CHAPTER 37: THE PRINCESS’ WANTS

Ilaria’s pulse jumped at the sight of him, her breath catching as her eyes drank him in. Every line of his form seemed carved for her gaze alone. His broad shoulders tapered down into a sinfully slim waist, every line of his torso clearly defined beneath the simple tunic he wore. Worse, there is no outer layer to soften the effect.

The subtle muscles shifted with each step he took, drawing her eyes along the impossible curve of him, and Ilaria’s breath hitched as she realized just how much of him was on display, every movement accentuating the danger and allure of his presence. And when he tilted his head, perhaps in confusion, the golden hue of his eyes narrowed as they landed on hers.

Her fingers twitched against her skirts, as if they ached to reach out and to feel him closer. Oh, Saints, is what Vivienne said true? She had heard whispers of such things before; of women in heat and bodies betraying them with a sudden, desperate longing. But she had always assumed it applied only to those already...involved.

My God...I must be insane!

A heat unlike anything she had ever known coiled low in her belly, making her limbs tremble with an awareness that was both thrilling and dangerous. Her thoughts raced, unbidden and uncontrollable. He had always been good-looking, but now...he was breathtaking and ravishing in a way that made her lower lip catch between her teeth.

Why did he have to look so impossibly good? The curve of his jaw, the way his presence seemed to wrap around her like a tangible force, the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he drew closer, pulling her in. She had already been drawn to him, hopelessly so, but now every rational thought was swallowed by the fierce, consuming ache of wanting. It felt almost cruel.

A loud gasp escaped her lips. Her body had betrayed her before she could stop it. Only after the sound left her did she slap a hand to her mouth in agitation. Vivienne beside her mirrored her mortification, equally speechless as she bounced on her toes, troubled and jittery for the princess.

What is this?! This is so unladylike!

Ilaria whipped her head toward him, cheeks blazing as she held her palms up. "No! Stop! Don’t— don’t come any closer!" Her voice pitched high, sounding almost like she was scolding him for some grave offense.

Vivienne’s eyes went wide and she quickly bowed her head, careful not to seem like she was eavesdropping on the royals’ spat. Did the princess just scold the crown prince?! No one dared raise their voice to him! That was some serious and reckless courage to yell at the prince like that!

Meanwhile Levan halted, one foot already on the first step of the gazebo when he heard his wife’s outburst. "...?"

"I said— don’t come any closer! You’ve been gone all week and now you just appear like this—how dare you—ugh! Just stay there, alright?!" Ilaria flailed her hands as if waving him off could actually push him back, her words tumbling over themselves in a frantic, hilariously overdramatic stream.

Levan’s expression remained impassive, but the faint twitch of his lips suggested he was mildly offended by the sudden push. Slowly, he shifted his foot back from the step, taking a careful, measured pace down from the gazebo, effectively testing her resolve and boundaries without him knowing.

Ilaria flailed her hand again, openly shooing him like he was some kind of distraction she did not want. "You should go back— go back inside, i-it’s almost night."

Levan stood where he was, flabbergasted at her remarks. The princess did not even have the decency to look at him. He was on his way back to the palace when her cheerful voice drifted across the garden, carrying animated tales of the veilfish as if she were speaking to no one but the fish themselves.

His gaze flicked to the darkening sky, the sun dipping low behind the treetops. It was almost nightfall, and here she was, laughing and chatting about veilfish like they are some wonders of the world. For a woman who had survived the Blithe’s tricks and claimed to fear the dark, she certainly was not living up to her own warnings.

"You’re the one who should be inside, not me," he deadpanned.

"I’ll...I’ll go back once you do!" Ilaria called, pointing a shaky, accusing finger at him.

But Levan stay rooted where he stood, scrutinizing the princess as if he was trying to gauge her feelings out. Is she mad? "Excuse me? You go back after I do?"

"Yes! That’s the rule! Always follow the grown-ups first!" she insisted, her violet eyes wide and pleading as she fumble anything that might drive him away.

Levan let out a sigh. She was acting up again. Although her reaction was different from before, it was still enough to annoy him. "Grown-ups, huh? Why are you sulking in the garden?"

Ilaria’s face scrunched. "I’m not sulking!"

His eyes remained fixed on her, stoic as ever. "Not sulking," he repeated, voice flat, as if the mere act of stating it aloud made her claim less convincing. Without a flicker of hesitation, he stepped onto the gazebo once again, the wood creaking slightly under his weight, making Ilaria’s heart lurched rashly.

"N-no! Don’t! I-I mean—I’m fine, really, just...stay there!" She backed away.

