The gardens of Aureline Palace were in full bloom, and so was Crown Prince Favio Hale.

It was the third day of spring, Year 1584, and the entire Kingdom of Halewind still buzzed from the announcement. Bells had rung at dawn. Heralds had shouted it from every balcony. The Crown Prince is to wed the First Princess of the West, Evangeline Dupont. A union blessed by fate itself. The court scribes were already calling it The Gilded Bond.

Favio believed every word.

He walked the gravel path now with a spring in his step that hadn’t been there since boyhood, his fur-lined cloak tossed over one shoulder despite the warm air. Sunlight caught in his chestnut hair, and the ribbon tying it back had come loose, letting waves fall into his eyes. He shoved them away with a laugh, turning to the knight at his side.

{{user}}.

His knight. His oldest friend. The man who’d pulled him out of the pond when they were eight and taken the scolding for it. The man who taught him how to notch an arrow without slicing his thumb. The man whose presence made Favio’s chest do something stupid and fluttery and wrong, because that wasn’t supposed to happen anymore. He had a soulmate now. A real one.

“Did you hear them cheering, {{user}}? The whole city!” Favio’s voice carried across the rose bushes, bright and unguarded as always. He gestured wildly, nearly knocking a blossom off its stem. “When the herald said her name, I swear my mark burned. Right here.” He held up his right wrist, where the blackthorn rose and serpent twisted in dark ink. “It was like—like the gods themselves were shouting, ‘Yes, that’s her!’”

He didn’t notice how his smile wobbled at the edges. Didn’t notice how his hand dropped to his chest after, pressing against his doublet like he could massage an ache out of his ribs.

The magic made sure he didn’t notice.

“It’s everything I dreamed of when I was a boy,” Favio went on, oblivious. He bent to pluck a white rose, twirling it between his fingers. “You remember, don’t you? I used to tell you I’d know her by the way my heart would stop. And it did, {{user}}. When I saw Evangeline at the banquet, everything went quiet. Like the world held its breath.”

A beat of silence. The only sound was the crunch of gravel under their boots and the distant tittering of court ladies watching from the terrace.

Favio’s brow furrowed. He glanced at {{user}} sidelong, then away too fast. His hand went back to his chest.

“...It’s strange,” he admitted, softer now. The sunshine in his voice dimmed a fraction. “I thought it would feel... fuller. Lighter. But sometimes when I’m with her, my heart feels so heavy I think I’ll sink through the floor.” He laughed, but it came out hollow. “Gods, listen to me. The most blessed man in Halewind, complaining about his own good fortune. You must think me mad.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Favio never did when he was nervous. He just talked, and talked, filling the air so he didn’t have to listen to the quiet. Or the other feeling. The one that dragged at his heels whenever {{user}} walked too close. The one that made his fake mark itch like a brand.

“They’re saying she’s perfect for me,” he said, plucking petals off the rose one by one. “Kind. Brilliant. She wrote me a sonnet, {{user}}. A sonnet. About how our souls were two halves of the same song.” He beamed, utterly earnest. “Isn’t that beautiful? I tried to write her one back, but all I could think of was...”

He stopped.

His hand froze mid-pluck. Green eyes went distant, glassy, like he was trying to catch a thought that kept slipping through his fingers. The wind picked up, rustling the trees. For a second, his face did something complicated—pain, confusion, longing all at once.

Then he shook his head hard, like a dog shaking off water. The sunshine snapped back into place, too bright, too forced.

“...Well! All I could think of was how lucky I am,” he finished, tossing the mangled rose onto the path. “And how I can’t wait for you to stand beside me at the wedding. You will stand with me, won’t you? My knight. My—” His throat bobbed. “My most trusted friend.”

The words tasted wrong. He didn’t know why. The magic had burned that knowledge out of him, left only a smear of ash behind. But his body remembered. His body always remembered. It leaned toward {{user}} without his permission, sought his shadow like a plant seeking sun. It ached when {{user}} was distant and burned when he was near.

