As the sun dipped low behind the estate's towering stone walls, Cael finally persuaded the twins it was time to leave. Though reluctant, they obeyed his gentle words—if only because it was him who asked.
Eryx brushed imaginary dust from his cloak as he stood, while Viel looked back at Cael with heavy-lidded eyes and a smile that didn't quite reach his soul.
"We'll wait, Cael," Eryx said sweetly. "But not for long."
"As you know,we really hate waiting ," Viel added. "And next time, if you're still not ready..." He tilted his head, gaze narrowing with unsettling fondness. "We'll come take you ,personally."
Their knights stood nearby, tense and silent. The air around them seemed to hum with unshed violence.
As the twins prepared to mount their horses at the estate's entrance, a flicker of movement drew their eyes upward—to the tall window of the western wing.
There, behind the glass, stood Rowan.
Black hair tousled, his violet gaze cold and unreadable as it peered down at them. The setting sun cut across his face like a blade of fire, painting his silhouette with regal menace.
The twins didn't flinch. They simply stared back, their expressions impossible to read—until a slow, mirroring smile curved their lips.
The same wicked kind of smile beasts give before tearing open a throat.
Reilan, who had arrived to escort them out, swallowed hard. He stepped forward, voice tight with warning.
"Your highnesses," he said lowly. "Today could've ended very differently. If not for Cael,...Duke Rowan is not a merciful man"
Viel turned slightly, not looking at him. "How rude."
Eryx finally looked at Reilan, his voice as soft as silk.
"Tell the duke," he said,"That We look forward to our next visit."
They left,Laughter trailing behind them like ghosts.
Relian felt a cold shiver crawl down his spine.
And the way those twins smiled as they rode off... it was clear:They are fucking insane.
Cael, unaware of the storm that had passed, was walking back toward Rowan's room with a tray of fresh food in hand—his heart calm, his footsteps light.
But above, Rowan's eyes still burned behind glass.
_______
The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of wind outside the high windows. Cael sat beside Rowan's bed, his expression hesitant, yet steady. Rowan leaned back against the cushions, watching him in silence, as if already sensing the request that was about to come.
"I want to return to the princes's side," Cael said, voice calm but laced with weight.
Rowan's eyes narrowed, purple irises glinting with restrained emotion. "You want to go back... to them?"
"I'm their knight," Cael answered. "I made a vow. They're my responsibility, Rowan. And they need someone who sees more than just the monster everyone else does."
Rowan's jaw clenched. "They nearly killed me."
"I know." Cael's voice faltered slightly. "And I'll never forgive them for that. But they're children. Hurt, furious children—and I was just like them once. Weak. Angry. Alone."
Rowan didn't respond. His fingers twisted in the blanket, as if resisting the urge to lash out—not with violence, but with the desperation of a man afraid of losing what little he has left.
"You said," Cael continued gently, "that I could do anything I wanted, as long as I stayed with you."
That made Rowan look up sharply, words caught in his throat.
"I'm not asking to leave you," Cael added, his gaze sincere. "I just want to help them. While they still need me."
Rowan swallowed hard. He could never win against Cael's stubbornness, and more than that—he didn't want to break him again, not like before. So in the end, he exhaled slowly and muttered, "Fine. But only if you stay here. With me."
"I will," Cael promised with a faint smile.
Rowan nodded stiffly, the weight of that promise heavy in his chest. He hated this. Hated the idea of Cael being near those two. But he would endure it. Because he had to. Because Cael had chosen to stay, and that was enough—for now.
"...Why do you care so much about them?" Rowan asked at last, his voice quieter, darker.
Cael lowered his gaze. "Because they remind me of myself," he said. "They were born cursed by blood, raised in a cage of expectations and hatred. Just like I was."
Rowan watched him closely. There was a sadness in Cael's eyes, a deep empathy that hurt to look at.
"I don't want them to grow up like I did," Cael whispered. "If I can keep them from going down that path—even a little—then maybe it'll mean something. Maybe I'll mean something."
Rowan didn't speak for a while. When he did, his voice was a warning wrapped in quiet affection. "You should know... being around them isn't just dangerous because of who they are. The Queen wants them dead. And anyone protecting them will be marked."
Cael looked up, not so surprised.
"You'll be putting yourself right in the path of that storm," Rowan added grimly. "But... if that's what you truly want..."
He trailed off, sighing deeply, eyes fixed on Cael with reluctant admiration.
"I'll protect you," Rowan said. "From her. From them. From everything."
Cael smiled faintly, and for a moment, Rowan hated the world just a little less.
Just as Cael was about to rise from the bed, a firm hand reached out and caught his wrist.
Rowan's grip wasn't rough—but it was unmistakably possessive. Without a word, he pulled Cael forward until his smaller frame was enveloped in Rowan's arms. His face pressed against Cael's shoulder, his voice muffled but laced with something sulky and soft.
"You really are a stubborn little thing," he murmured, the warmth of his breath brushing against Cael's neck. "But don't forget... you're mine."
It wasn't a threat. It wasn't even a warning. It was a plea—half-spoken, half-sighed—like a child refusing to let go of his favorite thing.
Cael blinked, surprised at first, but then a quiet smile touched his lips. The man holding him so tightly—the cold, ruthless Duke feared across the empire—was now clinging to him like a spoiled boy too big for such pettiness. He looked down and couldn't help the soft laugh that escaped.
"You're twenty-four, Rowan," Cael whispered, amused. "Act your age."
