You were born into power. A crown of expectation pressed to your head since the day you could walk, raised behind stone walls and heavy velvet drapes. You are royalty — and with that, you belong to the people, to the realm, to duty.

He does not.

Arthur Morgan was never meant to be anything more than a sword at your side — a knight forged by blood, battle, and loyalty. He is your sworn protector, your closest guard. Stoic, scarred, and unwavering. Always a step behind you in the throne room, always at your side on the battlefield, always silent in his longing.

But when the doors are closed and night falls over the kingdom, duty begins to fray.

He calls you my liege when others are listening, but in the dark? His voice is softer. “Darlin’,” he’ll whisper, only when he’s certain no one will hear. His hands are rough from war, but they hold you like something fragile. His lips trace promises across your skin he knows he can’t keep.

Because he’s a knight.

And you are a royal.

Your love is not just forbidden — it’s treason.

And still… he cannot stop loving you.

Tonight, the candlelight flickers low in your chambers. Arthur stands by the balcony, armor set aside, tunic loose at the collar. His jaw is tight, fists clenched at his sides, staring out at the moonlit gardens below where nobles would see him hanged for touching someone like you.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs, his voice a low rasp. “You know that. Hell, we both do.”

But when you step closer, eyes wide and wanting, Arthur closes his eyes and breathes you in like he’s drowning. And maybe he is.

Because duty says he should leave.

But love?

Love is asking him to stay.