After helping Christopher lie down, Wellesley turned to leave—intent on calling the servants to assist in changing his bloodied clothes and standing by him through the night, as befitted someone of his stature. But just as she moved, a sudden grip tightened around her wrist.
"Stay," Christopher murmured, his voice low but firm.
Startled, Wellesley glanced over her shoulder. Her composure wavered when she saw the look in his eyes—not commanding, not pleading, just a quiet request veiled beneath fatigue.
"Accompany me," he said again, softer this time.
Wellesley froze. That single sentence struck her harder than any spell she'd ever cast. But before she could respond, Christopher continued, his voice flat—almost mechanical.
"Don't overthink it. Nothing will happen. We'll just sleep. That's all. Just sleep."
Had it been any other man, Wellesley would have blasted him into the nearest wall. But this was Christopher—prince of the empire. And more importantly, this was not the Christopher she thought she knew. The air around him felt heavier tonight, as though a storm churned quietly beneath the surface. Unreadable, unpredictable.
He wouldn't… not the Christopher I know. He's too proud. Too bound by nobility.
Yet tonight, she couldn't quite predict his next move. He felt untethered—like a man on the edge of something.
She hesitated. Not because she feared him, but because she feared the aftermath. If she shared his bed, if she gave even a sliver of herself—and he returned to his usual cold self by morning… Would she survive that ache?
Still, she nodded silently. Because despite her fears, she trusted him more than she feared heartbreak.
She slid under the sheets beside him, trying her best to maintain a respectable distance. But Christopher had no intention of entertaining that idea. With a lazy but decisive tug, he pulled her close. Wellesley sucked in a sharp breath as her back met his chest, the heat of his breath grazing her ear.
She stiffened. Her limbs refused to obey. Her heart beat far too loudly for her liking. She waited—for a move that never came.
Slowly, she turned her head. His face, so close to hers, was utterly at peace. Eyes shut.
Breathing deep.
He was asleep.
Relief washed over her, uncoiling the knot in her stomach. A small, involuntary smile tugged at her lips. With a barely audible sigh, she let her eyes fall shut and drifted into sleep.
Some time later, the room was filled only with the soft rustle of curtains and the steady cadence of Wellesley's breathing.
Christopher's eyes opened.
He turned slightly, watching her face as though memorizing it.
"See?" he whispered. "That's how it's done."
A dry voice echoed within him almost instantly. "How what's done? All you did was take a nap beside a woman. Congratulations, Casanova."
Christopher rolled his eyes. "I swear, can I not have one moment without your peanut gallery commentary?"
"Sure, once you stop pretending you're some kind of ladies' man just because you managed not to scare her off."
"It's called subtle charm," Christopher replied with a smirk. "You wouldn't know anything about that."
"No. I know about battle tactics, political leverage, and honor. You, on the other hand, seem to think 'laying still' counts as seduction."
"Tsk. That's your problem—you think everything in life can be conquered with a sword. Women are… an art."
"Oh, now you're an expert?"
"Absolutely. I've studied the subject thoroughly."
"What subject?"
"Girls," he said plainly.
"…Girls?" The voice sounded genuinely baffled.
Christopher smirked. "Yes. The enigmatic mystery every man claims he can't solve. I solved it."
"You solved nothing. She likes us. Always has. Why are we suddenly jumping through hoops to impress her?"
Christopher's smirk vanished, his tone turning somber.
"Because love isn't static. It has conditions—even if no one admits it. She's been loyal for two years. You treated her like an asset. Cold.
Disposable. But now that we need her..."
"I never asked for her affection."
"And that's exactly the problem," Christopher snapped quietly. "You didn't ask. You took. Used her loyalty. Never gave anything back."
"So what? Now you want to play the hero? Woo her with bedtime stories?"
"No," he said, voice low. "I want her to know we don't want her because she's useful. I want her to know we need her because she's her. That we want her love—not her magic, not her status. Her."
"Ugh. You sound like one of those minstrels."
"Maybe. But you tell me something,"
Christopher said, eyes narrowing. "Say you had a sworn enemy for years. One day he shows up all smiles, all friendly. Would you trust him?"
"Of course not. He's hiding something."
"Exactly. That's how she'll feel if we suddenly act like we care. She'll think we're scheming."
"…So?"
"So we have to prove we aren't. Slowly. Gently. We make her feel safe, not suspicious. That's the only way to keep her beside us."
"You're putting in a lot of effort for someone you barely acknowledged before."
"Because now I understand," Christopher murmured. "She's not just important. She's the lynchpin. The one thing they'll try to take from us. And when they do… we'll lose more than just a battle."
"…You're too sentimental."
"You're too dumb. Go to sleep."
"Gladly." The voice sighed. "Wake me when there's a sword to swing."
Christopher chuckled under his breath and turned back toward Wellesley. Her fingers had curled slightly in sleep, brushing against his chest. He watched her for a moment longer, then let sleep take him, too.