Chapter seven.

(Yeah yeah, I know the change in writing .)

Melus's POV.

I felt like exhaustion had taken up permanent residence in my bones. My body was used up, wrung out, and utterly drained. In these past few weeks, I hadn't had a single moment to truly rest. My little brother, with his unrelenting irresponsibility, had driven me to the brink of rage. But amid my exhaustion and frustration, something caught my eye. My chambers—they looked different, not quite right, as if some invisible hand had rearranged them.

Normally, I might have brushed off the odd feeling that something had shifted in my chambers, chalking it up to my own tiredness or stress. But when I encountered a new maid tending to my quarters, the question niggled at me: why had my father seen fit to switch out the chambermaids? A small change like that could have been meaningless, a mere whim of my father's, but it added to the disquieting sensation that something was off.

The new maid met my gaze with a puzzled look, as if trying to decipher my question. She seemed unsure how to respond, and my concern grew. "The young boy who tended to my chambers," I said, my voice firm with a tinge of unease. "Where is he?"

Her words hit me like a physical blow. "He slipped from the stairs," she said, her voice low with concern. "It happened last week." My mind raced. The young boy had been serving me since my earliest memories, his presence a constant in my chambers. To hear that he had fallen and been replaced without my knowledge sent a chill down my spine. Something was amiss.

While I felt a pang of concern for the young boy, my own indifference toward him left me wondering if I was missing something deeper. Yet, something compelled me to find him, to see for myself. Perhaps it was the mystery of his disappearance, or the fact that he had always managed to stir up my emotions in some way. Whatever the reason, I decided to seek him out, if only to satisfy my growing unease.

I wasted no time in making my way to the boy's chambers, a sense of purpose driving me forward. When I arrived, I found him lying in bed, a white cloth resting upon his brow, and his head swathed in bandages. The extent of his injury was unclear, but the sight of him laid up like this sent an uneasy flutter through my chest.

Even in the midst of slumber, his breathing came slow and shallow, a thin veil over the edge of unconsciousness. I found myself drawn to the chair beside his bed, settling myself down in its embrace. My gaze lingered on him, as if my eyes could somehow will him back to health, to wakefulness, where the mysteries of his injury might be revealed. And as I sat there, in the silent stillness of his chambers, I felt myself wrestling with an unnamed emotion, something that swirled in the depths of my being.

My fingers brushed against his skin, his hand cold to the touch, but warming as our flesh met. I allowed myself to linger, to feel the heat that flowed between us, but all the while, a niggling doubt tugged at my mind. How could the boy have been so careless, so clumsy, as to tumble down the stairs? He was always so steady, so meticulous in his work. Something about this accident felt off-kilter, like a puzzle piece that refused to fit.

Swiftly, I drew my hand back, schooling my features into the mask of sternness I had long worn. If he noticed the fleeting tenderness, the trace of concern, it would upset the natural order of things. He must not glimpse the cracks in my facade. Slowly, as if even this motion was a struggle, he sat up, his hand reaching to his temples, likely attempting to soothe the ache that no doubt had begun to throb there.

"My Prince," he murmured, his voice still rough with sleep. "What are you doing here?"

"Your clumsiness has truly surpassed all expectations," I said, my voice cold as ice. "How could you let yourself fall down the stairs? Explain yourself, if you can." The boy's head dipped lower, his expression a mosaic of shame and confusion.

"Forgive me, My Prince," he whispered. "I and your little brother had decided going to the garden later that night, I don't know how my footing gave out on me."  He replied.

The mention of my brother sent a shiver down my spine, a chill that had nothing to do with the room's temperature. The bond that had formed between the two of them—between the boy and my brother—was like a thorn in my side, jabbing and jabbing.

The two of them had connected in a way that I had never been able to. They shared a bond, a camaraderie that seemed to elude me. And in that moment, as I watched the boy lying in bed, fragile and broken, a part of me wondered what it was about my brother that captured his heart so effortlessly. Was it his easy charm? His infectious laughter? Or perhaps it was something else entirely, something that I was blind to.

He met my gaze, his eyes searching for something I could not name. Did he realize his importance to me, I wondered? Or was he merely questioning my presence here, in his quarters? In a moment of vulnerability, perhaps brought on by the lingering effects of his fall, I reached for his hand, wanting to offer some small gesture of comfort. But he pulled away, as swift as a startled bird taking flight, and a pang of hurt welled up inside me. Was it distaste for my touch, or did he fear the intimacy it implied?

