Sold To The Cruel Prince

Aveline’s breath caught at the hurt in Theron’s voice.

"You don’t like it when I touch you?" he asked, and the question came out fractured, stripped bare by the ache he was trying and failing to hide.

Something in her chest tightened. She saw it then, the effect of her silence, the way her hesitation had struck him far harder than she had meant it to. Her lips parted at once. "It’s not..." she began, but the words failed her before they could form properly.

Theron did not give her time to retreat.

His hand slid into hers, fingers threading through hers with an intimacy that made her pulse stumble. Then, gently but with undeniable intent, he lifted their joined hands and pressed them against the backrest of her chair, both of them trapped there together, close enough that the warmth of his body seemed to reach her before his touch did.

Aveline looked up at him, and for one suspended moment, there was nothing between them but breath and silence and the fierce, trembling beat of her heart. His eyes held hers with an intensity that made her feel seen in a way that was almost unbearably tender.

Her own breathing turned shallow, caught somewhere between the need to pull away and the far more dangerous urge to lean in.

The space between them had never felt so small.

And yet it felt like the whole world.

She gathered what little courage she had left, clutching it tightly as if it might slip through her fingers if she hesitated.

No matter how her heart raced, how her body betrayed her, this was wrong.

He had a wife.

Aveline knew Greenvale followed its own rules when it came to marriage, but the only love she had ever witnessed was her parents’—quiet, steadfast, and unwavering. In her world, love did not divide. It chose. It stayed.

Monogamy was not a rule. It was the proof of it.

She didn’t want to think about any of that now. Not when his scent wrapped around her like a warm, disarming cocoon. Not when every breath she took seemed to draw him deeper into her, until the line between where he ended and she began felt dangerously thin. Not when every instinct in her whispered for her to lean closer, to close the distance, to let herself be held.

But she had to stop this.

She forced herself to speak.

"Doesn’t your crown prince prefer virgins?" she asked, her voice quieter than she intended. "Won’t he be angry if he learns about...?"

The words dissolved before they could take shape.

About what?

What had

they done? And why, of all things, had she chosen this to say?

The answer rose, sharp and unkind.

Because she was angry.

Angry that he had bought her... for another man. Angry that he could stand this close, touch her like this, make her heart feel as though it might break open in her chest... while belonging to someone else. Angry that she did not understand what she was to him.

A slave?

The thought no longer fit as easily as it once had.

Then what was she?

An investment?

Was that the only reason for his gentleness?

The only reason for this?

The shift was subtle, but she felt it immediately. Theron’s hold on her loosened. The warmth of his fingers slackened against hers, and the charged tension between them faltered, as though her words had struck something deeper than she had intended.

"What have you heard about the crown prince of Greenvale?" he asked.

The question came out measured, but there was something beneath it—something searching. Careful.

He wanted to know what she thought.

Aveline hesitated, then answered honestly.

"He’s cruel..."

Her fingers slipped from his as she spoke, the contact breaking as though neither of them quite knew how to hold onto it anymore. Theron leaned back slightly, the closeness between them easing, though the imprint of it lingered.

He gave a small nod.

Cruel.

Yes. That was the reputation he had cultivated. The one he needed.

"What else?" he asked.

Aveline blinked, glancing around instinctively, lowering her voice as if the walls themselves might listen. "Won’t you get in trouble for speaking about him like this?" she whispered. "What if someone tattled it to him?"

There was genuine concern in her eyes.

She didn’t want harm to come to him.

"And... I’ve been meaning to ask..." she continued, her brows knitting together. "Will he punish you for what happened at the market today? Isn’t impersonating a royal a capital offense?"

Theron stilled.

For a fleeting second, surprise flickered across his face. She looked so serious. So earnest.

So... adorably worried.

"You’re worried for me?" he asked, his voice softening as he leaned closer again, drawn by something he could not quite name.

Aveline nodded without hesitation. "I shouldn’t have spoken without thinking. I might have put your life in danger."

Something in his chest shifted at that.

He reached forward and pulled his chair closer to hers, closing the distance once more, though this time the tension carried a different weight.

"It’s fine," he murmured. "The prince is... kind to me."

A small, deliberate lie.

"And what else have you heard about him?"

That was all the invitation Aveline needed.

Her expression changed instantly, caution giving way to something almost conspiratorial, her voice dropping into an eager whisper.

"I heard he drinks the blood of virgins," she said, eyes widening slightly. "If he isn’t killing innocents, he’s drinking them. And they say he’s so evil he has horns, actual horns on his head, and even his horse looks like it crawled out of Hades."

She spoke faster as she went, stacking rumor upon rumor, each more absurd than the last.

Theron exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face as if bracing himself.

"Is that why you’re afraid of him?" he asked, his tone edged with something unreadable. "Is that why you wanted to be my mistress?"

Aveline leaned back, the memory hitting her all at once.

Her cheeks flushed, warmth spreading across her skin.

"I don’t want to be a mistress anymore," she said quickly, a hint of embarrassment slipping into her voice.

Then, softly, more carefully, she added. "But... if he’s truly kind to you... could you say something for me?"

She hesitated only briefly before continuing, her words carrying a fragile kind of hope.

"I’ll do whatever he asks... as long as he treats us well."

Her gaze lifted to his, searching, uncertain, as though she were stepping onto fragile ground without knowing if it would hold.

"We could be... on the same side." A small pause, softer now. "I’ll do that for you, Theron."

"For me?" he echoed.

There was something in his voice she didn’t quite understand—something caught between disbelief and something far more dangerous.

Aveline blinked at him, mistaking it for hesitation. Of course he would feel conflicted. He had bought her, yes—but he had never treated her like something owned. There had to be guilt in that. There had to be restraint he did not speak of.

She wanted to ease it.

"For you," she said, more firmly this time, her voice quiet but unwavering, "I’ll do anything."

The words settled between them, heavier than she had intended.

Theron went still.

Before he could think, before he could weigh what she meant, or what he felt, his hand lifted, almost unconsciously. His fingers brushed beneath her chin, tilting her face up just enough for him to see her fully.

The light caught in her eyes.

That same unguarded sincerity. That same dangerous, unwavering trust.

She had looked at him like this when he was nothing but an orphan with nothing to give. She looked at him like this now, believing him to be nothing more than a knight.

For you, I’ll do anything.

The promise echoed, quiet and absolute.

Something inside him gave way.

He didn’t remember deciding.

He only knew that one moment he was looking at her... And the next, he closed the distance.

His lips met hers, soft and certain, as though drawn there by something far older than reason.

Aveline froze, her breath catching against his, the world narrowing into the single, impossible point where they touched.