Camilla lay on the wooden bench in her chambers, stripped of her gown and dignity, bare save for a thin linen sheet draped loosely over her hips. The fire in the hearth hissed and spat, casting restless shadows over the tense lines of her body.
She had lost an attendant in the game—the girl with the quiet hands and the quicker step. Gone. Now only one remained, a younger woman with timid eyes and trembling fingers, pressing a steaming towel against the knots gathered in Camilla's shoulders.
"My whole body aches," Camilla murmured, not opening her eyes. "Press harder. You're barely touching me."
The attendant flinched but obeyed, bearing down with more weight. Camilla winced, a sharp hiss escaping her lips, but she didn't pull away. The pain felt like penance. Like a reminder she was still here, still alive, while another girl's blood soaked into the gravel of the king's maze.
She could still hear the wet, tearing sound in her memory. Still see the flash of scales. Still feel Tiberius's hand on her mask, removing it as though claiming more than her face.
I didn't drink so much today, he had said. So I'll protect you.
But protection, she was learning, was just another kind of cage.
"Harder," she whispered again, her voice thin. The attendant pressed down until Camilla's muscles trembled and her breath caught—until the physical pain was enough, for a moment, to eclipse the fear.
Then the door opened.
No knock. No announcement. Who dared enter the Crown Princess's chamber without permission?
If the guards had allowed it, it could only be one person.
"Tenebrarum?" she breathed, rising sharply from the bench. The thin sheet slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her waist, leaving her bare above it. The cool air brushed her skin—her breasts exposed, her posture defensive, her mind braced for his cold mask and colder words.
But it was Tiberius who stood in the doorway.
"Oh," she gasped, turning immediately away, her heart hammering against her ribs.
How did the guards let him in?
With frantic, trembling hands, she dragged the linen sheet up, covering herself from chest to upper thigh, clutching the fabric like a shield.
She did not face him, but she could feel his presence filling the room, as tangible as the heat from the fire.
"Selvus. Leave."
His voice cut through the quiet, deep and commanding. Camilla stiffened.
What dares him to dismiss her attendant?
"And who do you think you are," she said, turning slowly toward him, the sheet clutched tightly to her chest, "to walk into my chambers as if you own them?" Her voice was low, edged with regal authority. "Selvus, don't you dare move an inch."
She took a step closer to him, her bare feet silent on the stone.
"Tell her to leave, Camilla." Tiberius didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
A breath hung between them—a battle of wills in the flickering firelight. Then, her gaze still locked on his, she spoke again.
"Selvus. Leave."
"My lady—" The attendant's eyes widened, darting between the half-clad princess and the prince who stood like a shadow in the doorway.
"Leave." Camilla's word was final, a queen's command.
The attendant bowed her head and slipped silently from the room, pulling the door shut behind her.
Now they were alone. The fire crackled. The sheet in Camilla's hands felt suddenly very thin, a fragile shield against the intent in his eyes.
"Now what brings you here?" Her voice was too loud, too sharp, betraying the tension that tightened her chest like a vise.
He didn't answer. Instead, he turned and closed the door—hard—the sound final, like a lock clicking into place. When he faced her again, the room seemed to shrink, the air growing thick, too heavy to breathe.
"You do not want to answer my question. You should leave," she said, lifting her chin in a show of defiance that felt paper-thin. "You have crossed every boundary coming here."
"What boundaries?" he murmured, the words low and velvety as he took a step closer.
She retreated, step for careful step, until her back met the unyielding chill of the stone wall. He followed, a shadow closing the distance until he stood before her, one hand braced beside her head, caging her in without ever touching her.
"I couldn't stop thinking about you." His whisper was rough, scraped from some raw place inside him. She could smell the thick, herbal scent of liquor on his breath—dark, resinous, intoxicating.
"You're drunk. You shouldn't be—"
Before she could finish, his fingers brushed her lips, the calloused pad of his thumb pressing softly, insistently, against the seam of her mouth. The touch silenced her, but it also awakened something—a hot, treacherous sensation that coiled low in her belly, at stark odds with the chill leaching through the stone at her back.
His gaze held hers, pupils dark and dilated. In the firelight, she could see the faint tremor in his hand where it rested near her temple—not from the drink, she realized, but from restraint.
He wasn't just here. He was barely holding himself together.
"You're so beautiful," he breathed, his voice stripped raw. His hand rose to her cheek, fingers gently tucking a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. He looked directly into her blue eyes, as if searching for something he'd lost long ago.
His touch trailed lower, tracing the line of her shoulder, bare above the sheet she clutched.
"I would forgive you for this," she said, her voice icy, her chin lifted in defiance, "but you have to leave. Now."
"I cannot leave. I've been trying to forget you since the moment I saw you in the Get lost."
"Are you out of your mind?" she snapped, twisting out from the cage of his arm. "I am the Crown Princess! We have only met two days ago, and you stand here spouting this… this crap?"
"It shocks me too," he admitted, his voice dropping to a hush. "Two days. Not even four full hours in your presence… and I am dying for you. It feels like I've known you for more than a century." He took a slow, shuddering breath.
"I love you, Camilla."
Love.
The word hung in the air between them, fragile and terrifying.
No one had ever said it to her—not as a truth, not as a confession. Not like this.
It wasn't courtly flattery. It wasn't political alliance.
It was a blade slipped between her ribs, gentle and devastating.
And for a heartbeat, she couldn't breathe.
"I love you," he whispered again, his thumb stroking her cheek. "I can't forget the kiss." His lips drifted closer, a breath away from hers. She didn't pull back. Her lips parted, craving not air, but him. Her hands rose, tangling in the dark strands of his hair, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. The thin sheet slipped from her grip, pooling at her feet.
And then they kissed.
It was not soft. It was not gentle. It was violent—a clashing tongues, a desperate, bruising press as if they could tear the pain from each other's bodies and leave only heat behind.
Her back pressed into the cold stone, his hands anchoring her hips, and for a wild, reckless moment, nothing else existed.
Tenebrarum will surely deal with her if he finds out.
The thought was a cold thread through the fire in her veins, a warning she could feel even as she kissed him deeper.
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To be continued...