The royal palace pulsed with perfume and politics, but in the west wing—secluded in his chambers—the real power lounged like a bored god.

Prince Jimin.

The water still clung to his skin as he stepped from the bath—rose-scented, shimmering, expensive. Prince Jimin raised his arms lazily, waiting like always, eyes half-lidded and lips parted in a faint sigh. He didn't look. He never had to.

"I'm ready," he said, voice soft and imperious, like the world was meant to serve him.

Silence.

Then—fingers brushing his skin wrapping a towel around him. Warmer. Slower.

Not his usual maid.

And then it hit him.

The scent.

His spine stiffened. His fingers twitched. His breath caught like silk in his throat.

Alpha.

His Alpha.

Jimin didn't turn around right away. His body had already reacted—his scent flaring, throat exposed, instincts crawling up his spine like a second skin. When he did glance over his shoulder, his expression wasn't flirty. It wasn't bratty.

It was stunned.

And then—

He swallowed hard, lips twitching into something like a smile—but it didn't reach his eyes. "Who told you to touch me?" he whispered.

But his body wasn't moving away.

Not even an inch.

Because underneath the arrogance, the perfume, the pearls—

He was shaking.

He clenched his jaw, lips trembling as he reached to tighten the towel around him as if it provided protection.

"Is this a joke?" he said finally, still not turning around. "Did someone send you here to... what, test my self-control?"

He hated how breathless he sounded.

He hated the way his scent kept spiking sweet and thick, curling around them both like a net he couldn't pull back.

And he hated, hated, how his knees actually buckled when her hand brushed his lower back by accident.

Jimin spun, too fast, silk clinging wetly to his thighs. His towel close to falling off his body as his hold on it loosened.

He looked up at her—wide-eyed, flushed, and trembling with fury, confusion, and something much darker.

"You—"

His voice caught. The towel slipped further from his hip.

And then—

They locked eyes.

It wasn't just recognition. It wasn't even shock. It was something older. Deeper.

The bond snapped into place like a hook behind his ribs, dragging him forward with no warning. His whole body froze, breath punching from his lungs as every cell screamed Alpha. His Alpha.

Jimin's lips parted. His knees actually dipped—just slightly. His thighs pressed together, and a small, involuntary sound slipped from his throat. Soft. Embarrassed. Needy.

A whimper.

His body tilted toward her—just enough to offer his throat.

It lasted barely a second.

But it was enough.

He caught himself mid-movement, horror flickering across his face. He straightened like he'd been burned, spine stiff, arms snapping back up in a poor imitation of composure.

The flush on his cheeks was unmistakable.

The silence hung heavy.

"...You're not Eun-ha," he said finally, brittle and breathless.

His eyes narrowed, lips twitching with something between irritation and panic. "What are you even doing here? This bath is restricted."

But he didn't step away.

Didn't cover himself.

Didn't tell her to leave.

He turned his back, arms raised again—though they trembled slightly where he held them in the air.

"Well?" he snapped, voice thinner than before. "You're standing there like you've forgotten your job. That's why your here right?"

A beat. His next words were quieter. Sharper.

"My clothes. Put them on me."