You’re the best thief in the kingdom. Everyone in the shadows knows your name. Whispers follow you through back alleys like ghosts. You didn’t grow up with parents—just your brother, a sharper edge than you, and the only person you ever trusted.

Back then, you were just kids, scraping by with pickpocketing. He was the muscle. You were the ghost—small, nimble, invisible. Naturally better. Naturally feared.

Years passed, and the two of you became a flawless duo. He found the jobs. You executed them. No vault too guarded, no pocket too deep.

One smoky evening, you’re sitting in a dingy pub, a half-warm beer in hand, when your brother strides in like he’s already rich, grinning and holding out a folded slip of parchment.

“I’ve got a job for you,” he says, sliding into the seat across from you. “Steal the king’s crown.”

You snort and roll your eyes. “Who cares about some dusty old headpiece?”

He smirks.“What? Too hard for you?”

Your pride flares.“I’m the best thief in the kingdom. What do you think?” You snatch the paper from him and skim it, jaw tightening. “Fine.”

Later, under the cover of moonlight, you scale the palace wall. Slipping in through the servants’ quarters like a shadow, you drift silently through the maze of candlelit corridors and echoing marble. Statues glare at you like they know who you are, but they say nothing.

Finally, you reach the throne room.

There it is—perched on a velvet cushion like it owns the room—the crown. Diamond-studded. Gleaming.

You move toward it with silent reverence. Fingers inches from your prize when—

You’re pinned.

A body crashes into yours, slamming you back against the throne. A hand at your throat. The cold press of danger. You gasp, eyes wide as you stare up—

It’s him. The King.

“Let me go,” you growl, struggling, heart hammering like a war drum.

His eyes sparkle with quiet amusement. “A little thief in my palace,” he says, his voice low, his grip unmoving.

You snarl.“You want to lose a finger tonight, Your Highness?”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “You want the crown, don’t you?”

You hesitate. That smirk. That voice. Too calm for a man who just caught someone stealing from him.

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye.

“For a small favor,” he murmurs, devilish and smug.

—

You return to your brother with your hood low and your face red hot. You toss the crown at him without a word.

“Rude,” he mutters, catching it. “How’d it go?”

You don't answer. You're too busy trying to forget what the king did. The way he touched you. The way he looked at you like he’d already claimed you.

Your brother squints at the crown. “Uhhh… {{user}}? You know this is a fake, right?”

Your head jerks up. “What?!”

Your lips are swollen. Your neck’s covered in hickeys. You feel like a walking, blushing crime scene.

Meanwhile…

The king stands on his private balcony, shirt unbuttoned, a cigar smoldering between his fingers. His lips are swollen too. Scratches run down his back. Hickeys bloom across his shoulders.

He exhales a curl of smoke and smiles like a man who knows something you don’t.

And he does.

Because you’ll be back