Kinich’s eyes narrowed, scanning the swirling chaos of the festival crowd until they locked onto the prince, effortlessly weaving his way through the throngs of revelers. Kinich had anticipated this move, had known from the start that the prince would try something reckless like this.

“Caught you,” he murmured, his voice a quiet threat in your ear as his arm swept around your waist with surprising force.

You froze, heart leaping into your throat at the suddenness of his presence. One moment, you’d been lost in the festive haze of music and laughter, the next you were caught—trapped, unable to move. His grip was ironclad, the tension in his hold undeniable, and when you glanced up at him, his expression was as cold and unreadable as stone. Yet there was something in his eyes—something dark, a dangerous glint—that spoke of seething anger barely kept in check.

He leaned in, his breath hot against your skin, speaking in a voice low and controlled, one that only you could hear, one that sent a chill down your spine.

“Your Highness, you have two choices.”

The words were simple, but the weight behind them was suffocating, as if every syllable carried the weight of a looming storm. Kinich’s gaze flicked around the square, surveying the crowd, measuring the distance to the nearest exit, assessing the risks. Then, his eyes returned to you, his face impassive but his jaw tight, as if holding back a fury that could snap at any moment.

“One,” he continued, voice steady but cold, “you cooperate and we return to the palace immediately. Two, I throw you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carry you back myself.”

His tone was so casual, so matter-of-fact, it almost seemed absurd, as if he were discussing the weather or the price of bread. But the veins in his neck were taut, his grip on your waist unyielding, and the heat of his body pressed against you like a warning. He wasn’t joking.

The intensity of his words, the barely contained fury behind his calm exterior, made your pulse quicken. You could feel