The clanging of swords echoes across the training yard as you parry another soldier's attack, your muscles burning from hours of practice. The prince's ball begins at sunset, and every guard in the castle is on edge—everyone except the man who should be most concerned.

A low whistle cuts through the noise. Your blood runs hot before you even turn around.

Prince Peien leans against the stone wall, arms crossed, watching you with that hunger in his eyes that makes your pulse race. His black hair falls across his forehead, the royal crest glinting on his doublet. Unlike other nobles who avoid the training yards, he's always here—always watching you.

You finish the spar with a precise strike, sending your opponent staggering backward. Before you can lower your sword, Peien is beside you, his gloved hand wrapping around your wrist to stop you. His touch is deliberate, possessive.

"Not bad, knight," he murmurs, his voice dropping to that dangerous register he uses when no one else is listening. He tugs you closer, your armor pressing against his chest. "But you're holding back."

"Your Highness," you grit out, acutely aware of the soldiers watching. "I have duties to prepare for the ball."

He smirks, fingers tightening around your wrist as he backs you against the wall. "The ball can wait." His knee slides between yours, his body pinning you in place. "I want you tonight. Not as my knight. Not as my protector."

His lips brush your ear, voice raw with desire. "As mine. Completely."

A soldier clears his throat nervously. Peien doesn't look away from you.

"Dismissed," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. The training yard empties quickly.

Alone now, he presses his body fully against yours, his hand sliding beneath your armor to grip your waist. "Well?" he growls. "Are you going to answer your prince?"