Chapter 3

Leon started visiting more frequently.

Sometimes, in the afternoon after he had dealt with his official duties, he would bring a chess set and invite me to a game.

His style of play was like the man himself: aggressive, decisive, and utterly ruthless, every move aimed at my destruction.

In the past, I would play with a self-destructive recklessness, willing to sacrifice everything for a mutual defeat.

Now, I had changed.

I would skillfully evade his attacks, retreating to advance and even sacrificing large swathes of my territory just to preserve a final, fragile lifeline.

"Your game has changed," he remarked meaningfully after one match, his eyes sweeping over the ravaged board.

I refilled his cup with wine, smiling. "I was foolish before, always trying to compete with Your Highness. Now I understand that simply being by your side to watch you command the board is a blessing in itself."

He lifted the chalice, his thumb tracing the warm curve of the silver as he stared at me. His gaze was so intense that it felt like it could burn through my skin to find the lie he knew must be hidden beneath.

I returned his stare with a look of tranquil purity. My eyes remained steady, clear, and utterly soft.

After a long moment, his throat moved as he swallowed, and he drained the cup in one go.

"These honey cakes you made are good." He set the cup down, gesturing to a plate of small cakes I had casually prepared.

I had made them for him on purpose.

I remembered my mother once telling me that to capture a man's heart, you don't necessarily have to capture his stomach, but you must make him accustomed to a taste that is uniquely yours.

That taste would become like the gentlest of poisons, seeping into his very bones until he was addicted and dependent.

"If Your Highness likes them, I will make them for you every day," I said with a gentle smile.

A low grunt of acknowledgment escaped him, his voice betraying neither pleasure nor anger.

But from that day on, the daily honey cakes became another reason for his visits.

He was no longer content with just afternoon visits. Sometimes, late at night, after finishing his work, he would step into my courtyard, looking weary.

Silently, he sat by the window, watching me as I warmed a pot of wine and set out a plate of cakes.

In the moonlight, the sharp lines of his profile seemed severe, but whenever he turned to look at me, the predatory edge in his gaze bled away, replaced by an unbidden tenderness.

He was beginning to fall for my "docility." He would freeze for a moment when I offered him a smile.

When I called his name in a soft voice, his eyes would soften to a degree that seemed impossible for the ruthless prince of Linoria, a man rumored to kill without remorse.

I knew my "taming" was beginning to take effect.

The turning point came on a night of thunder and rain.

When Leon arrived that evening, his face was a grim mask, and a thick stench of blood hung about him.

He had killed again, I guessed. As the sole heir to the King of Linoria, Leon was a man of immense privilege, but that also meant the number of people, both overt and covert, who wanted him dead was endless.

It wasn't mercy that kept him alive in a world of wolves. He had clawed his way to the throne through blood and steel.

He sat at the table in silence, downing cup after cup of strong liquor. I kept my questions to myself, simply sitting quietly beside him to refill his cup.

"Get out!" Leon barked, suddenly swatting my hand away, the cup shattering on the floor. Scarlet wine splattered across my dress like blooming blood-red blossoms.

I didn't move, only knelt to silently pick up the broken pieces.

"I told you to get out. Are you deaf?" he growled, and his voice was thick with a repressed anguish.

I looked up. He was a portrait of controlled violence, veins straining against his skin, his eyes burning red like a dying ember. He looked like a beast caught in a snare. "Your Highness," I said softly, "you're injured."

On his left arm was a gash so deep that the bone was almost visible, clearly a wound from the earlier fight. His violent movement had torn it open again, and fresh blood was seeping out.

He seemed to notice the pain for the first time. Glancing down at it, he let out a self-deprecating laugh. "A small cut like this won't kill me."

I stood up without another word, went into the inner room, and returned with the healing salve and clean bandages I always kept prepared.

When I came back out, he was leaning back in his chair, closing his eyes. His brow tightly furrowed, as if he were enduring immense pain.

I walked to his side and gently took his arm.

He snapped his eyes open, blazing with a feral lethality that slowly bled away the moment he realized it was me.

He remained motionless as I cleansed the torn flesh with water. I applied the powders and bound him in linen, my fingers moving with a grace that was both soft and deliberate. Every touch was a whisper of care.

When I finished, I looked up and met his complex gaze.

"Why?" he asked hoarsely. "Why didn't you take the opportunity to poison my wine or stab me through the throat with a hairpin? This would have been the perfect chance."

"Because I meant what I said, Your Highness," I replied and looked directly into his eyes, speaking each word with clarity. "I want to stay by your side."

He stared at me, dumbfounded, as if seeing me for the first time.

That night, he drank until he was senseless, muttering names I didn't recognize in his stupor. He was having a nightmare, thrashing and waving his arms like a helpless child.

I hesitated for a moment before I reached out and took his cold hand.

His struggles gradually subsided, and he gripped my hand tightly in return, as if it were his last lifeline. "Don't go," he murmured in his sleep.

In that instant, my heart, against my will, softened for a moment. But just as quickly, clarity returned.

"Don't blame me, Leon. You were the one who dragged me into this hell first. Now, I'm just collecting a little interest on the debt you owe me," I whispered.