His words were barely a whisper, yet they filled the room with a palpable awkwardness. "I haven't bathed," he repeated, his face flushed a rosy hue. "I apologize for the smell. I didn't expect company." His eyes darted around the room, anywhere but at me, and I couldn't help but wonder if there was more to his embarrassment than mere hygiene. Perhaps it was the intimacy of his situation that made him uncomfortable, being confined to his bed while I stood tall and well.

Like a long-forgotten memory returning with a vengeance, the thought of My games came rushing back into my mind, twisting and turning, probing for some deeper meaning. My games had been a pastime, an innocent diversion that served as a balm for my boredom. But I knew, deep down, that the stakes had always been different for the boy. To him, they were moments of rare connection, a chance to bask in my presence, even if it was only fleeting.

As the words slipped from my lips, a devilish grin tugged at the corners of my mouth. "I can help you undress," I repeated, my voice light and teasing. I watched his eyes widen in surprise, and a flush of color spread across his cheeks. Was it my presence, the suggestion of being undressed, or the memories of my games played that had caused this reaction?

Whatever the reason, I found myself relishing the power I held over him in this moment, teasing and testing the boundaries that had always existed between us.

His eyes grew round with alarm, as if I had suggested something scandalous, something that couldn't possibly be uttered aloud. With a jerky shake of his head, he denied my offer, his body tensing as if bracing for an attack. But even as his lips formed the word "No", there was a hint of hesitation in his voice, as if he were caught between wanting to please me and wanting to preserve his modesty.

My voice was calm, almost coaxing, as I spoke. "Look," I said, drawing out the word. "I'll help you undress, and then I'll call for the maid to draw your bath. That way you can bathe and be fresh and clean, and you won't have to worry about anything." As I spoke, I leaned closer to him, my fingers ghosting over his shoulder in a gesture of reassurance. He stiffened, his eyes darting to meet mine, and I could see the conflict playing out behind his gaze.

As my fingers moved methodically over his buttons, deftly undoing each one, his breathing grew heavier, the rise and fall of his chest causing his skin to brush against mine. I could feel the warmth of his body radiating through his clothing, and the sensation sent a shiver down my spine. Yet I continued, focused on the task at hand, pretending not to notice the tension that was building with each passing moment. His body seemed to seek out mine, as if drawn by some invisible force, and I could feel the heat pooling in my stomach as our proximity became more and more intimate.

My hands continued their work, moving lower to the waist of his trousers, my fingers brushing against his skin as I began to undo the fastenings. But suddenly, he grabbed my hands in his, a flush of embarrassment coloring his cheeks as he shook his head, trying to shake me off.

"My Prince, please!" he begged, his voice a mixture of panic and pleading. "I cannot let you do this!" His fingers gripped my hands tightly, as if he could halt the flow of time itself and undo this transgression.

His words were determined, yet tinged with an undercurrent of vulnerability. "I'll do it myself," he repeated, his eyes flashing with a sudden fire. "Please, My Prince, let me preserve my dignity." It was almost as if he was bargaining with me, a negotiation of sorts, as if by giving up this small act of control, he could regain some semblance of self-respect. And yet, as he turned away to unbutton his trousers, his body still seemed to betray him, shaking slightly with a mixture of fear and excitement.

In that moment, the door swung open, and the maid's presence filled the room. I stood up with a practiced air of indifference, straightening my clothes and smoothing my hair, while the boy's eyes darted to the floor, as if suddenly finding the pattern of the rug to be the most fascinating thing in the world. The maid, seemingly oblivious to the tension that had just been simmering in the air, curtsied to me with a polite smile.

My words sounded stilted, formal even, as I made my way towards the door. "I'm glad to see that you're on the mend," I said, a small, strained smile tugging at my lips. "Please return to your duties when you're well enough." And with that, I turned and exited the room.

Embarrassment warred with frustration in my mind. The game had been foolish, reckless even. And yet, despite my regret, a small part of me was eager for the exhilaration it had brought. The thrill of taking risks, of pushing boundaries, of exploring something forbidden—it was intoxicating. But now, with the maid's interruption and the boy's obvious discomfort, I was left reeling.

