ADHVAY'S POV

She has been around me for about a month now. And all I’ve done is watch her—every move she makes.

The way her fingers twitch around the gun tucked into her belt whenever someone steps too close to me.

The way she smiles—just a small, reluctant curve—at my stupid jokes.

The way her expression shifts for a single heartbeat when I move closer to her, like she’s losing control and catching herself again.

She talks to others, but she never crosses a boundary.

Not even once.

She broke a staff member’s hand because he entered without her permission—without announcing himself to me.

And the worst part?

I enjoyed it.

For the first time, after my mother, it felt like someone truly cared about me.

Not as a title. Not as a position.

But me.

And when she says my name, everything else fades—time, noise, breath.

There’s only her eyes.

Her eyes… a burning temptation I cannot look away from.

The feeling I have for her is ridiculously dangerous.

It’s not affection.

It’s an obsession.

I can’t stay away from her—not even for a minute.

I find myself peeking into her room like a thief, when I am supposed to be the king.

What the fuck did she do to me?

Years of discipline, sanity, and pride—everything I built around myself—

she reduced it to dust just by existing near me.

I wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

Not for anyone.

Yet here I am, chained to the sound of her footsteps,

the scent of her skin,

the goddamn shape of her silhouette under the dim lights.

And I don’t know if I want to be freed from it.

It’s not love.

Love is too soft, too fragile, too kind.

What I feel for her is a burning, territorial rage wrapped in longing.

I want her close—so close that the world stops existing around us.

When she walks away from me, even for a second, something inside me twists.

I am a man, who controls powerful people with just my look and yet one woman has the power to ruin me with a single step.

I watch her.

Not because I don’t trust her—

but because I don’t trust the world around her.

The world is careless.

Greedy.

Hungry.

They would touch what is mine if they could.

And that thought alone drives blood through my veins like fire.

If anyone ever lays a hand on her—

I will break them.

Not kill.

Break.

So slowly that they understand exactly who she belongs to.

And the worst part?

The terrifying part?

I know she has no idea.

She moves around me with discipline, duty, and distance.

She talks to me with that controlled voice.

She bows her head with respect.

And every time she does,

every time she chooses restraint—

my obsession folds tighter around her.

Because I want her to lose control first.

To look at me the way I already look at her.

Like I am her ruin.

And she is mine.

---

I had arranged  morning hand to hand combat  routine with her for a month now. Reason?

No one else in the palace could ever understand. To everyone, it was discipline, training, a prince keeping himself sharp.

But in truth, it was the only time I could be close to her without question. The one time she touches me by her choice. 

I fought men, who wanted to defeat me badly and I never backed down _ not for once. I won every single time.

But her gaze_ just her gaze_brings me to my knees. The only time she looks into my eyes is when I lose.

So yes, i lose on purpose.

If that is the price to keep her close to me, I will lose every damn time.

But today, something was different.

Her posture was perfect as always, shoulders squared, spine straight, gaze unwavering. Yet there was a heaviness in the air around her. I noticed the small tremor in her fingers when she tightened the strap of her wrist guard. I noticed the faint redness around her eyes.

But most of all, I noticed her breathing. Myra’s breath was always controlled, measured—one second inhale, one second exhale, as precise as the soldier she had trained herself to be. But today it took more than one second to inhale.

Why?

“Myra,” I said, stepping closer than necessary, “is everything alright?”

She answered almost too quickly. “Nothing, yo—” she caught herself, “Adhvay. I’m fine.”

She only ever called me by name when she sensed my temper, when I demanded honesty without raising my voice. The correction itself was an admission. I didn’t let her look away from me.

“I know how you breathe,” I said quietly, not accusing her, just stating what was true. “Something is wrong.”

She didn’t deny it. She just lowered her eyes, her silence revealing more than any explanation could.

I closed the small distance between us and lifted my hand to her cheek. The moment my skin touched hers, heat surged into my palm. Not warmth.

Fever.

The kind that comes from nights spent awake, pushing the body past its limits without allowing rest. The kind she would never speak of.

“You’re burning,” I said, unable to hide the shock or the anger that came with it. “You have a fever. Why did you come to practice?”

She didn’t flinch. “It’s alright, Adhvay. I am used to it.”

As if that excused anything.

She tried to step back, but I moved with her, refusing to allow the distance to grow. “I don’t care what you’re used to,” I said, my voice low, quiet but unyielding.

“You are with me now. You don’t get to neglect yourself. You will rest. Today you take leave.”

She lifted her chin, stubborn to the bone. “No. You have to go out today, the event—”

Before she could finish, I placed my hand gently over her mouth— to silence her,  to stop her from sacrificing herself for my responsibilities. Her breath was hot against my palm, too hot. My heart clenched at the realization of how much pain she must have been enduring without a single word of complaint.

“How can you be this careless with yourself Myra?” I whispered,  anger—ache.

Her eyes widened—because of my words, because of the tenderness in them. And in that moment, something inside her shifted.

The hardened sharpness she always wore around me softened, as if a piece of armor slipped and fell away. Her gaze turned warm—gentle—so full of something I had no right to hope for.

And God, the way my chest tightened…

It felt like my heart was being re-shaped by the way she looked at me.

But just as quickly as it appeared, the softness vanished. Her expression straightened, composed itself, returned to its soldier’s steadiness.

“As you command,” she said quietly. “I will take rest.”

I nodded, though every instinct inside me fought the urge to pull her back, hold her there, keep her close.

“I’ll send medicine to your room. And food. And you will rest, Myra.”

She bowed her head in acknowledgment and turned to leave.

And I stood there watching her walk away—feeling something dangerously close to desperation tightening in my chest.

I had to leave for a children’s trust fund matter. It was unavoidable. Important. Required.

One hour.

Just one.

Then I would return to her.

And this time, I wouldn’t allow her to hide behind discipline or duty.

Not from me.

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