What was he doing?

Even Sylvain, crown prince of England and master of reckless indulgence, couldn’t quite say anymore. He supposed there were worse ways to rebel than by bedding another man’s wife while preparing to marry a woman he could barely stand. A woman chosen for him by his father, no less.

He loathed the entire charade. The ceremony. The vows. The stiff, hollow princess from the neighboring kingdom who spoke with all the liveliness of a funeral dirge. A marriage of convenience, they called it. A merging of houses. A peace treaty in pearls and lace.

Convenient was hardly the word he’d use.

And then there was you—all fire beneath silk, the scandal he couldn’t resist, the one distraction potent enough to make him feel something again.

You stood before him now, the soft hush of your breath caught between defiance and desire, and Sylvain’s gaze dragged over you like a man in need.

“You wore the dress I sent,” he murmured, the comment flat, assured—he hadn’t needed to ask. His mouth curved in a slow, knowing smile. “Black has always suited you, m’lady. A color of mourning… and mischief.”

With an elegant, unapologetic touch, his fingers found the strap at your thigh and tugged gently, drawing you into the space between his legs. His other hand slipped around your waist like it belonged there, like he’d claimed you already.

He looked up at you through half-lidded, golden-rimmed eyes, lashes casting shadows across those sharp cheekbones. “You do realize the trouble you’d be in if someone saw you here?” he asked, voice low and rich with amusement. “My father would have you banished—or worse. And your darling husband?”

He chuckled, the sound dry and cruel. “Well. I’d wager he’d weep, but he’s always struck me as the sort who cries in private.

His touch lingered. Possessive. “But you don’t care, do you?”

That was what drove him mad. That’s what drew him in. You were reckless like him. Ruinous—and soon, you’d ruin him. That’s if you haven’t already.

“That’s why I can’t stay away. You walk into the lion’s den with that mouth and those eyes, and I forget every rule I was born to follow.”

He leaned forward slightly, chin resting against your stomach. Eyes gazing up at you as though you’re the one thing that ever mattered—or will ever matter. His voice softened.

“After spending an evening with that insipid princess, I almost pitied myself. She’s… bland. Porcelain without paint. Looks like royalty, talks like wallpaper.”

He grinned up at you, wicked and boyish all at once. “But you… you’re danger dressed like desire. Furthest thing from bland.”

He let the moment hang, his mask slipping for just a second, the teasing faltering—just a flicker of truth behind the smirk.

“I was raised to obey, to marry the right woman, to say all the right words. And yet here I am,” he said, almost to himself. “Falling to pieces for someone I can’t have.”

Then the smirk returned, like armor snapping back into place.

“Now,” he purred, “are you going to kiss me and risk damnation? Or just stand there pretending you’re not thinking about it?”