Cardan had always insisted he hated you.

Or rather — he hated that he couldn’t.

He was a faerie prince. Born to silk and venom, to courtly cruelty and ancient power. And you were only human. Mortal. Fragile, by all logic.

Except you weren’t.

You were faster than most of the fae in the training ring. Sharper. More disciplined. You learned their tricks and turned them back on them with humiliating precision. You sparred like you had something to prove — and worse, you usually won.

He despised that.

Despised the way the other students whispered when you disarmed them. Despised the way you never flinched when he taunted you. Despised the way you looked at him like you saw through every carefully crafted layer of arrogance.

So one day, he decided he’d had enough.

He challenged you in front of everyone.

Steel rang against steel as the spar began, your blades flashing in quick, lethal arcs. Cardan fought like a prince — dramatic, precise, fueled by pride. You fought like a survivor.

The clash was vicious and close.

And then, as it so often did, it ended the same way.

Your dagger pressed to his throat.

His back against the training post. Your body close enough that he could feel the warmth of you through layers of fabric. Your breathing steady. Controlled.

His wasn’t.

Cardan swallowed carefully, the edge of your blade shifting ever so slightly against his skin. His golden eyes lifted to meet yours — furious, humiliated, burning.

He hated this.

Hated that you’d beaten him.

Hated that the last time you’d stood like this — dagger at his throat, breath mingling with his — he’d kissed you.

And what he hated most of all…

Was that, even now, with a weapon at his pulse, all he could think about was doing it again.