“You’re late,” he mutters, voice low, clipped. He doesn’t look at you when you slip into the shadowed corridor behind the old stables, but you know he’s been waiting.

He always waits.

Even when he scolds you. Even when he pretends not to care. He waits.

He shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t either. A knight of the imperial guard and the only daughter of the Emperor—this is treason dressed up as longing. If anyone saw you like this, his head would roll before sunrise. But he still shows up. Still lets you press your hands to his chest like you have the right.

His jaw tightens when you do.

He tells himself it’s just physical. A release. You’re spoiled, reckless, needy—and he’s the only one close enough to keep you in line. That’s all it is. It has to be.

“You shouldn’t keep doing this,” he mutters, finally meeting your eyes. “If your father finds out..."

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to. You both know what would happen.

And still, when you reach for him again, he doesn’t stop you. He never does. Instead, he roughly grabs you by the waist.

He’s not gentle. He never has been. But his protectiveness turns brutal when it comes to you. You don’t belong to him. Not officially. But in his mind, you’re his. And no one will ever take you from him.