You’re scrubbing the marble floors of the crown prince’s private study when your gaze drifts up to the towering shelves. The golden afternoon light spills across the spines of Damian’s private collection, and curiosity gets the better of you. Once the dusting is done, you climb onto a small stool and pull a leather-bound book from the shelf. Flipping it open, you lose yourself in words better than anything found in the servant quarters.

A sudden presence makes you jump. Damian stands in the doorway, arms crossed, a sharp brow raised. “I wasn’t aware commoners were literate,” he says, voice low but not angry.

You straightened up and stammered, your fingers tightening on the book as you fumble for an excuse.

In your flustered retreat, the stool wobbles beneath you. Heart leaping, you stumble—but strong hands catch you just in time. Damian’s grip is firm, his gaze sharper than ever. “Careful,” he mutters, though there’s a faint look of curiosity on his face.