Sold To The Cruel Prince

Aveline looked up and met his eyes, still a little breathless from the run.

The suddenness of the way he had pulled her close, and the quiet intensity in his gaze, left her momentarily unguarded. And those dark eyes... the way he looked at her, as though she were something fragile, something precious, loosened something deep inside her chest.

For a fleeting, dangerous moment, she forgot what she was and what she was to him. She was his slave, and nothing more.

Theron lowered his gaze slightly, his voice softer now, stripped of the easy humor he had worn so effortlessly moments ago.

"Those women... were they the girls from before?" he asked. "From when we were young?"

He needed to be sure.

Aveline nodded. "They were," she said quietly.

They had once been her friends, at least in name. But she had never liked the way they treated him. The day she turned on them, gave them a taste of their own cruelty, something had shifted irrevocably. After that, they had left her, immediately.

She was left with no one but her parents... and Theron.

Her parents had died. And Theron... he had...

The thought didn’t even finish before her vision blurred. Tears gathered in her eyes, unbidden, unwanted.

Theron saw it.

He didn’t ask.

He simply pulled her closer, his arm sliding around her neck as he drew her in, his chin resting lightly against the crown of her head.

"I’m not leaving you again," he murmured, his voice low, steady, almost like a vow carved into stone. "Aveline... never."

She didn’t move, didn’t nod, didn’t answer.

She wanted to. God, she wanted to believe him, to lean into those words and let them settle somewhere safe inside her. But something held her back... something sharp—the truth. Her reality, her place, and who she was held her back.

Theron felt the way she didn’t respond, the way her body went still in his arms, not resisting but not accepting either. It unsettled him more than if she had pushed him away.

He pulled back slightly and cupped her face, gently but firmly, lifting her chin so he could see her.

And then he saw the tears. They slipped silently down her cheeks, catching the light before falling.

Something inside him twisted, painfully.

This woman... he did not fully understand her. There were parts of her still hidden from him, shadows he hadn’t yet uncovered. But those tears...those quiet, stubborn tears, cut through all of it, straight to something raw and unguarded within him.

Before he could think better of it, he bent down and lifted her slightly, just enough to close the distance, his lips brushing against her cheek as he caught one of the falling tears.

He didn’t stop there.

He pressed another kiss to her cheek, then another—soft, unhurried, as though he could erase every trace of hurt if he was careful enough. The faint fragrance of the roses lingered between them, delicate and intoxicating, mingling with the warmth of her skin.

And then, almost without realizing it, his lips moved closer... closer to her mouth.

Her breath hitched.

He could feel it.

Just as he leaned in, just as the space between them narrowed to nothing...

Aveline lifted her hand. Her finger pressed lightly against his lips, stopping him. The contact was gentle, but it might as well have been a wall.

Theron exhaled softly against her skin, the warmth of his breath brushing over her finger. Aveline felt it, and her own breath deepened in response, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain he could hear it.

There was something about this, about him, about the way he held her, about the fact that her feet barely touched the ground and she was entirely supported by him, that made her feel... unsteady.

Not weak.

But dangerously close to forgetting herself.

And that was something she could not allow. Was she not a slave?

The thought cut through everything else, sharp and sobering. She had almost forgotten.

The dresses, the jewelry—she had accepted them without thinking too deeply. But these roses... this gift... it had done something to her, stirred something she should not be feeling.

She had been bought. She had agreed to stay with him for Theodore. There was nothing more to this. There could be nothing more to this.

Because in the end... he would hand her over to the Crown Prince.

Her fingers lingered against his lips, tracing them lightly, almost unconsciously, as though memorizing their shape.

Then she asked, softly, "Do you have a wife, Theron?" There was a small pause before she continued, "Is she pretty?"

And just like that... His hold on her loosened, enough, enough that her feet touched the ground again, and the space between them returned. Aveline steadied herself.

As expected...

She didn’t know what she felt.

Vindication, perhaps. A quiet, bitter satisfaction at being right. Or it could be something else, something heavier.

Because beneath it all... It hurt.

It hurt to think that he belonged to someone else—and she had no right to question it.

As always, she swallowed it down.

She hugged the bouquet closer to her chest, as though reminding herself that this at least was hers—something given to her, something no one could take away. Then, as if nothing had happened, as if her heart had not just tightened painfully in her chest, she turned and skipped ahead into the market streets, her steps light, almost careless.

Too light.

Too practiced.

Theron watched her go, his hand already half-extended toward her before he even realized it. By the time he did, she was already out of reach, and his fingers closed around nothing but air.

Her question lingered.

Do you have a wife? Is she pretty?

It echoed, quieter now, but sharper for it. He didn’t like the feeling she left behind.

He closed his eyes briefly and let out a slow breath, as though trying to steady something that had shifted inside him.

But he was not left alone with it for long.

A faint disturbance brushed against his senses, subtle but unmistakable. His eyes opened immediately, his expression sharpening as he turned.

Kael emerged from the shadows as though he had always been there, stepping into view with quiet precision.

The memory of moments ago flashed through Theron’s mind—Aveline, the unnatural stillness, the shadows that had seemed to move at her command.

His gaze darkened slightly.

"Have you sent the report already?" he asked.

Kael stiffened, a barely perceptible reaction, before bowing his head, his hand pressing firmly against his chest.

"I serve you, my liege," he said. "I report to no one else."

Theron’s lips curved, but there was no warmth in it.

"Not even your father?" he asked softly.

Kael’s eyes lifted instinctively, and for a brief moment, something raw flickered within them.

Fear.

"...or my mother?" Theron added, his voice quieter still, but far more dangerous.

That was enough.

Kael dropped to his knees immediately, the movement sharp, absolute.

Silence settled between them.

Theron stepped closer. Kael tensed.