"Just give it to him yourself," he said smoothly in a voice carrying that faint edge of mockery. "He is right behind you."
Emira froze. For a moment, she couldn’t even breathe. Slowly, as though she was afraid of confirming what she already sensed, she turned her head. And there he was.
Standing only a few steps away, expression carved from ice, stood Prince Kael.
Emira felt the terror slide through her veins like cold water. She didn’t even understand why it always happened with him. With Prince Zen, she could speak- hesitant, yes, but words came to her eventually. Around Prince Kael, her voice threatened to vanish entirely. It was as though the very air thickened when he walked into the room.
Even though he had saved her more than once, his presence held no warmth. It pressed down on her like the weight of a storm about to break. Prince Zen was the hunter, the one who delivered punishment swiftly and brutally. But maybe because of the facade he wore, she found it easier to talk to him. But Prince Kael... he looked like someone who could kill without ever letting the flicker of emotion pass across his face.
Emira had no idea how close to the truth this feeling was as she stared wide eyed at the Prince.
"Little fire? Did you freeze?" The soft amusement in Prince Zen’s tone made her flinch. Emira shook her head quickly, the movement jerky, unsure if she had just been mocked.
"Then aren’t you going to greet the prince?"
Emira’s eyes flew wide. Her heart lurched, and she scrambled down to her knees so quickly she almost tripped over her own skirt. "Greetings, your highness," she said in a rushed trembling voice, "I...I am sorry."
From her place on the floor, she could see only the hem of his black coat as he moved. The prince strolled forward with the kind of unhurried grace that made her heart pound louder. He didn’t speak as he passed her, only went to the couch beside Prince Zen and lowered himself into it like a king taking his throne.
The silence stretched until finally, in a voice cold enough to make her shiver, he said, "What does Emira want to give me?"
She stilled at the sound of her name on his tongue. The prince knew her name? The thought shot through her, a small, guilty warmth, chased almost immediately by the sharper sting of fear. She forced the feeling down, her fingers curling against her knees.
"Your highness..." Her voice caught. She swallowed and tried again, softer this time. "I wanted to thank you. I made... a gift."
Her eyes stayed fixed firmly on the floor. Only the black shine of his shoes remained in her vision, unmoving, waiting as she raised her hand up, to offer the string to him.
He made no movement to take it from her hand, letting her sit there with her hands raised in offering and her head bowed.
"Come here."
The words were quiet, but they carried a weight that made her flinch. Emira hesitated, unsure of getting too close to him, then slowly started to rise to her feet.
"I did not tell you to stand."
She froze.
Her knees were already half off the ground, but at his voice, she sank back down at once, feeling heat rush to her face. The silence in the room pressed around her like a heavy cloak as she realized what he meant. He was waiting for her to come to him like this. On her knees.
For a moment she wanted to protest and shake her head in defiance. But one glance at the unmoving figure on the couch silenced the thought before it could form. It would be foolish of her to challenge this man.
She shifted forward, the rough carpet brushing against her knees with every movement as she crossed the space slowly, feeling the weight of both princes’ eyes on her. Each small push forward made her heart beat harder until finally, she reached him. She stopped when she was kneeling right before him, close enough that the tips of her fingers nearly brushed his boots.
Emira hesitated, her pulse leaping, but she obeyed. She shifted forward again on her knees, small, careful movements carrying her over the space until she was no longer just near his boots but directly between his legs, his powerful thigh on each side of her head.
"Look at me," he said.
Her head jerked up slightly before she caught herself, eyes rising only enough to see the dark fabric of his clothes rather than his face. It was easier this way, easier not to drown under that cold golden stare.
He leaned back slightly, one arm resting on the armrest, his expression unreadable as he looked down at her. For a moment, he said nothing, and the silence stretched until it was almost unbearable.
Then he moved.
One gloved hand reached out, and before she could react, he took her wrist. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it was firm enough that she froze completely as he guided her hand closer, lifting it so the little string she had made dangled just above his own wrist.
"If you made it," his voice was soft, but there was something in it that made her hold her breath, "then put it on yourself."
Her fingers trembled as she obeyed, fastening the string around his wrist as carefully as she could. She felt the faint warmth of his skin beneath the glove, the steady thrum of his pulse under the leather, and it made her hands shake harder.
The whole time he didn’t move or speak, but she could feel him watching her with a cold and heavy stare.
When she finally drew her hands back, he didn’t thank her or even look at the string. He simply released her wrist and leaned back again, leaving her kneeling there, unsure if she was supposed to move away next or stay there, in this position to serve.