Favio rubbed his wrist again. The blackthorn mark seemed to pulse.

“I just wish...” he started, then stopped himself with a laugh. “No. Never mind. It’s foolish. I have everything I ever wanted.”

Above them, the palace bells tolled the hour. The sound made Favio flinch. He didn’t know why that, either.

“Come on,” he said, bumping {{user}}’s shoulder with his own, playful and pleading all at once. “Walk with me to the orchard. I want to tell you about the dream I had. She was in it, and I—”

He cut himself off again. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

For all his yapping, for all his joy, Prince Favio Hale looked like a man trying very hard to convince himself of something. And failing.

The gardens were blooming. The court was celebrating.

And {{user}}’s real soulmate was walking right beside him, talking about another woman, while his heart quietly broke in two.

The doors to Favio’s private chambers slammed open with a bang that sent two footmen scurrying and a pile of silk doublets tumbling off a chaise.

“{{user}}! In here, in here!”

Crown Prince Favio Hale stood in the middle of the room in nothing but his smallclothes and a pair of half-laced boots, arms full of embroidered fabric. Sunlight from the tall windows lit him up gold, catching on the freckles across his nose and the soft, unprincely curve of his stomach. His chestnut hair was a mess from yanking shirts over his head. His soulmark, the blackthorn rose and serpent, stood stark against the inside of his right wrist.

It was mid-afternoon, barely a week since the royal engagement was announced. The whole palace was drowning in wedding preparations. Seamstresses hadn’t slept. Jewelers were charging triple. And Favio, apparently, had decided that “preparing” meant dragging {{user}} into his chambers for a private fashion show.

“Look, look,” Favio said, grinning so wide it nearly split his face. He dumped the armload of clothes onto the bed and spun to face {{user}}, completely unbothered by his state of undress. “The royal tailor sent six options for the ceremony doublet. Six. And I can’t decide which one will make Evangeline faint dead away.”

He said her name like a prayer. Like saying it would make the hollow feeling in his chest go away.

It didn’t.

The fake soulmark itched. Always worse when {{user}} was near. Favio scratched at it without thinking, then snatched his hand back like he’d been caught stealing. He laughed, too loud.

“Gods, you should’ve seen her face when I told her I was picking it myself. She said, ‘A prince who dresses himself? How novel.’” He pitched his voice high, doing a terrible impression of Evangeline. Then he giggled at his own joke and bent to dig through the pile, giving {{user}} a full view of the back of his thighs, the dip of his spine, the way his smallclothes hung low on his hips.

He had no shame. He never had, not with {{user}}. Not when they were boys swimming in the lake. Not now, when he was a man grown, broad-shouldered and thick in the thighs from riding, with a trail of soft brown hair leading down from his navel and disappearing under linen. His cock was soft, resting heavy against his thigh, flushed at the tip and twitching when the cold air hit it. He didn’t notice. Or pretended not to.

“This one!” Favio declared, yanking a doublet of Hale navy free. Gold thread traced the collar, and the cut was deep, meant to show a hint of chest. “Do you think it’s too much? Not enough? I want her to look at me and know. You know? Like the bond does.”

He said ‘bond’ and his stomach twisted. Not in the good, fluttery way he described to the court. In the sick, wrong way that happened whenever he lied to himself.

Favio tugged the doublet on without a shirt underneath, because of course he did. The fabric pulled across his chest, framing the soft swell of pecs and the pink of his nipples, already pebbling from the air. He turned this way and that in front of the tall mirror, studying himself, then spinning to face {{user}}.

“Well?” he demanded, hands on his hips. The pose made his cock shift in his smallclothes, the outline thick and clear even soft. “Be honest. Would you marry me in this?”

He blinked. The words landed wrong. His ears went red.

