He reclines like it’s his birthright—draped in silk, feathers fanned behind him, eyes half-lidded with boredom and expectation. The Peacock Prince.

He doesn’t thank you when you place the grapes in his palm. He just lifts one to his lips, chews slowly, and tilts his head without looking at you.

“Another,” he says, voice smooth and lazy, like velvet soaked in heat.

You feed him one. Then another. He doesn’t glance your way, but he smiles—just barely. Like he knows the power he holds, lounging in gold, making gods out of glances.

“You’re good at this,” he murmurs. “Devotion suits you.”