Sold To The Cruel Prince

The morning light seeped softly through the curtains when Aveline finally woke, warm and well rested.

She stretched beneath the covers, letting out a sleepy yawn as she sat up. Her eyes drifted almost at once to the bouquet of flowers resting beside her in a glass vase. Sunlight touched the petals, scattering into a delicate shimmer of color across the room, as though the blooms had stolen a little of the dawn for themselves.

A small smile tugged at her lips.

She knelt down on the bed and leaned forward to take in their fragrance, closing her eyes as the sweet scent filled her lungs. It was lovely. Gentle. Familiar, in a way that made her chest soften. And... it brought Theron to mind.

She remembered the look on his face when he had given them to her. That brief, unreadable softness. The quiet way he had watched her accept them, as though her reaction mattered to him far more than it should have.

Then, little by little, last night returned to her.

Aveline froze.

Her heart gave a violent thump, and before she could stop herself, she buried her face in the pillow, still kneeling on the bed, her body folded forward in an embarrassing, unguarded heap.

That was when Theron entered.

He had come to wake her, only to stop dead in the doorway at the sight of her bent over the bed, face hidden in the pillow, the curve of her body utterly indecent in its innocence. She was making muffled, strange little noises into the fabric, half mortified, half overwhelmed, as though her own memory had suddenly become too much for her to bear.

Theron clenched his jaw.

The entire night had already been a trial.

He had barely slept at all.

While she had rested soundly beside him, all soft breath and warm skin and that maddeningly sweet scent that clung to her, he had lain awake fighting himself with every ounce of discipline he possessed. His will had wrestled with his body until dawn, and in the end, he had come frighteningly close to losing.

If he had stayed any longer, he would not have cared that she was asleep.

He would not have cared about restraint, or decorum, or the fact that she needed gentleness.

She could have called herself queen, mistress, anything at all, and he still might not have stopped.

That was the part that unsettled him most.

He had always prided himself on his control. Since he was fifteen, the ministers had tried to "educate" him in the way they believed a future ruler ought to be. They had sent women to him, one after another, expecting him to learn desire in the same mechanical way he was expected to learn statecraft. They wanted him to be prepared to take a wife someday. They wanted an heir. They wanted certainty.

And he had resisted them all.

No matter what they wore, how they spoke, how boldly they tried to tempt him, nothing had ever stirred him. Not once. There had even been a woman brazen enough to sneer that he might as well be a eunuch, given his lack of interest.

To prevent that humiliation from spreading, his mother had ordered the women removed before the gossip could take root. After that, rumors had flourished in the dark, twisted beyond recognition into stories about him drinking the blood of virgins, about him being monstrous, inhuman, untouchable.

He had never minded the lies.

Until her.

Because this woman... small, flat as a washing board, stubborn, infuriatingly sincere, and altogether far too distracting... was a different problem entirely.

Just being near her was enough to undo him.

Just hearing her voice, seeing her eyes, feeling her warmth against him, was enough to make his self-control feel thin and unreliable, like glass held too long over a flame.

Theron rubbed a hand over his forehead, exhaling through his nose.

What was he supposed to do with this?

She was kneeling there in the most compromising position imaginable, buried in her pillow and shaking with embarrassment, and all he could think was that his body had no business reacting so violently to it.

This was not what he should be thinking.

This was not what a man in control thought.

He cleared his throat.

Aveline jolted so hard she nearly toppled sideways, her face flushed a deep, furious red as she stared up at him in mortified horror.

Theron held her gaze for one long, unreadable second.

Then, with deliberate care, he looked away.

"Are you trying to give me a heart attack this early in the morning?" he asked, his voice low, roughened by a restraint he was very consciously holding onto.

Aveline’s lips pushed into an exaggerated pout, tilting upward as if offended on principle. "Forgive me, milord," she said, her tone dripping with mock formality. "For not being properly dressed in your presence."

The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.

"But..." she added, softer now, her fingers rising to press lightly against her lips in thought, "I don’t remember changing into my nightgown..."

Theron stiffened.

The memory struck him with inconvenient clarity—her half-asleep state, the careful way he had avoided looking too closely... and the moments he had failed.

For a brief second, he said nothing.

But Aveline had already turned away, her attention caught entirely by the mirror.

She stepped closer to it, tilting her head slightly, her gaze narrowing with a kind of fascinated curiosity.

Something... had changed. Her boobs had gotten bigger.

"I want more of that medicine," she said suddenly, completely serious. "It’s working."

Theron blinked. Then followed her line of sight. And immediately cleared his throat.

Aveline, utterly oblivious to the storm she was causing, leaned in a little closer to the mirror, turned sideways, inspecting herself with quiet determination, as though evaluating progress in something deeply important.

Meanwhile, Theron stood behind her, fighting a very different kind of battle.

How could she be this unaware?

Every second around her was becoming increasingly unbearable, and she—she was calmly discussing medicine.

"I know of a much better way," he said at last, his voice lower now, edged with something quieter. Something more dangerous.

Aveline glanced at him through the mirror, curiosity flickering in her big blue eyes.

Before she could question it, he stepped closer. He was not touching; not yet, but he was close enough that she could feel the shift in the air between them.

His hand lifted—then stopped midway, hovering just short of her. He wanted to touch her when she was standing there so... unaware.

"Something far more... effective."

Aveline blinked, her reflection staring back at him.

"What kind of way?"

Theron held her gaze in the mirror.

For a brief second, something in his expression slipped—something raw, unguarded, and far too intent.

Then it was gone.

"You wouldn’t understand," he said quietly.

"Why not?" Aveline turned to face him.

She pushed his hands away. He was making a weird gesture.

Theron scoffed. "You’re asking the wrong question," he said, his voice low. "The real one is why I’m still standing here... instead of doing something about it."