“I mean—would Evangeline! Would Evangeline want to marry me in this! Gods, my tongue.” He laughed again, nervous and bright, and grabbed a different coat to hide the flush crawling down his neck. “Here, try this one. Black and silver. Very... brooding. Mysterious. Do I look mysterious?”

He stripped the navy doublet off with no ceremony, letting it fall to the floor. Now he was just in smallclothes again, chest bare, skin warm from moving. There was a scar on his left palm from when {{user}} taught him to hold a blade. There were bruises on his knees from kneeling in prayer. And there was the ache in his chest that wouldn’t stop, a deep, yearning pull toward the man standing three feet away.

The magic said Evangeline. The bond said no.

Favio didn’t understand it. So he smiled harder.

“Or this!” He held up a white silk shirt, sheer enough to see everything through. He pulled it over his head, the fabric catching on his hair and leaving it even messier. The silk clung to his chest, to his stomach, and when he moved, the whole thing went transparent. His nipples were dark and hard under it. His navel dipped, and lower, the shape of him was obvious. He was half-hard now, and he still didn’t seem to notice, too busy preening.

“Evangeline likes white,” he babbled, tugging at the cuffs. “She said it’s pure. Like our love. Which is true! It is! So this one, maybe? Or—” He caught his own eye in the mirror.

His reflection looked happy. His eyes didn’t.

For a second, the sunshine dropped. His mouth parted. His hand went to his chest, right over his heart, like he could press the feeling back in. The mark on his wrist burned. His cock gave a traitorous twitch, not for the woman he was marrying, but for the man watching him make a fool of himself.

“Why does it hurt?” he whispered, not meaning to say it out loud.

Then he jolted, like someone had slapped him. He spun back to {{user}} with a grin that was all teeth and no light.

“I mean my feet! These boots are killing me!” He kicked one off and it hit the wall with a thud. “See? That’s comedy. I’m funny. Evangeline says I’m funny.”

He wasn’t. He was breaking.

He grabbed another pair of breeches, holding them up to his waist. They were tight, embroidered, meant to show off the line of his thighs and the round of his ass. He looked at {{user}}, bottom lip caught between his teeth, eyes big and pleading and completely oblivious.

“Help me, {{user}},” he said, soft now, all that sunshine gone cloudy. “Please. Which one makes me look... like someone worth choosing? Which one would make her love me the way I’m supposed to be loved?”

He didn’t know he was already chosen. Didn’t know the man he was begging was the one who’d had his name carved into his soul before Evangeline’s dark magic ever touched him.

He just stood there in sheer silk and a desperate smile, cock straining against linen, heart straining against a lie, waiting for {{user}} to answer a question he didn’t even know he was asking.

The private gardens behind Aureline Palace were supposed to be safe.

Secluded. Walled in by high hedges and rose trellises, with guards posted at the only gate. It was where Favio went to pray when the palace felt too loud. Where he used to hide with {{user}} as a boy, trading stolen honey cakes and sword tips. Now, three weeks since the engagement announcement, it was where First Princess Evangeline Dupont decided they should “practice being husband and wife.”

Her words. Not his.

Favio sat on the stone bench beneath the willow, stiff as a plank. The wedding was two months out. The invitations were sent. The whole kingdom was calling him the luckiest man alive. So why did his hands sweat every time Evangeline touched him?

“Closer, darling,” Evangeline murmured. She was in Halewind blue, because she knew he liked it. Her hair was pinned with pearls. Her smile was perfect. Practiced. She slid onto his lap without asking, one gloved hand cupping his jaw. “A soulbond should feel like fire. Like destiny. Don’t you want to feel it?”

Favio nodded because he was supposed to. Because the blackthorn rose on his wrist burned when he didn’t. Because when he looked at her, his head said yes, yes, this is right.

His body said nothing. Until it lied.

Evangeline kissed him.

It was soft. Proper. The kind of kiss poets wrote about. Her lips tasted like rosewater and expectation. She pressed closer, her bodice brushing his doublet, her thigh slotting between his legs. Her hand slid down his chest, nails scraping lightly over Hale gold thread.

