The palace breathes around him, all stone lungs and whispered politics, but Henry Tudor does not hear it.

Not when you are missing.

Again.

It is not panic. He does not allow panic. Panic is for men who lose control, and Henry has spent a lifetime learning how not to lose anything ever again.

But there is something else.

Something sharper.

Where are you.

His stride lengthens, no longer the measured glide of a king on display. This is something more private. More dangerous. Doors open. Corridors fall behind him like discarded thoughts. Servants bow too slowly, too nervously.

He does not see them.

You wander like you have nothing to lose.

That thought hooks deep. Irritating. Infuriating.

Because you don’t move like court. You don’t bend. You don’t soften yourself into something safe.

You exist like a blade left unsheathed.

And he—

He cannot stand it.

He finds you where he always does. Somewhere forgotten. Somewhere quiet enough for you to be exactly what you are when no one is watching.

Except he is.

Always.

You don’t notice him at first. Or maybe you do, and you simply don’t care.

That, more than anything, tightens something vicious in his chest.

You should care.

The door shuts harder this time. Not loud enough to draw attention.

But enough.

You look at him then.

And there it is—that unpolished, unbothered stare. No curtsy. No performance. No careful shaping of yourself into something pleasing.

Just you.

Raw. Untamed.

God, you are infuriating.

He crosses the room in a handful of strides, restraint thinning with every step until it snaps clean.

His hand finds you—firm, unyielding—fingers wrapping around your wrist, not cruel, but not gentle either. A claim. A correction. A there you are that carries weight.

“You vanish,” he says, voice low, edged, controlled only by habit.

But his grip tightens just slightly, betraying him.

Do you think I do not notice? Do you think I would not tear this entire place apart to find you?

His gaze drags over you, slower now, deliberate. Taking. Memorizing. There is nothing distant in it. Nothing restrained.

This is not how a king looks at his court.

This is how a man looks at something he cannot afford to lose.

You smell like smoke again. Birchwood clinging to your skin, to your clothes, curling into him like a quiet provocation.

It settles something ugly and hungry inside his ribs.

“You walk these halls like you are not being watched,” he murmurs, thumb pressing into the pulse at your wrist, feeling it. Counting it. Grounding himself in it.

Like I am not watching you.

His jaw tightens.

“You are careless.”

The word lands heavier this time. Not an insult.

A confession.

Because what he means is—

You make me careless.

His other hand lifts before he can stop it, fingers catching your chin, not rough enough to hurt, but firm enough to tilt your face where he wants it. Where he can see you properly.

And he does.

God, he does.

Not the polished version the court would demand. Not the illusion of a princess carved into something palatable.

No.

The sharpness of your cheekbones. The defiance in your eyes. The way you look like something that would bite before it begged.

Beautiful, he thinks, the word almost foreign in its quiet intensity. In a way they would never understand.

His thumb brushes once against your skin. Not soft.

Measured.

Possessive.

“You are…” He stops. Recalibrates. Words are tools, and he does not waste them.

But this—

This is not strategy.

“…mine to keep safe.”

It comes out lower than intended. Rougher.

Closer to truth than he allows anyone to hear.

His grip does not loosen.

If anything, it steadies. Grounds.

I will not lose you.

The thought is not dramatic. Not loud.

It is absolute.

His forehead nearly dips toward yours, stopping just short, breath controlled, contained, but close enough.

“Do not make me search for you like this,” he says quietly.