kneading your breasts as you both lose yourselves in the kiss, your tongues dancing in a rhythm that mirrors the movements of your bodies.
You are utterly spent when Leona finishes. You throw your head back on the pillow, the drowsiness luring you to sleep, your body sated and your mind at peace.
Leona laughs at your action, his member still snugly inside you. You don't think he has any intention of pulling out soon, and you can't find it in you to care. He brushes your damp hair aside and kisses your temple, his touch gentle and tender.
“Sleep well, Princess.” he whispers, his voice a soothing balm to your weary soul.
Those are the last words you hear before darkness fills your vision, and you drift off into a dreamless sleep.
“He what?” Ruggie gawked at you, disbelief written all over his face. “He never did that?”
You shook your head, folding your arms across your chest.
The three of you spent a quiet afternoon together in your chamber, a rare afternoon of quiet. Ruggie lounged lazily in one of the armchairs, one leg crossed over the other, an orange slice held between his fingers. Leona stood by the balcony, drawn to the sunlight that pooled across the marble rail, his outline softened by the gold light of the hour. You lingered near the bookshelf, fingers brushing along the spines of old novels without reading their titles. The gown you wore was a soft shade of yellow, stitched with faint floral patterns that caught the light when you moved. Your hair was braided loosely to one side, falling over your shoulder in easy waves.
Ruggie’s voice broke the quiet. “Wait, you never took her on a proper date before?” He turned toward Leona, disbelief clear on his face. “Boss, really?”
Leona didn’t answer. His brow tightened just a little, the smallest fracture in his usual calm.
Ruggie swung his gaze back to you, gaze so serious. “Princess, my offer still stands. If you choose me—”
“Oi!” Leona interrupted, his voice low with mock irritation.
“—I’ll treat you so well you’ll never doubt my love,” Ruggie went on, completely unfazed. “Just look at you, Princess. So beautiful, so intelligent, your smile shines so bright it’s blinding. Any man would be lucky to be chosen by you.”
Leona stepped forward, the faintest shadow of amusement crossing his face. “Under normal circumstances, you’d be on death sentence for flirting with a prince’s wife, Bucchi.”
Ruggie grimaced, looking him up and down with mock disappointment. “Yeah, I know. But someone’s got to remind her what she deserves. You’re terrible at it.”
Your laugh filled the chamber.
It was always like this, the three of you falling into your easy rhythm. Sometimes it was political talk; sometimes gossip from the common square that Ruggie brought in like contraband joy. Sometimes, there were no words at all. You simply stayed in each other’s company, sharing the quiet as if it were sacred.
Your gaze found Leona again. He was bent over the desk, studying the old maps you had found in an antique shop a week earlier. The collar of his white shirt was open, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing sun-browned skin. His hair was tied low, a few loose strands falling across his face. He wore his reading glasses—the ones he still claimed he didn’t need—and something about the sight of him so focused and unguarded made your chest tighten.
He looked devastatingly divine. And gods, you adored him for it.
As if sensing your stare, Leona’s eyes flicked toward you over the rim of his glasses. You turned your head so fast your braid whipped against your shoulder, heat rising to your cheeks.
Ever since that night, you hadn’t been able to shake him from your mind. His hands, his voice, his lips—all of it haunted you. Every declaration he made still echoed somewhere deep in your chest. And now, every time he brushed past you, every lazy kiss to your temple, every lingering touch, it all left you trembling like a fool.
He seemed to notice too. The way you stumbled over your words, the way you flushed under his gaze. He knew. And the worst part was how he reveled in it. You could feel his smirk even when you weren’t looking. His teasing touches lingered on your hips and hands; his lips ghosted too long against your neck whenever he hugged you from behind.
You pressed a hand to your burning cheek, trying to calm yourself.
Oh gods. It had only been a few days, and you already wanted to do it again.
You never knew you were capable of being this… vulgar.
You let out a quiet shriek when a hand settled on your hip from behind. Leona leaned in close, his breath brushing your ear, voice low and teasing.
“What are you looking at, wife?”
You wanted to retort—anything, something—to throw him off, but words failed you. Heat crawled up your neck as your mind scrambled for composure. So instead, you pressed your lips together and forced yourself to breathe, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing your stutter.
Behind you, Ruggie made an exaggerated gagging sound, muttering something under his breath that Leona ignored.
You were just beginning to steady your pulse when the door burst open.
Samara stumbled inside, breathless, her usually neat hair disheveled, gown wrinkled and clutched tightly in trembling hands. Panic rippled through the air before she even spoke.
“Apologies, apologies for barging in so suddenly, Your Highnesses,” she stammered, her voice quivering. Her eyes darted between you, Leona, and Ruggie. “I—your—my Princess—”
You crossed the room quickly, skirts whispering against the floor, and reached out to steady her shoulders. “Breathe, Samara.”
