The palace had long since quieted. The grand halls that usually hummed with whispers of courtiers and the clipped steps of servants now lay draped in stillness, broken only by the distant crackle of torches on their sconces. In her chamber, Sophia lay wide awake, the shadows on the ceiling unrelenting companions to the storm churning in her chest.
She had tried to sleep, tried to will her heart into calm, but her mind betrayed her. Every breath she took echoed with the image of Alexander—his sharp profile in the fading afternoon light, his hand trembling when she guided him to stand, his gaze dark and unreadable yet edged with something raw when he met her eyes. She had left his chamber then, left with dignity intact, but her soul had not walked away. It had remained, tethered to him, restless and aching.
Her gift, her curse...of hearing thoughts had haunted her all evening. The minds of those who drifted past her door, guards, servants, attendants, brushed against hers like fleeting drafts. But it was the echo of his mind that would not leave her. Silent in words, but not in weight. An ocean of pride, self-contempt, and unspoken longing that pressed against her own heart until she thought she might suffocate.
Why do you torment yourself so? she asked herself as she sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. The cold floor beneath her bare feet should have grounded her. It didn't.
The hour was indecent; she knew it. No proper lady—certainly not a princess consort—would cross to her husband's chamber unbidden, in the thick silence of midnight. Yet propriety meant little when one's heart was burning itself alive.
Sophia rose. She did not light a lamp. Darkness was her ally as she slipped from her room, her steps noiseless against the carpeted corridor. The guards at their posts stiffened but said nothing. Her mere glance was enough to silence any questions.
By the time she reached Alexander's door, her pulse was a furious drumbeat in her ears. For a moment, her hand hovered over the carved wood, trembling. What if he pushed her away? What if he saw her confession not as love but as charity to a broken man? That fear had stayed her tongue for weeks. But tonight, it could no longer contain her.
Sophia pressed the door open.
The chamber was cloaked in shadows, the embers of a dying fire casting faint orange light across the room. She saw him immediately—lying on the great bed, his frame half-propped by pillows, the covers drawn only to his waist. His eyes were open, dark in the firelight. He had not been sleeping.
"...Sophia?" His voice was low, rough, caught between astonishment and disbelief.
She didn't answer. The tempest within her had found its breaking point. With deliberate steps, she crossed the room, her silken night-robe whispering with each movement. She did not pause at his bedside; she did not offer an explanation.
She bent down and sealed her lips against his.
The contact was molten, stealing the breath from both of them. Alexander stiffened at first, his hand clutching the sheets as though the world had spun off its axis. But her insistence was undeniable, her lips moving against his with hunger she no longer cared to mask.
When at last she pulled back, breathless, his face was a war of emotions—shock, longing, fury, disbelief. His chest heaved, his composure shattered.
"What do you think you are doing?" he demanded, his voice ragged, not nearly as sharp as he intended.
Sophia met his eyes, her own gaze fierce with vulnerability. "I'm telling you what my lips could not before. I love you, Alexander. I need you—not the title, not the power, not the wounded prince the world whispers about. You."
His jaw tightened. The words seemed to wound him more than heal. "Do not dress pity in the guise of love, Sophia. I've no need for a woman's mercy. I won't be your burden."
The voices in his mind rose, bitter and jagged,
You'll tire of me. You'll regret this. She deserves a man whole, not broken.
Sophia's heart squeezed. She leaned closer, her fingers threading into his dark hair with a sudden, unyielding grip. His breath caught.
"You may be Prince," she whispered, her lips grazing the shell of his ear, "but tonight, you obey me."
His eyes widened. Powerless—that was what he felt. For the first time in his life, not because of his crippled legs, not because of pity, but because of the woman before him who refused to see weakness at all.
The air crackled between them.
Her mouth descended again, this time with a fire that demanded surrender. Alexander groaned against her lips, his restraint shattering as his arms—strong, though unsteady—wrapped around her waist, dragging her down atop him. The kiss deepened, consuming, their tongues tangling with desperation that had long simmered unspoken.
Sophia's thoughts roared, yet his mind was louder still. She wants me. God help me, she truly wants me.
His disbelief pierced her, but it only fed her determination. She kissed him harder, her body molding to his as though proving with touch what words could not. His fingers, hesitant at first, explored her back, the curve of her waist, as though afraid she would vanish.
When at last they broke apart, gasping, the silence between them was deafening. His forehead pressed against hers, his eyes searching hers as if trying to find the lie.
"There is no pity here," Sophia said softly, firmly. "There is only me, and you, and the truth I can no longer cage. I want you, Alexander Daxton. Every scar, every broken piece. I want them all."
His throat worked, his lips parting as though to argue. But when she shifted above him, pinning him into the pillows, her fingers still buried in his hair, the words died.
Powerless. Desired. Alive.
For the first time, the unwanted prince understood what it meant to be chosen.
And for Sophia, surrender was not weakness, it was the fiercest declaration of love she had ever made.