She had already turned to leave when Damien, with surprising strength for someone on the verge of collapsing, reached out and grabbed her hand. The sudden movement triggered another flare of pain, and he winced so hard his eyes watered.
"You cannot," he said through gritted teeth, his grip tight on her wrist.
"Damien..." she breathed.
"No one can know," he said.
"Does that mean this has been happening frequently?" free.w e bn.ov(e)l(.)com
"That’s not what I mean," he muttered. "Just... an ill prince stirs a lot of drama I don’t have time for."
Luna’s shoulders dropped. She understood politics more than she cared to admit. But that didn’t stop the frustration from rising in her chest. "You stubborn, overdramatic idiot," she muttered, taking his arm gently.
He didn’t resist as she helped him, guiding him. He leaned against her, his body heavy but trusting.
"You’re too proud for your own good," she added, grunting under his weight as she got him to the edge of the bed.
"I have a reputation to uphold," he muttered weakly, attempting a smirk that melted into a grimace.
"You can uphold it lying down, thank you very much."
She eased him onto the bed and reached for the buttons of his shirt.
"What are you doing?" he asked, groggy but alert enough to raise an eyebrow.
"Relax. I’m not trying to seduce you, Prince Charming. You have too many clothes on."
She worked the buttons open with deft fingers, not missing the way his breathing hitched. Her hands brushed the smooth skin of his chest, and for a moment, everything was still.
He looked up at her. "Luna..."
She swallowed, her hand pausing on the last button. "Yes?"
He closed his eyes without speaking, resting his head back on the pillow. He couldn’t say, he couldn’t tell her. f\r(e)ewe.b no\vel.com
She exhaled and pulled the covers over him, brushing a hand over his hair.
"I’m staying tonight," she whispered, getting in beside him.
A faint smile played on Damien’s lips.
"I need to be sick more often," Damien teased. The words were playful, but there was a softness in them, a crack in the walls he’d built around himself. He let out a small laugh, but the sound was strained.
Luna glanced at him, a smile tugging at her lips, though her eyes softened with concern. "Don’t get used to it." She leaned in to adjust the blanket around him, her fingers lingering on his skin just a moment too long, as if she were trying to memorize the feel of him beneath her touch. "If you need anything..." she added, as if offering him her heart in that single sentence.
He snuggled closer to her, his arm winding around her waist, pulling her tighter as though he couldn’t get close enough. "I need you to just be," he murmured, his words half-drowned in sleep. It was a simple request, but it held the weight of everything unsaid between them. His breath was warm against her neck, a steady rhythm that lulled her into a peaceful stillness, even as her mind remained restless.
Luna ran her hand through his hair, fingers caressing the softness of his dark locks, trying to soothe the storm inside both of them. Her touch was gentle. Before long, Damien’s breathing evened out, his face relaxing.
She stayed there, holding him, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. She thought about how peaceful he looked, how different he seemed when the world wasn’t weighing on his shoulders. He was a good man. A good mate. She was certain of that. But the weight of fate felt heavier than ever. Neither of them had asked for this—this cruel twist of fate that had thrown them together only to place insurmountable obstacles in their path. It wasn’t either of their fault, and yet it was them who had to suffer. A helpless knot twisted in her stomach.
"I’m sorry, Damien," she whispered softly into the quiet room, though she wasn’t sure he could hear her.
The sun was barely peeking over the horizon when Seliora stirred from her bed. She rose quickly, as if the day itself was calling to her, demanding her attention. She dressed quickly, each movement purposeful, each layer of clothing a symbol of her determination.
As she entered the prince’s castle, her heart raced as she approached the prince’s chambers.
She stepped into the kitchen, her eyes widening at the sight of Damien, his back to her as he flipped something in a pan. There was a strange sense of normalcy to the scene—something about him making breakfast was so... human.
"Your highness!" she exclaimed, the words slipping out before she could stop them. Her eyes widened as she glanced over the spread of simple foods on the counter. "Do you need me to send a message to the kitchen?"
Damien turned. He smiled slightly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was a heaviness to him, a shadow that never quite left his gaze. "No. I told them not to bother this morning," he said, waving her off, as if dismissing her concern as easily as one might brush aside a stray hair from their face.
"But..." Seliora hesitated, her gaze flickering nervously.
"I wanted to make breakfast for..." His voice trailed off. He stopped, not wanting to offend her.
"I understand. I came to tell you that my fertile week begins tomorrow." Her eyes searched his face, seeking a hint of what he was thinking, but Damien had long mastered the art of guarded expressions.
"Oh? Uh...tomorrow... right. Okay. Sure." The words fell out of him awkwardly. Okay. Sure. He was saying yes to duty, not desire, and the hesitation in his tone didn’t go unnoticed. He managed a smile, one of those tight-lipped, princely ones.
But inside? Inside he was unravelling. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Except one thing.
With every molecule of his cursed, dying body. fr\eewe.bn(o)v\el.c(o)m
He loved her when she glared at him. He loved her when she walked away from him. He loved her when she held him.
And he wanted a child—with her. Not Seliora.