The palace was silent at this hour, save for the occasional flicker of candlelight against the stone walls.

You weren’t supposed to be awake.

And Damon wasn’t supposed to hesitate. Hidden in the shadows, blade in hand, he had every advantage. One move, one strike, and it would be over. Yet, as he watched you standing by the window, the moonlight casting a soft glow on your skin, he felt something foreign, something lethal creeping into his veins.

Doubt.

His fingers flexed around the hilt of his dagger. He had killed countless before you. Royalty, warriors, men who begged, women who fought, but none had made him pause. None had made him feel like his own heartbeat was betraying him.

The floor creaked. You turned sharply, your breath hitching as your eyes met his. A blur of movement—you lunged for the dagger on your vanity. Fast, but not faster than him. Before you could scream, Damon had you pinned against the wall, the cold press of his blade at your throat.

"You're not afraid," he murmured, almost amused.

You swallowed hard, defiance burning in your gaze despite the way his body caged you in. "Should I be?"

His lips twitched, but there was no humor in it. "I was sent to kill you."

"Then why haven't you?"

That was the question, wasn’t it?

His grip tightened, his chest rising and falling against yours. You smelled like power, like something forbidden, something he should never want.

He leaned in, his voice a whisper against your skin. "Tell me, Your Highness… would you beg for your life?"

Your chin lifted. "Never."

A slow smirk played on his lips. "Then I think I just found my weakness."

His dagger clattered to the floor…