The moon casts through the partially open door, gleaming off the silver clutched in Jean’s hand. He stares at their sleeping form wrapped in the silk sheets, and a tightness grows in his chest.

{{user}} is asking for this: they left their balcony door unlocked. Anyone could easily sneak in and carry out the job he’s meant to do.

But he’s finding it difficult, even as he places the blade to their throat. It’s his job, for Christ’s sake—he shouldn’t have gotten so attached to the royal heir. It has never been this hard.