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The palace gardens at night were nothing like the day. By sunlight, they were a picture of perfect order—roses trimmed into neat arches, marble fountains gleaming, every path swept smooth by silent hands. But under the gaze of the moon, the order loosened. Shadows tangled with petals, the scent of roses turned headier, more intoxicating, and the quiet was broken only by the whisper of leaves and the soft splash of water.
Seraphina stepped onto the gravel path, her slippers crunching softly. She held her skirts with careful fingers, the silver silk catching faint threads of starlight. At her back, the echo of the ball still clung to her ears—music, laughter, whispers sharpened like knives.
She pressed a hand to her chest. The corset beneath her gown felt too tight, her breaths shallow. It was not the weight of jewels or the endless parade of noble faces that suffocated her. No. It was him.
Adrien.
Every moment she had felt his eyes on her, a chain pulling tighter around her lungs. Every step of that forbidden dance had burned into her skin, each turn searing her with the memory of his hand pressed firmly against her back.
Why is he doing this? she thought desperately, pausing at a rose arch heavy with blossoms. Why now, after all these years? Why when I am promised to his brother, and he to another?
The roses offered no answers. Their scent was too sweet, too cloying, stirring memories she had fought to bury—memories of a summer seven years past. A girl of fifteen, laughing in these very gardens. A boy with storm-dark eyes daring her to climb the fountain, daring her to steal fruit from the orchard. The thrill of running, of hiding from watchful eyes, of feeling alive in ways she never had before.
And that night. That single night when the world had gone still, when the air had smelled just like this—roses and stone and summer heat—and his lips had found hers. Awkward, breathless, stolen, yet it had carved itself into her soul so deeply that nothing had erased it since.
"Still chasing ghosts?"
The voice slid through the shadows like velvet stretched over steel.
Seraphina froze. Her fingers curled tightly into the folds of her gown, her throat dry. Slowly, she turned.
Adrien leaned against a marble pillar at the edge of the arch, half-hidden in shadow. The moonlight carved his face in sharp relief—angular cheekbones, a jaw set with dangerous calm, eyes glimmering like coals banked under ash. He was dressed still in black and crimson, the colors of war rather than peace, his cloak draped carelessly over one shoulder as though he belonged not at a betrothal feast but on some battlefield.
Her breath caught. He was older now, broader, his presence heavier, his beauty honed into something fierce and perilous. Yet in that instant she saw him as she had seven years ago, the boy who had stolen her breath under the roses.
"You should not be here," she whispered.
Adrien's lips curved—not in a smile, but in something sharper, darker. "Nor should you. And yet…" His gaze dragged over her, lingering on the shimmer of her gown, the line of her throat. "Here we are. Again."
Her heart thundered painfully. "If someone sees—"
"They won't." He pushed away from the pillar, his movements smooth, predatory. He stepped closer, each stride deliberate, until the shadows between them shrank. "They are too busy drinking themselves blind with toasts to alliances they barely understand."
Seraphina backed against the balustrade, her hands clutching the stone rail. "Adrien," she warned softly, though even to her own ears it lacked strength.
"Say my name again."
The demand sent heat curling down her spine. His voice was low, almost a growl, and something inside her ached at the command.
"Adrien," she breathed, unwilling and yet powerless to resist.
His eyes closed briefly, as if the sound itself undid him. When he opened them again, the storm inside was unmasked.
"You do not belong to him."
Her chest tightened, words tangling on her tongue. "I am betrothed—"
"To my brother," he cut in, his voice sharp. "Yes. I heard the queen's perfect speech. And I am betrothed to Evelyne, who would slit her own wrist before letting me forget it. But tell me, Seraphina—do you feel one heartbeat of love for him?"
Her lips parted, no answer forming. She wanted to deny it, to defend Lucien, who was kind and steady, undeserving of betrayal. But the truth caught in her throat, choking her.
Adrien's hand came up suddenly, catching her chin, tilting her face toward his. His touch was firm, calloused, searing through her skin.
"Do not lie to me," he whispered.
Her eyes burned. "You are cruel."
"Cruel," he echoed, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. "For wanting what was mine first?"
She trembled. The words struck deep, dragging the memory of their kiss to the surface. She had never spoken of it to anyone, had buried it like a dangerous jewel. But he remembered. Of course he remembered.
"You were a boy," she whispered. "And I was foolish."
His gaze darkened. He leaned closer, his breath hot against her cheek. "You were never foolish. You were mine."
Seraphina's breath trembled against the night air, her back pressed to the balustrade. Adrien's hand still cradled her chin, thumb grazing her lips as if he had every right to claim them. The scent of roses surrounded them, thick and dizzying, pulling her back to a summer she thought long buried.
"You were mine," he said again, softer this time, but no less fierce.
"Stop," she whispered. "You must stop this."
His eyes searched hers, a storm raging behind them. "Tell me you've forgotten. Tell me you walked into this palace and did not think of me once. Say the words, Seraphina, and I will stop."
Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. Her throat closed around the lie.