Levan’s eyes slanted, clearly unimpressed. What is wrong with this woman? he thought, weariness rising even as he tried not to let it show. He glanced toward Vivienne, who was quivering at the corner with her head hung low, and said with unflappable authority, "Go back inside. I’ll handle my wife here."

Ilaria internally screamed. She reached out with a pleading hand toward the maid, hissing urgently. "N-no! Don’t! You can’t leave me!"

Vivienne’s eyes widened, caught between the crown prince’s command and her princess’ plea. She parted her lips to speak, but the steady, unyielding weight of Levan’s gaze held her still. Ilaria’s knees threatened to buckle, her palms damp against the gazebo railing when she saw the look of sorry etched across her maid’s face.

Levan’s calm, controlled presence filled the small space, yet the air between them thrummed with a stifling charge. Ilaria’s thoughts tangled into chaos when Vivienne finally turned away, steps hesitant on the cobblestones. She looked back once, only to offer her a gaze heavy with unspoken condolences before retreating toward the palace.

Saints, what do I do? What do I do?! Don’t look at me, don’t breathe too loudly!

"Vivi..." Ilaria’s voice cracked as she staggered toward one of the gazebo’s pillars, arms flailing like a ship caught in a storm. In her panicked haste, she collided her forehead against the cool wood, letting out a sharp squeak. She pressed her face against the pillar as if it could somehow shield her from the tempting peril that is her husband.

Levan stood a few steps away, arms crossed, weirded out by her behaviour. "What are you doing? Did the gazebo suddenly become dangerous?"

Ilaria peeked from behind the pillar, her voice muffled. "It’s...uh...you’re...too...g-glaring!" she shrieked, fingers gripping the wood as if it were a lifeline.

Levan’s brow lifted. "Glaring, is it? Do I strike you as so insufferable to look at?"

Ilaria hesitated, but she was honest—too honest. "No! No, it’s...it’s..." Her words tumbled out in a rush. "You’re...perfect! And t-tall and— handsome and your shoulders are so wide—" She buried her face into the pillar again, muttering incomprehensibly.

Levan’s sharp gaze faltered for the briefest moment, his composure wobbling in ways he was not accustomed to as if Ilaria had just dropped a bom on his feet. Perfect? Tall? Handsome? Wide shoulders? His mind scrambled to reconcile the audacity of her words with the quiet, almost desperate way she hid behind the pillar.

Never had anyone — least of all his sulky, usually exasperating wife — spoken with such raw, unfiltered admiration directly at him. He did not speak for a while, utterly dumbfounded, trying to calculate whether this was a trap or some bizarre new form of royal torment. He had initially thought she was upset again, but he was begining to think if she was completely out of her mind.

Frustrated, Levan’s hand moved before she could protest, his fingers brushing lightly against her elbow. Not a forceful grab, just enough to guide her in a smooth pivot, causing her to visibly flinched. Her body, small and shuddering beneath his touch, radiated a surprising warmth that made his brow twitch ever so slightly.

"Princess..." he murmured, his voice low, trying to sound calm, though his eyes narrowed in rare concern. She was trembling, her cheeks flushed to the tips of her ears, eyes wide and glossy as if on the verge of tears. Her lips were parted slightly, catching the fading sunlight, and her breath hitched in an almost elusive, erratic rhythm.

He scanned her countenance, searching for the cause. Was it fever? Fatigue? Or...something else entirely? Her normally composed and often mischievous expression was gone, replaced by a vulnerability that made his chest tighten inexplicably.

"You’re burning," he observed bluntly, though his voice betrayed nothing of the storm he felt inside as he took a step closer. "Are you unwell?"

Ilaria’s hands twitched at her sides. She tried to speak, but the words were tangled in her throat. Her heart pounded audibly to her own ears like an overwrought tempo that seemed to echo between them. She felt so exposed and so alive in a way that left her dizzy and helpless under his intense scrutiny.

Levan studied the subtle tremor in her fingers, the rise and fall of her chest, and the faint flush that crept down her neck. He was trained to notice soldiers’ fatigue and nobles’ pretenses, but this? This was different. His hold on her elbow tightened slightly.

"If you’re unwell, say it," he demanded again, firm enough to show that he was not going to play her games of guessing.

Ilaria swallowed hard, the heat in her face growing, but not from illness like he thought.

"I...I’m not unwell..." She did not meant to say it out loud; did not mean to sound needy. But as her breath shook and her lips tremble, the whisper came anyway, "But I think...I-I want you..."