My thoughts were a tempest as I strode through the palace, trying to make sense of the tangled web of emotions I'd spun for myself. And then, like a ghostly apparition, my brother, Prince Evan, appeared before me, his presence a lightning strike of discomfort in my already stormy mind. He seemed to be hanging on my every movement, like a shadow that never strayed far. His newfound closeness to me was both a blessing and a curse, a gift that felt strangely unearned. How could someone who had been so distant suddenly become so attached?

His words were a whisper of insinuation, his tone dripping with a hint of mockery. "You in the servants' quarters? That's not like you," he said, his voice like the caress of a snake. "It seems that something has caught your attention." I could feel the insinuation in his words, a not-so-subtle implication that left me bristling with indignation. But as I stepped back, trying to distance myself from his proximity, his gaze remained fixed on me, unrelenting and oddly possessive.

The lie fell from my lips easily, a convenient smoke screen to hide the truth of my actions. "I went to check on the boy you've grown fond of," I continued, my voice careful, calculating. "I don't know his name, but I heard that he fell down the stairs when you were with him. How unfortunate." My expression was sympathetic, my eyes wide with feigned concern, but beneath the surface, my heart was racing. If he suspected my true motives, I didn't want him to see it on my face.

"Right, anyways father said I should come summon you, there's something he needs to discuss with you." He replied.

My brother's nonchalance was infuriating, a slap in the face to my already bruised emotions. I knew there was something odd about the situation—the boy's injury, my brother's lack of concern—and yet I couldn't quite put my finger on it. His hand on my arm was like a brand, an unwelcome intimacy, as he guided me towards the throne room. I shot him a glance, my eyes flickering with questions I dared not ask. Why didn't he care about the boy?

***

"Your coming of age draws near," my father intoned, his voice a rumble of power and tradition. "And I have chosen a bride for you." A bride. The word hung in the air, heavy and strange, and yet I nodded my acceptance. But in that moment, I felt my brother's grip tighten on my hand, the pressure of his fingers an unspoken protest.

"Did he say he wants to get married?" my brother demanded, his voice a maelstrom of indignation.

My father's voice was firm, the weight of tradition settling upon his shoulders like a mantle of duty. "Evan, you know that he must be wed to take the throne."

But my brother would not be deterred, his grip tightening with each word. "But did he say it himself?" he countered, his eyes flashing with a fierce determination.

"Yes," I said, stepping into the fray to defend my brother's position. "I did."

My brother's words were a dagger, piercing my heart with their raw vulnerability. "You never told me," he whispered, his face crumpling like paper in a strong wind. And in that moment, the light of truth dawned on me. He had grown too attached to me, nurtured an attachment that I had only ever teased him with.

"You aren't going to love her more than me, will you?" he pleaded, his eyes brimming with unshed tears.

"No!" I exclaimed, my voice ringing with certainty. "I would never love anyone more than you." And with that, I stood and crossed the space between us, enveloping him in an embrace that was both comforting and unfamiliar. He clung to me as if I were his lifeline, his body trembling against mine.

Our father watched with a furrowed brow, the silence of the throne room only broken by our hushed whispers.

The moment stretched on, an uneasy accord settling in the air. My brother's grip remained strong, a silent protest against the world that seemed to conspire against him. And as he clung to me, I could feel the walls of tradition and duty closing in, threatening to suffocate us both.

At last, I broke the embrace, turning to face our father. "As soon as she arrives, I'll be ready to welcome her," I said, my words measured and diplomatic.

The decision to settle down had been a means of salvaging my reputation, a way to appease the disapproving gaze of my father and the court. But the weight of Evan's grasp, his hand clinging to mine like a child, spoke of something deeper, something that had been brewing for far too long. He was possessive, needy, and I could not help but wonder if my games had stoked a flame within him that I could no longer control.

My tone shifted, growing more authoritative, as I sought to free myself from his grasp. "Look," I said, mustering the gravity of my position. "I need to rest. And I think it's time you checked on that boy. Remember, he fell while with you. How do you think he feels with you absent?"

"I don't care," he replied. "He slipped on his own. It's his fault."

The distance between me and my brother grew, the echo of his footsteps fading into the silence of the corridor. And yet, even with him gone, the question refused to be silenced. Was this still just a game? Or had my own actions, my own insatiable hunger for something more, twisted the rules beyond recognition?

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