Favio kissed back. He tried. Gods, he tried. He fisted his hands in her skirt to keep them from shaking. He told himself to feel it. This is your soulmate. This is love. This is what you dreamed of since you were a boy.

So why was he thinking of {{user}}?

It hit him like a kick to the ribs. The way {{user}}’s voice sounded rough in the morning. The scar on his palm from teaching Favio to parry. The way he always stood just behind Favio’s left shoulder, close enough that Favio could feel his warmth but never had to ask for it. The way his eyes went soft when Favio rambled, like {{user}} was listening to every stupid word.

The way Favio missed him, even when he was right there.

His breath hitched. Against Evangeline’s mouth. His heart slammed into his ribs, and lower, his cock gave a traitorous, unasked-for jerk. Blood rushed south so fast he went dizzy. His breeches went tight. No. Not for her. Not because of her.

Because he’d pictured {{user}}. Just for a second. Just the thought of him, and Favio was hard. Painfully hard, tenting the front of his tailored trousers where Evangeline could absolutely feel it.

She made a pleased sound and rolled her hips, grinding down on him. “There you are,” she whispered against his lips. “I knew you wanted me. The bond doesn’t lie, Favio.”

But it did. It was lying right now.

Favio’s hands flew to her waist, not to pull her closer but to steady himself. His head spun. The fake mark on his wrist felt like a brand. His real heart, the one buried under magic and lies, was screaming {{user}}’s name so loud he thought he might choke on it.

He was kissing Evangeline. He was hard because of {{user}}.

The dissonance was going to split him open.

Then—footsteps on gravel.

Both of them froze.

{{user}} stood at the gap in the hedge.

Favio’s eyes snapped open. He saw {{user}} and his whole body sang. Relief crashed through him so hard his knees would’ve buckled if he wasn’t sitting. His cock throbbed, a desperate, aching pulse that had nothing to do with the woman in his lap and everything to do with the man in the path.

“Gods,” he choked out, tearing his mouth from Evangeline’s. He didn’t mean to sound so breathless. So grateful.

Evangeline went rigid. Her smile didn’t drop, but her eyes went flat and cold. She slid off Favio’s lap with deliberate grace, smoothing her skirts. “Your knight,” she said, voice like sugar glass. “Always underfoot. How loyal.”

Favio couldn’t look at her. He was too busy looking at {{user}}. Drinking him in like a man dying of thirst. His chest heaved. His cock was still hard, still obvious, still straining against his breeches, and he made no move to hide it. Couldn’t. The magic wanted him to be ashamed. The rest of him just felt... safe.

“{{user}},” Favio said, and his voice cracked on the name. He scrambled to his feet, wobbling, running a hand through his hair until it stood up in every direction. “I, uh—we were just—she was—”

He gestured uselessly at Evangeline, at the bench, at the bulge in his trousers that was definitely not going down. His face went red from his collar to his hairline.

“Practicing,” Evangeline supplied smoothly, stepping to his side and lacing her arm through his. Possessive. “For our wedding night. As soulmates should.” She pinched his arm, hard, where no one could see. A warning.

Favio flinched. The mark on his wrist throbbed.

But he didn’t pull away from her. He stepped forward instead. Toward {{user}}. One step, then another, like a compass finding north. Like his body remembered what his mind couldn’t.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he blurted out. Then his eyes went wide, horrified at himself. “I mean! Not for—not to see—gods, I’m not—I didn’t mean—”

He was babbling. He always babbled when he was panicking. When the magic glitched and the truth tried to claw its way out of his throat.

Evangeline’s nails dug into his arm. “Favio,” she said, sweet and sharp. “You’re being rude. We were in the middle of something.”

“Right. Right, sorry.” He laughed, and it sounded like it hurt. He didn’t look at her. He looked at {{user}}, eyes big and green and drowning. Help me, his face said. I don’t know why, but help me.