She tried. Oh, she tried. But her breaths came uneven and shallow. Behind her, several of your attendants appeared at the doorway, their faces pale, eyes downcast. The room felt heavier with each passing second.
Finally, Samara managed to speak. Her lips trembled as she met your gaze.
“Your Highness…” she whispered. “Your father has passed away.”
The funeral went as still as water. Hundreds of people came to pay their respects for the last time at the Nyasha residence, but you barely noticed them.
The coffin stood heavy at the front of the hall, with your father inside—his face pale as chalk, his features calm as if only sleeping. Even now, there was a faint trace of the composure that once ruled every room he entered. His long hair was neatly combed, his uniform pressed to perfection. Someone must have taken great care to prepare him. It almost looked like he would wake up at any moment and ask why everyone was crying.
Your sister clung to your mother’s dress, her small shoulders trembling as she cried. Your mother’s tears were silent behind the lace of her veil, her body shaking, unable to hold herself still.
You stood there, unmoving, wearing a thick black veil that hid your face, your fingers locked around Leona’s hand. He stayed beside you quietly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles now and then, as if to remind you he was still there.
You hadn’t spoken a single word. Even when people came to offer condolences, you did not respond. Your eyes never left your father’s coffin. Leona answered for you, giving brief thanks or a nod in acknowledgment. You knew it was impolite not to speak, but your mind was too empty to form words. People seemed to understand. No one looked at you with judgment, only pity.
Since the news from Samara, you had barely been able to think. Everything kept happening before you could process the last. There wasn’t even time to grieve. All that filled you now was a strange blankness, like your mind had shut itself off. Somewhere deep inside, you knew it must be shock.
You heard a familiar voice speaking with Leona nearby. High Lord Diallo. He must have arrived late, his voice carrying through the quiet room. You caught a few words—apologies, distance, regret. Then—
“Child,” he called softly.
It was enough to make you lift your head for the first time. He stood a few steps away, dressed in mourning black, the weight of grief pressing into his posture. His usual sharpness was gone, replaced with something heavy and sad. He looked at you the way someone looks at a memory they don’t know how to let go of. When he reached you, his hand came to rest gently on your head. His palm was large and warm even through the veil. Then he pressed a soft kiss on your covered forehead.
You couldn’t respond. He bowed his head and stepped back, leaving you and Leona alone again. He didn’t see the single tear that slid down your cheek.
After the burial, you were among the last to leave. The detective approached with the report, his tone formal, too calm for what he was about to say. Your father had been found dead in his room the night before, poisoned during his evening tea. The servants had been detained, questioned. The poison wasn’t in the tea, but in the cup itself—strong enough to kill silently.
You left for the castle with Leona around midnight. Your movements were automatic, your body working while your thoughts remained somewhere far away. When you reached your room, you removed your veil, your gloves, the weight of mourning fabric from your shoulders.
You walked to the cabinet beside your vanity, the one where you kept the things that mattered. Your hands moved before you could think. You opened the small glass door and took out a porcelain teacup set, ivory with gold trimming, delicate to the touch. Handmade by the artisans of your homeland.
It was beautiful. And familiar.
The same cup your father had used for his deathly tea.
The same cup he had given you for your birthday last year.
Your father wanted you to die with him.
You heard Leona enter the room while you were still kneeling on the floor, clutching the teacup. His steps slowed as he came closer, stopping a few paces behind you. Perhaps it was the sight of the cup in your hands, or maybe the tears sliding down your face that made him stop.
You couldn’t stop them. The tears kept falling, one after another, filling the small porcelain cup until it shimmered with a pale reflection of yourself. Mocking you to drink it and take you to where your father was now.
The grief finally caught up with you. What had been quiet trembling turned into small, broken sobs you tried to swallow. You bit down on your lip, trying to muffle the sounds that escaped you. Between the sobs, you lifted the teacup toward Leona.
“Please,” your voice cracked. “Get rid of it.”
Leona didn’t ask why.
“Ruggie,” he called simply.
You didn’t even know how long Ruggie had been in the shadow until he stepped in and took the cup carefully from Leona’s hands. You weren’t sure how long he’d been standing outside, or how much he’d seen, but you trusted him to take care of something you want to make disappeared.
You felt empty again. A lifeless, broken doll you were all too familiar with again.
Leona didn’t say a word as he helped you up. His movements were firm but gentle as he undressed you from your heavy mourning clothes, guiding your arms and hands like you were made of glass. He changed you into something softer, loose and warm, and laid you down on the bed. Then he settled behind you, wrapping his arm around your waist, drawing you against his chest.
You could feel his breath against your neck, the steady rise and fall of it. His hand moved slowly over yours, the same motion you usually found comforting. Tonight, it only made the ache sharper.
