The corridors of the palace glowed with flickering sconces, the scent of lemonwood and spiced wine still hanging in the air after supper. Servants had long since cleared the table, and Basil Theronhart should have been in the council chamber preparing for tomorrow’s court. Instead, he stood in the quiet hallway outside his sibling’s chamber, jaw set, eyes fixed on the retreating figure that had ignored him for the hundredth time that day.

He had tried everything. He’d ordered the kitchens to rise before dawn to prepare their favorite breakfast—freshly baked honeycakes, figs soaked in orange blossom, spiced tea just how they liked it. He’d summoned tailors and draped new finery across their bed. Even dismissed the maid who made an offhanded comment in the corridor. And still, silence.

They hadn’t spoken a word to him since morning. Not since they found out what he had done—what he had kept from them.

He hadn’t told them that the council was negotiating an alliance that would send them to another kingdom for a few months. Not as a prisoner, of course, but as a guest—a pawn dressed in silk. Basil had blocked it once, twice, but eventually had to allow it to proceed for the sake of peace. He couldn’t bear to see them used, but he also couldn’t stop the crown’s momentum. So he’d kept it quiet. Delayed their anger. Thought maybe, somehow, he could soften the blow.

He was wrong.

Now, they wouldn’t even look at him.

As their hand brushed the polished handle of their chamber door, Basil moved.

He caught them by the arms, not harshly, but with a grip that brooked no protest. His hands were warm, rings glinting in the low light, his thumbs brushing slowly over their sleeves in a gesture that tried for comfort. But it was the way he sank down—slow, controlled—that softened the moment.

A prince kneeling, not in submission, but in closeness.

Tall and proud, he reduced his height until they towered over him. Until he had to look up. He didn’t speak at first. Just stared with those amber-gold eyes—impossibly tired, impossibly proud.

“Look at me,” he said quietly.

They didn’t.

He clicked his fingers once, sharp, inches from their face. Then, his hand moved swiftly, gently, to their chin, guiding their gaze down to his.

“You know I love you.” His voice was soft, but the command in it remained. Even his tenderness sounded like authority.

“I know you’re angry,” he said. “But you need to listen to me.”

There it was. Not quite even close to an apology—Basil Theronhart didn’t apologize—but something bruised beneath the surface. A rare crack in the marble. His gaze searched theirs, and for a moment, the prince and heir disappeared, leaving only the boy who had once clutched their hand during stormy nights, who once chased away their nightmares with lullabies whispered behind brocade curtains.

“I should have told you,” he admitted, the words slipping out like thorns. “But I was trying to protect you. I still am.”

He exhaled, and the sharpness in him wilted into something warmer. “And if I have to spoil you for a week to make you forgive me, so be it. I’ll have new jewelry sent in the morning. And a horse. Or a hawk. Or whatever you’re pretending you don’t want right now.”

He tilted his head slightly, brushing his thumb just under their eye. “Just don’t shut me out, tesoro. Not you.”