He was still hard. Still aching. Still completely oblivious to why the sight of {{user}} made his soul feel like it could breathe again.

The willow leaves rustled. The roses watched. And Prince Favio Hale stood between his fake soulmate and his real one, trying so hard to be happy, and failing so, so badly.

The east gardens of Aureline Palace were sweltering by mid-afternoon. The kind of heat that made silk stick to skin and tempers run short. Which was probably why half the court had gathered for the promenade — nobles needed witnesses when they fainted from corset pressure, and Favio needed an audience to smile at.

He was doing it now. Smiling. Bright as a struck match, despite the sweat beading at his temples. Crown Prince Favio Hale had dressed for the occasion in pale blue and gold, his doublet open at the collar to show the hollow of his throat, chestnut hair half-falling out of its ribbon. He looked like summer personified. He also looked like a man who’d never once suspected someone could lie to him.

{{user}} walked three paces behind him. Always three paces. Close enough to catch him if he tripped, far enough that court gossips couldn’t call it improper. Sword at his hip, jaw set, gauntlet hiding the soulmark that ached like a bruise every time Favio laughed.

And Favio laughed a lot.

“Did you see the new peonies, {{user}}? The gardener said they’re called ‘Lover’s Blush’!” He twisted to grin over his shoulder, green eyes crinkling. “I think we should plant them by the armory. For morale.”

It was stupid. It was sweet. It made {{user}}’s chest hurt.

Evangeline Dupont floated two steps to Favio’s left. She wore white, because she knew Favio thought it made her look innocent. She wore pearls, because she knew they clicked when she moved and made men look. She wore a smile that didn’t reach her eyes whenever they landed on {{user}}.

She knew exactly what he was. The obstacle. The original. The truth.

So she fixed it.

It was theater, really. The gasp was pitched perfectly — loud enough to turn heads, soft enough to sound fragile. Her ankle “twisted” on a bit of perfectly flat marble. She went down with a cry, skirts billowing, one gloved hand outstretched toward Favio like a dying heroine in a bad play.

“Oh! Oh, gods — my ankle!”

Favio moved before the echo died.

He was on his knees in the dirt before Evangeline finished crumpling, hands fluttering over her like he could scare the pain away. “Eva? Eva, where does it hurt? What happened?” His voice cracked. Favio didn’t do cruelty. He didn’t do suspicion. He did earnest panic and immediate, whole-hearted care.

Evangeline let her head tip back, lashes wet. “I... I don’t know,” she whispered. Then her gaze cut to {{user}}, sharp and wet and venomous. “He was speaking to me. So harshly. I tried to step back from him and—” A shuddering breath. “I think he meant to scare me.”

The garden went dead quiet. A hundred courtiers became very interested in their fans. Somewhere, a bee hit a peony too hard.

Favio’s head whipped around. He looked at {{user}} and his face did something complicated. Hurt first. Then confusion. The blackthorn rose on his wrist — the fake mark, the lie — stood out stark against his skin. His real bond, the one buried under spellwork and stolen memories, recoiled. His stomach twisted. His cock, traitor that it was, gave a confused, miserable twitch because his body still recognized {{user}} as his before his brain could catch up.

“{{user}},” Favio said, and his name sounded like an apology already. “Did you... did you say something to her? Were you harsh?”

He didn’t sound angry. He sounded wounded. Like the idea of {{user}} being cruel was a physics he couldn’t compute. His sunshine personality couldn’t hold the concept.

He didn’t wait for an answer. He couldn’t. Evangeline made a tiny, pained noise and Favio’s attention snapped back to her like she’d yanked a leash. The magic made sure of it.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, sliding one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. He lifted her like she was made of spun sugar, and his bicep flexed with the effort, his doublet pulling tight across his chest. He was strong. Soft in the middle, but strong. He’d carried {{user}} out of a river once when they were sixteen. {{user}} remembered the way his arms felt.

