The sky outside the window began to change color, from pale blue to shades of orange and deep purple. The low afternoon sun pierced through the stained glass of the East Wing corridor, painting the marble floor with elongated patterns of light.

  Mira did not return to her room in the Sun Tower. She did not change out of her academy uniform. She left her slightly wrinkled blue blazer and the red paint stains from Laich Class on her shoulders.

  Her feet carried her to the only place in the palace where the door was always open to her, but closed to the world: the Prince's Private Reading Room.

  The guards in front of the double mahogany doors did not stop her. They did not even ask for permission. They simply bowed silently and opened the door, as if Mira's arrival was part of the inevitable rotation of the sun.

  Mira stepped inside. The room was warm. The fireplace in the corner burned with a steady magical flame, emitting no smoke, only comfortable heat. The scent of old paper, beeswax, and citrus filled the air.

  Arlen was there. He wasn't sitting behind his large, intimidating desk. He was sitting on a long leather sofa facing the large window, his back to the entrance. His formal robe was slung carelessly over the back of the chair. His white shirt was rolled up to his elbows, and his long legs were stretched out casually in front of him.

  He had a book in his hands, but he wasn't reading it. The book was closed on his lap. His head was leaning back, his eyes closed. He looked like a marathon runner who had just crossed the finish line and collapsed.

  Mira closed the door behind her with a soft click.

  Arlen's eyes opened instantly. They were electric blue, alert, before softening in a split second when he realized who had come in.

  “You didn't knock.” Arlen's voice was hoarse, low, and intimate. He didn't turn his head, but a slight smile was etched on his profile.

  “Do I need permission to enter my own sanctuary?” Mira replied, stepping closer. The sound of her footsteps was muffled by the thick carpet.

  Arlen chuckled. It was a tired but sincere laugh. “No. You're the only one who holds the key, Rhea.”

  Mira walked around the sofa and stood in front of Arlen, blocking the blinding afternoon sunlight from the Prince's eyes. Mira's shadow fell over Arlen, giving him shade.

  Arlen looked up, staring at her. The gaze was nonjudgmental. Non-demanding. He saw Mira's rumpled academy uniform. He saw her hair, slightly tousled by the afternoon breeze. He saw the red paint stain on the shoulder of Mira's blazer.

  “You look...” Arlen searched for the right word. His hand reached out, touching the hem of Mira's uniform skirt. “...messy. And beautiful.”

  “It's been a long day at the academy,” Mira said, allowing herself to relax. Her “fragile girl” mask slipped a little, replaced by honest exhaustion. “History is heavy, Arlen. Too many dates, too many dead people's names.”

  “That's why I hate history,” Arlen muttered. He shifted in his seat, making room next to him on the sofa. “Sit down. Stop standing there like a soldier reporting for duty.”

  Mira didn't sit next to him. She did something bolder. She put her book bag on the floor. Then she sat on the edge of the low table in front of the sofa, right between Arlen's outstretched legs. This position put their faces level, their knees touching.

  Arlen was momentarily stunned by the closeness, but he didn't pull away. On the contrary, he straightened his body, leaning forward, drawing closer to Mira's gravity.

  “There's a red stain on your shoulder,” Arlen touched the paint stain with his thumb. “Blood?”

  “Paint,” Mira replied. “From art class. A crazy painter told me that art is about honesty.”

  “Honesty,” Arlen snorted softly, his eyes darkening. “A rare commodity in this palace. More expensive than diamonds.”

  Arlen's hand slid down from Mira's shoulder to her neck. He touched the ribbon tie he had tied that morning. The knot was still there, perfectly neat, as if it were a sign of Arlen's ownership throughout the day.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  “You kept it neat,” Arlen whispered, his fingers playing with the end of the blue silk fabric.

  “I'm afraid I won't be able to tie it again if I let go,” Mira said softly.

  “Then let me untie it for you.”

  Arlen slowly pulled the end of the knot. The silk fabric slid off, freeing Mira's neck from the constraints of the uniform's formality. Mira exhaled deeply, her neck feeling lighter. Arlen placed the tie on the table, then carefully unbuttoned the top button of Mira's shirt with a very careful motion, not touching the skin, only the fabric.

  “Better?” Arlen asked, looking into Mira's eyes.

  “Much better,” Mira replied. “Now I can breathe.”

  Silence fell between them. But it wasn't an empty silence. It was a dense silence, filled with unspoken things.

  Mira stared at Arlen's face. This morning, he had tied Mira's tie. This afternoon, he had untied it. An intimate cycle. And behind those blue eyes, Mira saw the weight of hundreds of years of lies unknown to their owner. Arlen didn't know he was the king of a paper throne. He didn't know the blood in his veins might be stolen blood.

