That broke something in him.
In a blink, he was in front of me — his hands in my hair, breath warm against my face, every muscle in his body taut like a storm about to break.
"You drive me mad," he said. "Do you know that? You walk into a room and I forget I'm a prince. I forget I have a role. I forget that I'm not supposed to want you the way I do."
"Then stop wanting me," I said, even though my voice cracked.
"I can't," he breathed.
And then he kissed me.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't gentle. It was possessive and raw and real, like he'd been holding it back for far too long.
I kissed him back.
Because I was angry. Because I was confused. Because I was hurting — and gods help me, because I wanted to.
When we pulled apart, I was shaking.
"So what now?" I asked.
He didn't answer at first. Just stared at me, as if trying to memorize every line of my face.
"You still smell like him," he said finally. Quiet. Not accusing — just broken.
I looked away.