You wanted to say something, to explain the mess inside you, but words refused to form.
You had never been close to your father the way most children were to theirs. He was not gentle, not easy to love. But still, you cried for him.
It seemed your grief had opened memories you had long forgotten. Fragments of a childhood that once felt safe. Your biological mother’s cold indifference. The way her eyes used to slide past you as if you didn’t exist. In the moments when your heart had been shattered by her, your father always swooped in to gather the broken pieces and piece them back together before handing them to you again.
You remembered how he would bring you little flowers from his walks in the garden. Small ones, sometimes nothing more than a wild daisy or a sprig of white alyssum, but to you, they were treasures. You would rush to find a tiny vase for them, desperate to keep them alive for as long as possible. He would always laugh and tell you that if they ever withered, he would bring you a new one. And he always did. Without fail.
You could still hear his voice then, low and warm, calling you by that old nickname he used only when it was just the two of you. The memory felt like sunlight on your skin and then, suddenly, like a knife.
You cried harder. For the father he once was. For the man he became. For the way everything between you had rotted quietly until there was nothing left but this.
You knew you weren’t mourning the version of him that died last night. You were mourning the one you lost long before that—the one who had once loved you.
Even though you had long accepted that he was gone, a part of you still wondered if things could have turned out differently. If there had been a way to stop it. If the man in the coffin could have still been your father.
You still hoped, foolishly, that one day he might have become your lovely father again.
“Morning.”
Your quiet morning solace was interrupted when Leona wrapped his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder. You were watering the flower pots on the balcony, the faint scent of wet soil rising with the sunlight. He pressed a lazy kiss on your neck, then another, trailing toward your shoulder. His hand came to rest on your belly, now gently rounded beneath the soft fabric of your dress.
The morning breeze brushed through your hair as his palm moved in slow circles, warm and reassuring.
“He’s awake,” you murmured when you felt a small flutter beneath his touch.
Leona stilled, eyes narrowing slightly in disbelief before a quiet chuckle left his lips.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. You both just stood there, swaying gently, the golden light spilling across the balcony tiles. Then, when another soft kick came, Leona exhaled a low laugh against your neck, deep, genuine, and filled with something tender that he rarely showed anyone else.
“He’s got your temper,” he muttered.
“And your stubbornness.”
He hummed, the sound low in his chest, before pressing another kiss to your shoulder. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
You rolled your eyes but leaned into his warmth all the same.
It had taken you a full year to stand again after your father’s passing. Another to rebuild what was left behind. The Nyasha estate had been in disarray. Contracts, holdings, and the tangled remains of his alliances. Now, two years later, you were officially High Lady Nyasha, as well as the Princess of Sunset Savannah.
You governed Nyasha’s territory with the same precision your father once had, though you could not fully reign because of your position in the royal family. Your mother now acted as regent in your stead until your child would be old enough to inherit the title.
Your life had found its rhythm again. Your mother visited often, her laughter always filling the halls with the same warmth that had carried you through the worst of days. She would scold Leona lightly for overworking, bring you homemade sweets, and fuss endlessly over your pregnancy. You loved her for it. Sometimes, when she brushed your hair or adjusted your shawl before you stepped out, you still felt like a child again. Safe and loved.
Your sister had grown into a bright young woman, often visiting the palace to talk about her studies, or to place her hand over your belly and laugh when the baby kicked.
Ruggie remained a quiet but constant presence, he also had become your right hand in many things. Something he does not like because you are also one of the ‘Troublesome Kingscholar’. You often caught him teasing Leona, who would pretend to be annoyed but never truly meant it. The King and Queen treated you with warmth that came not from duty but affection, as if you had always belonged.
You still visited your father’s grave every month, bringing fresh flowers. Usually the same kind he used to give you when you were small. You told him about the kingdom, about the garden you planted, about the life growing inside you. Sometimes you swore you could almost hear him listening.
Healing, you realized, was not a single moment but a series of quiet ones. The sound of laughter in the hall. The smell of rain on the earth. The feel of Leona’s hand finding yours without needing to look.
You learned to live again. To breathe again.
The sun was warm now, spilling gold over everything. You leaned back into Leona’s chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart behind you. His arms tightened just a little.
“I love you,” he whispered, voice low against your skin. His thumb traced small circles over your stomach, rocking your body gently side to side.
You turned your head and kissed him, soft and lingering. The taste of sunlight, earth, and something that felt like peace.
When you pulled away, you smiled. “I love you too.”
You stood together like that, the two of you and the quiet life you had built. Simple, imperfect, but yours.
Though the world could be harsh and unforgiving, you had come to accept its rhythm. Life did not spare anyone, but it also offered moments like this—morning light, laughter, warmth.
And as long as you had Leona by your side, you were content with it.
END