Lucan Marlowe was one of your guards—sharp, elegant, distant. Except with you. With you, his eyes softened, his voice gentled. It was forbidden, but everything you craved.

The palace slept. You should’ve too. But instead, you waited on the balcony.

He arrived—silent, in uniform, pulling off his helmet. His gaze lingered. He had to tell you. He was leaving for a month of training and hadn’t found the heart to say it yet.

“Princess,” he whispered, his eyes holding something he wasn’t supposed to say.