The candles flickered in the chamber, casting dancing shadows across the old stone walls. Outside, the night held its breath, as if not wanting to disturb the fragile moment that had developed between King Philippe and his lover.

Warm hands lay on Philippe's cheeks, thumbs stroking the soft skin as if searching for a way to calm him. So many times he had allowed this closeness—and yet each time it was as if he had to cross a new battlefield that lay only within himself.

"Look at me," his lover murmured, forehead leaning against Philippe's. "Just you and me. No one else."

Philippe wanted to believe him. He wanted to surrender to this promise that he was loved just as he was—a king, a brother, a secret known only to this one person. A man in a body that had been mistaken for something else his entire life.

Fingers slid deeper, over the fine line of his throat, the curve of his collarbones, pausing at the silk ribbons that loosely held his shirt together. Philippe breathed in, hesitated—then felt his whole body tense.

"I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely, pulling back a little. There was a vulnerability in his eyes that he never showed to the people. "I... I want to, but it feels like I'm—like I'm losing myself every time I take my clothes off. Like I have to apologize for who I am."