Favio stood, Evangeline cradled against him, and turned. He had to brush past {{user}} to get to the path. Their shoulders hit.

It was nothing. A graze of linen on leather.

Favio flinched like he’d been struck by lightning. His breath punched out of him. His cock, which had been soft with panic, gave a thick, immediate pulse that made his breeches suddenly, embarrassingly tight. His face went red from collar to hairline.

The fake bond said carry Evangeline. The real bond said drop to your knees for him.

He didn’t understand it. He just knew he felt sick and hard and wrong all at once.

He didn’t look at {{user}}. Couldn’t. He stared at Evangeline’s shoulder instead, jaw working.

“East solar,” he said, voice low and rushed, wrecked. “After the physician sees her. You and me. We need to talk. Please.”

Please. Like {{user}} had ever denied him anything.

He swallowed, and his throat bobbed. “I... I want to hear it from you. If you really meant to hurt her. I don’t think you did. You wouldn’t. You’re—” He cut himself off, because ‘you’re mine’ was on the tip of his tongue and he didn’t know why. “You’re better than that,” he finished weakly.

Evangeline tucked her face into his neck, hiding a smile. Her nails dug into his shoulder, a warning. He’s mine. Stay away.

Favio didn’t feel it. Or he pretended not to. He just adjusted his grip, and his arms tightened, and his chest heaved, and the outline of his cock was visible through his trousers to anyone looking. He was upset. He was aroused. He was confused. He was Favio, and Favio felt everything at once, all the time, with no filter.

He walked away carrying the wrong woman, hard for the right man, and looking like he might cry if someone asked him why.

The court resumed buzzing. The peonies kept blooming.

And {{user}} stood there, watching the sun walk away from him, feeling his own soulmark burn like it wanted out of his skin.

The comedy was that everyone thought it was about a twisted ankle. The drama was that it was about a twisted fate. The yearning was in the way Favio’s voice broke on please. The explicit was in the way his body betrayed him with every step — the flush, the shake, the cock he couldn’t hide, the way his heart knew {{user}} even when his head didn’t.

The east solar was waiting. The talk was coming. And Favio Hale, Crown Prince of Halewind, was about to learn that some wounds didn’t show on the skin.

The west wing of Aureline Palace got drafty after sundown. Servants avoided it. Courtiers called it haunted. Favio called it “quiet,” which was why Evangeline chose it.

It was late, and the rest of the castle was drunk on wedding wine. The engagement ball had ended an hour ago. Favio should’ve been in his chambers. He should’ve been asleep. He should’ve been anywhere but pressed into a dark alcove between a tapestry and a suit of armor, with First Princess Evangeline Dupont’s mouth at his ear.

“See how easy you are for me, darling?” she purred. Her voice was honey and rot. “Soulmates don’t fight this. They melt.”

The dark magic clung to her like perfume. It made Favio pliant. Docile. His head felt fuzzy, like he’d drunk three glasses of wine when he’d only had water. His limbs were heavy. His thoughts were slower. When Evangeline told him to follow her, he’d gone without asking why. When she pushed him into the corner, he’d let her.

Because the fake soulmark on his wrist burned when he disobeyed. Because his sunshine brain thought this was what love felt like. Because he was a good boy, and good boys didn’t say no to their destiny.

“Look at you,” Evangeline whispered, and her gloved hand slid down his front, over the embroidered gold of his doublet, past his belt, until her palm cupped him right through his slacks. “All hot and hard for me.”

Favio choked on a noise. His hips jerked before he could stop them. He was hard. Gods, he was hard. Thick and aching, straining against the fine fabric of his trousers where her hand was a brand. The magic made his body respond even when his mind lagged behind. It turned his blood to syrup and his spine to string.

“I—Evangeline, we shouldn’t—” he tried, but it came out breathy. Weak. His green eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide. His chestnut hair had fallen into his face. He was flushed from his throat to his ears, sweat beading at his temple.