Adrien's jaw tightened. "I knew it." His hand slipped from her chin, but only to rest against the stone beside her, caging her between his body and the balustrade. His nearness was overwhelming—heat radiating through his cloak, his scent of leather and smoke, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
"You think I don't fight it?" His voice was low, rough, meant only for her. "Every day since I learned of your return, I have fought this hunger. I have let Evelyne drape herself on my arm, let the court whisper of our future, all while my mind burns with the thought of you. Do you know what it is to stand beside her and still see your face in every shadow?"
Her heart pounded wildly. "Adrien, please—"
"Please what?" His lips brushed close to her ear, his breath sending shivers down her neck. "Please stop? Or please don't?"
She closed her eyes, torn apart. The weight of her betrothal ring seemed to scorch her finger, the memory of Lucien's steady kindness pressing against her conscience. But then—Adrien's words, his voice raw with longing, his presence swallowing her whole.
"You are cruel," she whispered again, though her voice broke.
He drew back just enough to look at her, his gaze searching, aching. "No, Seraphina. I am desperate."
The confession silenced her. He had always been bold, sharp-tongued, reckless. But never desperate. The word scraped raw against her heart.
She swallowed, forcing strength into her trembling voice. "We cannot. You know this. You are bound to Evelyne. I to your brother. If anyone discovered—"
"Then let them," he said, fiercer now. "Let them burn me for treason, exile me, strip me of titles. Do you think I care for crowns and chains? I care only for you."
Her chest tightened painfully. "You speak madness."
"Madness?" His hand lifted again, brushing against her cheek, softer this time, reverent. "Perhaps. But I would rather be mad with you than sane without you."
Her lips trembled under his thumb. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and for one breathless moment, the world narrowed to that single point of closeness—the forbidden space between them, fragile as glass.
"Adrien…" Her voice cracked, both warning and plea.
"Say you want me to stop," he whispered, leaning closer, his lips barely a hair's breadth away. "Say it, Seraphina, and I will."
Her pulse thundered so loudly she thought the whole palace must hear it. She tried to form the words—stop, stop, stop—but they tangled with the memory of roses, of laughter, of the boy who had stolen her first kiss and the man who now threatened to steal her very soul.
The silence was her undoing.
Adrien's forehead pressed to hers, eyes closing as if the nearness itself was agony. His breath mingled with hers, shallow and ragged. For a moment, it seemed the kiss would come, inevitable, devastating.
But Seraphina's hand darted between them, trembling, pressing against his chest. Not a shove, not truly—more a desperate barrier.
"Don't," she whispered, though the plea was hollow. "Please, don't."
His heart pounded beneath her palm, wild and unrestrained. He opened his eyes, burning into her with a gaze that stripped her bare.
"You don't believe your own words," he said softly.
Her hand trembled against him. She wanted to deny it, to scream that she did. But instead her silence betrayed her again.
Adrien leaned closer still, his lips grazing her temple, the touch so light it could have been imagined. "This is only the beginning," he murmured.
The night was too quiet. Every breath, every heartbeat seemed deafening in the silence that stretched between them. Seraphina's hand still rested against Adrien's chest, her resolve fragile as glass, her pulse betraying her every lie. His hand lingered near her cheek, his touch reverent but unyielding, as though letting go of her would mean surrender.
And then—
Footsteps.
The crunch of gravel on the garden path. The faint bob of lantern light weaving through the rose arch.
Seraphina startled, pushing him back with sudden force. Her chest heaved, panic clawing at her throat. "Someone's coming," she whispered.
Adrien's eyes flicked toward the path, then back to her. His expression was unreadable, carved in shadow, but his jaw was set, his body taut like a predator unwilling to retreat.
"You must go," she urged, voice trembling. "If they see us—"
He didn't move. His gaze remained locked on hers, fierce, unrelenting. "Tell me you don't want me, and I'll leave."
Her lips parted, but the words refused to form. She tried—truly tried—to force them past her tongue. I don't want you. I never did. You are nothing to me. But the truth pressed harder, aching against her ribs, burning in her veins.
Adrien's lips curved, faint and dark. "That's what I thought."
The lantern light grew brighter, the footsteps nearer. Voices now—two servants, speaking of wine casks and the mess in the ballroom. Any moment, they would turn the corner.
Adrien leaned in, not to kiss her, but to breathe the words against her skin, hot and shattering. "This is not over, Seraphina. Not tonight, not ever."
Her breath caught, her body trembling with the force of him. Before she could answer, before she could even steady her shaking hands, he slipped into the shadows, vanishing into the night as silently as he had come.
The servants passed, their lanterns casting gold across the roses. Seraphina stood frozen, her gown brushing the stone balustrade, her pulse wild. To them, she was only a figure enjoying the air, the future crown princess lost in thought.
But she knew the truth.
Her lips still tingled where his thumb had traced. Her body still burned with the memory of his nearness. And her heart—traitorous, relentless—still beat to the rhythm of his voice.
This is not over.
She closed her eyes, gripping the cold stone rail as though it could anchor her. She was promised to Lucien, a crown waiting at her fingertips. Adrien was betrothed to Evelyne, a dagger in silk. To yield to him was to invite ruin, to shatter kingdoms, to betray everything she had been raised to honor.
And yet, standing in the moonlit garden, roses swaying in the night breeze, Seraphina knew with a terrible certainty: she could not escape him.
Not then. Not ever.