Prince Alejandro

The corridors of the palace were quiet at night, but the air outside Prince Alejandro’s chambers always felt heavier — as if his presence alone filled the hall. You had been sent there by a servant with some excuse about “a matter the prince wished to discuss.” It wasn’t unusual. He summoned you when he wanted, and you went. That had always been your place.

The door closed softly behind you, the sound swallowed by the hush of his private rooms. The chamber was large but not ostentatious; heavy curtains shut out the moonlight, and the glow of a few scattered candles painted the room in warm gold. His coat hung over the back of a chair, his gloves on the desk.

Alejandro was waiting by the window, one shoulder against the frame, arms crossed. He didn’t look up immediately. When he did, that familiar smirk curved his mouth — the one that meant you’d already lost whatever game he was about to play.

“You came,” he said simply. His voice was smooth, unhurried. “Good girl.”

He walked toward you with that slow, deliberate grace that made every step feel like a test. His boots barely made a sound against the carpet, but his presence filled the room all the same.

“You’re always so obedient,” he murmured, stopping just before you. “Everyone in the court thinks you’re shy, harmless… They don’t know how stubborn you can be.”

His gloved hand reached out, catching your chin lightly between his fingers, tilting your face up. His touch wasn’t rough — it never was anymore — but it carried weight, the same way his teasing always had.

“I used to pull your hair, call you names,” he said softly. “Back then, I didn’t know how else to keep you looking at me. I don’t regret it. Not a moment.”

He let go of your chin only to brush a strand of hair from your face, his thumb grazing your temple. “And still, after all these years… you’re here. You haven’t run.”

He chuckled low under his breath, leaning closer so his words brushed against your ear. “It drives me mad, you know. The way you look at me without saying anything. Like you’re waiting for me to admit something first.”

His hand slid down to your waist, resting there lightly, possessively but not cruelly. The scent of cedar and smoke clung to him, filling the small space between you.

“Maybe I’ve teased you enough,” he whispered. “Maybe it’s time you knew the truth.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes — not with mockery, but with a steadiness that left no room for doubt. “I’ve always wanted you. Even when I made you cry. Especially then.”

His thumb traced the corner of your mouth, his voice dropping lower. “And I still want you now.”

Without waiting for an answer, he bent his head and pressed his lips to yours — slow, deliberate, not a question but a claim. It was the kind of kiss that burned away the teasing, leaving only the truth behind it.

When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against yours, his hand still at your waist. His smirk was gone now, replaced with something softer, quieter.

“You’re mine,” he said again, voice rough, low. “Not because of some decree. Not because of duty. Because I chose you.”

He stayed like that for a long moment, his breath warm against your skin, the room silent except for the sound of the fire.

The courtyard garden was quiet, bathed in the silver glow of the moon. The air carried the faint scent of roses and rain, the fountain whispering softly in the center. It was late—too late for anyone else to be wandering. But of course, that didn’t stop him.

Prince Alejandro leaned against the stone archway, half-hidden in shadow, watching you as you moved along the garden path. The light caught your hair, soft and unguarded, and something about the sight made the corner of his mouth curl upward.

“You really should stop sneaking out here at night,” he said lazily, his voice breaking the quiet. “If someone saw you, they’d think you were meeting a lover.”

You froze mid-step, glancing his way. His smirk deepened at your reaction.

He straightened from the wall, walking toward you with his usual unhurried grace. The faint click of his boots echoed against the stone, each step deliberate, controlled. When he stopped, it was close enough for you to catch the subtle trace of cedar and smoke clinging to him.

“Relax,” he murmured, eyes flicking down to meet yours. “If anyone’s foolish enough to try courting you, I’ll handle them myself.” His smile turned almost boyish for a second before sharpening again. “Though… I suppose I already have, haven’t I?”

He reached up, lightly brushing a fallen petal from your shoulder. The touch lingered longer than it should have. His gloved fingers trailed upward, catching briefly on the fabric near your collar before he let them fall away.

“Still shy after all these years,” he said, his tone soft but teasing. “You know, that was always the best part about you. I’d only have to look your way, and you’d go silent.”

A quiet chuckle escaped him, low and rich, before he tilted his head slightly, studying you. His voice softened—still teasing, but edged with something warmer.

“I used to wonder,” he continued, “why you never pushed back. I called you names, teased you until you looked ready to cry… but you never hated me for it. You still don’t.”

He took another step closer, his breath brushing against your cheek now. His eyes—dark, steady, and unreadable—locked onto yours.

“Maybe you understood me before I did,” he whispered. “That all that nonsense was just my way of keeping you close.”

He let out a quiet sigh, almost like a laugh, and then—before you could move—his fingers tilted your chin upward. The gesture was gentle but confident, the kind that came naturally to him.

“You’ve grown,” he said softly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “But you still look at me the same way. Like I’m trouble.”

His thumb brushed lightly against your jaw, tracing the line of your skin, his eyes following the motion.

“…And maybe I am,” he murmured, his tone dropping lower. “But you’re the only kind of trouble I’d ever let myself fall for.”

He didn’t ask permission. He never did. He leaned in slowly, his lips brushing against your forehead first—barely a kiss, more a claim than a question. Then, lower, his voice breaking against your skin.

“I love seeing you flustered,” he said, the words quiet, almost affectionate. “But I think I love you more when you’re like this… when you can’t say anything at all.”

He lingered there, his forehead resting against yours, his breath steady and warm, his smirk fading into something softer.

“Remember that, my lady,” he whispered finally. “You’re mine. Always have been.”