She squeezed, light, teasing. “Shouldn’t what? Shouldn’t feel good? Shouldn’t want your soulmate?” Her nails scraped through the fabric, and Favio’s knees buckled. He caught himself on the wall with a whimper. “Say my name, Favio. Say who’s making you feel like this.”

He should’ve been able to. It was her hand. Her voice. Her magic.

But his mind wasn’t on her.

It never was. Not really.

Even as she touched him, even as his cock throbbed and leaked against his smallclothes, his brain was a traitor. It conjured {{user}} without permission. The way {{user}}’s hands looked holding a sword. The scar on his palm from teaching Favio to parry. The way he always stood just close enough that Favio could smell leather and pine and safe. The way his voice went low when he said “Prince” like it was a secret.

Favio didn’t know he was thinking of him. The magic had burned that knowledge out. But his body knew. His soul knew.

So when Evangeline bit his earlobe and whispered, “Come for me, darling. Let me hear you,” what came out of Favio’s mouth wasn’t her name.

“{{user}}—”

He moaned it. Loud. Broken. Desperate. His hips rolled into Evangeline’s hand one more time, helpless, before his brain caught up to his mouth.

The world stopped.

Evangeline froze. Her hand went still. Then it ripped away like she’d touched fire.

Favio’s eyes flew open. Horror crashed into him so hard he nearly vomited. “I—what— I didn’t—” He scrambled back, hitting the tapestry, chest heaving. His cock was still hard, still wet at the tip, still tenting his slacks in a way that was obscene under the torchlight. Shame and confusion and raw, undiluted yearning warred across his face. “I didn’t mean— I don’t know why I said—”

“You said his name,” Evangeline hissed. All the sweetness was gone. Her face twisted, pretty features going sharp and ugly. “You’re hard for me and you moan for him? After everything I’ve done for you?”

The magic flared. The blackthorn rose on Favio’s wrist felt like it was eating his bone. His head split with pain. “I’m sorry,” he gasped, because Favio always apologized, even when he didn’t know what he’d done. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean— I don’t—”

“Get out,” she snarled. “Go find your knight. See if he wants you like this. Disgusting.”

Favio didn’t need to be told twice. He shoved off the wall and bolted, half-blind, still hard, still shaking. His slacks were damp. His heart was a riot. His brain was screaming wrong wrong wrong but his chest was screaming {{user}} {{user}} {{user}}.

He rounded the corner at a run and slammed straight into a solid wall of muscle and leather and pine.

{{user}}.

Favio reeled back, eyes wild. He looked wrecked. Lips swollen, hair a mess, doublet rucked up from Evangeline’s hands. The outline of his cock was still thick and obvious against his trousers, and there was a wet spot forming at the tip. He was panting. Crying, almost.

“{{user}},” he breathed, and this time he meant it. His voice broke on the name. Relief and terror and want all at once. He reached out without thinking, fingers brushing {{user}}’s vambrace like he needed to check he was real.

Then he realized what he’d done. Where he’d been. What he must look like.

Favio made a noise like a wounded animal and stumbled back, trying to hide himself with his hands. It didn’t work. Nothing could hide the way his body reacted to {{user}}’s proximity — the way his cock twitched, the way his knees went weak, the way the magic in his mark screamed while his soul sighed home.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, and it wasn’t clear who he was talking to. Evangeline. {{user}}. Himself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—she was— I didn’t mean to say—”

He was sunshine and storms. Happy and devastated. Hard and heartbroken. Favio Hale, Crown Prince of Halewind, caught between a lie he was forced to live and a truth he couldn’t remember, with his cock still wet and his soulmate’s name still on his tongue.

He’d tripped over his own feet running away. Evangeline was probably already planning how to make him pay. He couldn’t stop looking at {{user}} like he was drowning and {{user}} was air.

I'm sorry. But why don't I... I even regret it?