But Rowan only buried his face deeper into Cael's neck, arms wrapped tightly around his waist. "No," he grumbled. "Not when it comes to you."
Cael gave in with a sigh, sliding a hand into Rowan's dark, silky hair. It was thick and soft under his fingers, strands falling like ink across porcelain skin. Rowan's long lashes brushed his cheek as his violet eyes fluttered shut, exhaustion and peace finally settling into his features.
He was beautiful—almost painfully so. Even now, half-asleep and unguarded, he looked ethereal. His strong jawline softened in slumber, the harshness of his usual expressions washed away. His sharp brows relaxed, and a faint flush bloomed beneath his high cheekbones. His lips—usually curved in cold arrogance or wicked smirks—parted gently with each breath.
Cael shifted slightly, adjusting their position so Rowan could rest more comfortably. Rowan's large hand instinctively reached for his, tangling their fingers together and resting them on his chest, as if afraid to let go.
With his free hand, Cael gently stroked the man's back—his fingertips tracing the slope of his spine through the soft linen of his shirt. Rowan's breathing deepened, slower now. His grip loosened slightly, but never truly let go.
Cael watched him in silence, heart aching with an emotion he couldn't quite name. He gazed at Rowan's sleeping face, the faintest furrow still in his brow, as if even in sleep he feared Cael might vanish again.
So Cael stayed. Quiet and still.
And under the soft wash of candlelight, he leaned down and kissed Rowan's temple, barely touching—but enough.
"I'm here," he whispered.
Even if Rowan didn't hear it in his sleep, Cael said it anyway—for both of them.
_____
Cael stirred from sleep, his eyelashes fluttering as the silver light of the moon slipped in through the curtains.
The first thing he felt was heat.
A heavy warmth was pressed all along his side—Rowan. His arms were locked tightly around Cael's body like iron restraints, one muscular arm curled under his neck, the other gripping his waist possessively. Cael could feel the faint rhythm of Rowan's breath against his collarbone, slow and unsteady. The scent of his skin—clean, faintly smoky—lingered under the blankets.
Cael blinked blearily.
His throat was dry.
Carefully, so carefully, he began to untangle himself. Rowan grumbled in his sleep, shifting slightly, tightening his hold for a moment like a child refusing to let go of his favorite blanket. But after a quiet murmur, he relaxed just enough. Cael slipped out, resting Rowan's arm gently down and sitting up in the dim glow.
He poured himself a glass of water by the bedside and drank slowly.
Then his gaze drifted to the open balcony door.
The night outside was beautiful. The kind of quiet beauty that made you stop breathing just to hear the silence better—moonlight draped across the marble rail, trees rustling gently in the wind, and the stars glittering like glass dust in the sky.
Something about it called to him.
Barefoot and silent, Cael stepped outside into the breeze. The air was cold, but clean. Crisp. He closed his eyes and leaned against the railing, letting it wash over him. After everything that happened, this silence felt... rare. Precious. He didn't even realize how deeply he'd missed this kind of peace.
He just stand there and lost in thoughts.
But inside, peace was shattering.
In the bed Rowan reached out, half-asleep—his hand searching.
Only to find emptiness.
His eyes snapped open. The sheets beside him were cold.
"Cael...?"
There was no answer.
A sharp pain tore through Rowan's injured leg as he bolted upright, but he barely registered it. Panic, raw and feral, struck his chest like a blade. His breath caught in his throat.
He was gone.
Gone.
Again.
"No—no no no..." Rowan muttered, staggering to his feet. He winced violently, the bandages around his thigh already soaked red from his sudden movement. The wound screamed, torn anew, but the pain didn't stop him. It never had.
His robe hung loose around his body, clinging to his fevered skin, the pale fabric damp with sweat. His broad chest rose and fell in sharp, ragged gasps. His hair was mussed from sleep, sticking to his flushed face and neck, and his violet eyes were wide—glassy with terror.
He stumbled, limping heavily, knocking over the chair beside the bed.
Then he saw a shadow outside.
His gaze snapped to the balcony—and there he was.
Moonlight poured over Cael like something divine. He stood quietly at the rail, arms folded, eyes distant.
Still here.
Rowan didn't think.
He surged forward, dragging his wounded leg behind him.
The door slammed open. Cael turned—
And Rowan crushed him in a trembling, desperate embrace.
"Rowan?!" Cael blinked, startled, feeling the way Rowan's arms wrapped around him as if he'd fall apart otherwise. "What are you doing up—you shouldn't move—your leg—!"
But Rowan didn't respond.
His chest was heaving. His body, usually so strong and composed, trembled violently. His skin was burning to the touch—his forehead slick with fever, his lips parted in soft gasps. The red flush climbed up his throat, his cheeks, his ears. His arms only tightened.
"Cael..." he whispered, voice hoarse and lost, "don't leave me... please..."
Cael froze.
He turned to face him—and his heart twisted.
Rowan looked broken. His eyes were unfocused, glistening with something dangerously close to tears. His beautiful face—sharp jaw, long lashes, that aristocratic nose—was flushed with heat and helpless longing. His robe had fallen open, exposing the bare line of his collarbone and the fever-pink skin below and his deadly defined muscles.
"You're burning up," Cael said, voice dropping. "You have a fever—your leg—Rowan, you need to be in bed—"
But then Rowan leaned in closer—closer still.
And without warning, his burning lips fell to Cael's.
A kiss.
Not of control or seduction, but of panic. Of desperation.