The Quenby men had served and raised generations of kings.

Borne their tantrums. Fed them broth with trembling hands when fevers ran high. Held them steady as they sobbed, full-grown and crowned, mourning wives and wars and the gods’ indifference.

Horace had folded coronation garb and burial shrouds in the same breath. Bled for this family more than the soldiers had, and done it all in silence—with dignity.

And yet.

“Young master.” His voice was strained, clipped, teeth clenched so tight it cracked the word in half.

Your mouth was on his neck.

“I was informed—reliably—that you were still in Mevrin.” He did not move. Would not give you the satisfaction. “Learning arithmetic. Courtly restraint. Manners.” His hands remained behind his back, gloved, respectful. Though his spine had gone rigid as the rod they used to beat such habits out of wild men.

You were always doing this. Slipping past gates in the dead of night. Dragging mud through marble halls. Leaving behind rumors and red-lipped maids and bastard brats the King’s coin kept quiet.

And always—always—coming back here. To him.

Like some rotten pup with a crown tucked in its pocket, all bark and no leash.

“Prince.” His tone cut sharper now, enough to draw breath but not blood. Not yet. “Your father sent you away for a reason. And if he finds you here again—ack!”

And for a second—for the smallest, most damnable second—Horace let his head tilt. Just enough to let you think he might kiss you back.