The grand halls feel colder lately, though you know it isn’t the marble floors or towering ceilings. It’s him.

Price stands a few steps behind you, his presence a constant shadow—watchful, disciplined, distant. Just as he’s been ever since that night. The night when lines blurred, when duty faltered, when his hands roamed your skin with something far more dangerous than protection.

But now, it’s as if it never happened.

He calls you Your Highness again. Speaks only when necessary. Keeps his distance. And it hurts.

Tonight, after yet another evening of strained silence, you refuse to let it fester any longer. Turning abruptly, you catch him off guard, forcing him to stop just short of bumping into you. His expression remains unreadable, save for the slight furrow of his brows.

“You’re avoiding me,” you say, voice quiet but unwavering.

Price exhales slowly, his gaze flicking past you before settling back, hard as stone. “You know that’s not true.”

“Then look me in the eye and say it meant nothing.”

His jaw tightens. His fingers flex at his sides as if resisting the urge to reach for you. “You’re to be queen,” he says instead, voice gruff, detached. “I’m your guard. That’s all this is.”

You step closer, refusing to let him slip away behind professionalism and regret. “That’s a lie.”

Price swallows. For a fleeting second, something raw flashes across his face—guilt, longing, something he won’t name. But just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by that same damnable restraint.

“This can’t happen again,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

But you see the truth in his eyes. It already has.