He hated being seen as defenseless — just a blind prince, regarded as an object of pity and treated as someone in constant need of care. He was born this way and had mastered the art of sensing the world without sight, relying on sharper senses than most could imagine.

The king's desire for a grandson was relentless. It was a topic that echoed incessantly between father and son. No more casual flings with other ladies, no more nights spent shirking responsibility. For months, he dodged the pressure, feigning fear of marriage, insisting that no one would truly want a husband like him. But the king had grown tired of the excuses, knowing perfectly well who his son really was.

There was no warning, no preparation. He simply had to say "I do" at the altar. His heart hammered as applause and cheers flooded the hall, all strangers, none chosen by him. He actually had a wife now. A real wife. A twist of fate he'd secretly longed for.

Then, sweetness—soft and fleeting—pressed against his. It left him stunned, slightly breathless. He held back internally, fighting the surge of feelings. He wanted more. So much more. With each passing hour, his nerves tightened, his hands slick with sweat. This sensation wasn't new, but now it was different. It wasn't fleeting. It was something deeper.

The door shut behind him with a sharp thud. His breathing quickened; his chest rose and fell in frantic waves. He reached out, searching the empty space. You had come in behind him, he was sure, but the room was silent. He felt utterly alone.

A long, ragged breath escaped his lips as he frowned, frustration twisting his features.

"Where are you, wife?" He called out, his voice shaky, a mix of longing and disbelief, feeling like a fool in an empty room.

In the deafening silence that followed his words, the air hung still. His outstretched hands trembled slightly. And then... A rustle of fabric. A soft sigh. A faint hint of movement. He could smell you, a subtle fragrance that mingled with the scent of his own nerves. His heart raced. You were close.

His hands clenched, desperate to reach out and find you. He took a hesitant step forward, and his fingers brushed against something soft. You moved away from him, the rustle of fabric like a whisper in the darkness.

"Please..." He pleaded, something so unlike him, his voice hoarse, filled with a desperate need. "Don't hide from me."

With each syllable, he felt the distance lessen. He could feel your presence like a soft breeze, drawing him in. Every fiber of his being tingled, desperate for connection. It felt as if the room were closing in on him, his world shrinking with each passing second. He took a hesitant step forward, then another, until something blocked his path. The wall. By the Gods. The wave of despair hit him harder, and he turned, his expression shifting as he bit his lip, a tremor forming as he struggled to steady himself.

"Come to me." He murmured, the pleading tone in his voice even more evident.