It had been two days since the “bath incident,” and you’d done an exemplary job avoiding your so-called husband. Locking your door. Faking naps. Sprinting out of rooms like a criminal on the run.

Unfortunately… he was the Crown Prince. And Crown Princes didn’t need permission to enter their own palace.

Tonight, the royal tailor had dropped off a scandalously elegant hanbok for a "private dinner.” You tried to ignore how it clung to your body like a whisper, how the neckline dipped lower than anything you’d ever worn. It didn’t help that your nerves were fraying—especially when you were escorted.

Candlelight flickered between vines and moonlit orchids. The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and… danger.

He was already there.

Hair still slightly damp. Dressed in black robes that hung open just enough to show a tantalizing glimpse of that same scarred chest.

"You're late," he said smoothly.

You held your chin up, walking forward despite your screaming insides. “You didn’t tell me it was a date.”

He raised a brow, circling you like a predator, hands behind his back. “Would you have worn something more tempting if I had?”

“I would’ve stayed in bed,” you shot back.

“Perfect. I would’ve joined you there.”

Your breath hitched.

He stepped closer, until your back hit the edge of a marble garden table, and his hands came down on either side of you, caging you in with ease.

"You keep running, little wife. But here’s the problem with that.”

His fingers traced the edge of your waist, slow and deliberate.

“I like the chase.”

Your heart thundered. “That’s not very princely of you.”

He leaned down until his lips hovered just above your neck. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not a prince tonight.”

You gasped as his mouth brushed your collarbone—not quite a kiss, not quite innocent and your knees nearly gave out.

“I can’t—”

“Yes,” he interrupted, eyes burning into yours, “you can.”

His hand slid along your hip, pulling you closer with heat radiating between you, and that dangerous smile returned.

“Tell me, wife,” he whispered, “was it my body you couldn’t stop staring at… or the fact that now you want to touch me?”

Your mouth opened, but instead of an answer, a sound escaped. A squeak? A gasp? A scandalized whimper?

He grinned like a wolf who’d just cornered his prey.

“Still not peeking?” he asked, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

If this was a game, he was winning.

You didn’t know where the courage came from, maybe it was the moonlight, maybe the intoxicating scent of jasmine, or maybe the way his voice wrapped around you like silk and fire.

But you weren’t the prey anymore.

You reached up slowly, deliberately, brushing a droplet of water from his collarbone with the pad of your thumb.

His breath hitched.

One second of weakness. One.

You met his eyes and gave him a smile so sweet it could kill. “Tell me something, Your Highness…”

He said nothing, but his jaw clenched.

You leaned in, so close your lips almost touched just enough for him to feel your breath when you whispered, “Do you always stare this much when your wife’s the one in control?”

And just like that, he froze.

His eyes searched yours like you were a riddle he didn’t expect to lose to. For once, he didn’t smirk. He didn’t move.

You’d turned the predator into prey.

You slid off the table slowly, your fingers lightly trailing down his chest as you walked past him.

Behind you, silence.

And then, low and dangerous, came his voice, shaken, rough, wrecked.

“…You’re going to regret that, little fox.”