  Pity swelled in Mira's chest, mixed with something else—the urge to protect this man from the truth that would destroy him.

  Mira raised her hand. She brushed Arlen's golden hair from his forehead, tucking it behind his ear. Mira's fingers touched Arlen's hot temple. Always hot.

  “Do you have a fever?” Mira asked softly.

  “Always,” Arlen closed his eyes as he felt the cool touch of Mira's fingers. He rested his face on the girl's palm, like a big cat seeking affection. "The electricity inside me never sleeps, Rhea. It's always buzzing. Always burning."

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Like being burned by the sun from the inside,” Arlen whispered. “But when you touch me... it feels like cold water. Calm. Quiet.”

  Arlen opened his eyes, staring at Mira with an intensity that made her knees weak. "You are my damper, Rhea. I don't know what you do, what magic you use... but when you're near me, the storm in my head stops."

  Mira swallowed. It wasn't magic. It was resonance. The Intian from the two stars inside her absorbed Arlen's excess energy without her knowing it. They were a biologically perfect pair of batteries and conductors—a cruel fate.

  “I'm not a sedative, Arlen,” Mira said, her voice trembling.

  “You're more than that,” Arlen grabbed Mira's waist with both hands, pulling her closer, until Mira's knees were between Arlen's thighs. “You're the only real thing I have.”

  Arlen leaned down, resting his forehead on Mira's shoulder, right above the red paint stain. He inhaled the scent of Mira's neck deeply. The Prince's body, usually upright and dominant, was now curved, leaning completely on Mira. He surrendered his body weight.

  “Today the council of ministers debated the military budget for four hours,” Arlen muttered into Mira's shoulder, his voice muffled by the fabric of his blazer. “They want me to marry you as soon as possible to secure the Ashart alliance. They talk about you as if you were a commodity. I almost burned the conference table. But on the bright side, they support you over the other candidates.”

  Mira froze. She felt the tremors of anger in Arlen's body.

  “What did you say to them?” Mira asked.

  Arlen lifted his head. His face was only inches from Mira's. “I said... If even one more person calls you an ‘asset,’ I'll rip out their tongue.”

  Arlen's eyes glowed a dark blue. “You're not an asset, Rhea. You're not a political tool. You're my choice. My selfish choice.”

  Arlen's hand moved from her waist, up her back, then to the nape of Mira's neck. His grip was strong, possessive, yet desperate.

  “Tell me,” Arlen whispered, his eyes searching for certainty in Amber Mira's eyes. “Tell me you feel this too. Tell me I'm not alone in my madness in this ivory tower.”

  This was her moment. Mira could have lied. She could have given Arlene the sweet answer he was expecting. But her lips moved on their own, driven by an impulse that transcended her mission.

  “I feel it,” Mira whispered. And it was true. She felt the pull. The resonance. The pain of seeing Arlen so alone. “I feel your heat, Arlen. And I'm not running away.”

  That answer broke Arlen's last defense. He didn't ask anymore. He didn't wait anymore. Arlen pulled Mira's neck and brought their lips together.

  The kiss wasn't gentle like in fairy tales. It was hungry. Hot. Desperate. It felt like a storm finally touching the ground. Arlen's lips felt slightly rough, tasting of bitter coffee. There was a small sting that jumped when their skin touched.

  The kiss slowed, turning into wet, deep kisses, before Arlen finally released Mira's lips. Their breaths were ragged, mingling in the thin air. Their foreheads touched.

  “Rhea,” Arlen whispered her name like a prayer. His eyes were still closed. His hand stroked Mira's back in a soothing motion. “Stay here. Don't go back to your room. Stay here tonight.”

  Mira opened her eyes. She saw Arlen's face from point-blank range. She saw a man who had just surrendered his heart on a silver platter. And Mira was holding a knife behind her back.

  The guilt pierced her more sharply than before. Mira had succeeded. She had made her target fall completely in love. Arlen was now in the palm of her hand. But this victory felt like a defeat.

  “I'm here, Arlen,” Mira whispered, her fingers tracing the line of Arlen's jaw. “I'm not going anywhere.”

  Arlen opened his eyes. The electric blue was now clear, calm. The storm in his head had completely stopped. He smiled. The happiest smile Mira had ever seen.

  “Good,” Arlen said. He kissed Mira's forehead for a long time. “Because I don't plan on letting you go.”

  The sun outside the window finally set completely, leaving the room in the dim light of the fireplace. Their shadows merged on the wall. In the embrace of the Prince of Thunder, Rhea Ashart realized one terrible thing: She might be able to destroy this kingdom. But she wasn't sure she could destroy the man who was holding her now.

  And in the pocket of her blazer, Ulric's historical notes on “Stolen Blood” felt heavier, burning through the fabric, reminding Mira that this happiness was only a borrowed moment before the time bomb exploded.