A story about a prince and his pretty consort presumptive.
Crown Prince Raffe, as the only son of High King Alizade and sole heir to the High Throne of the Ruemri Empire, is bound to fulfill one important duty for the crown. Even if that duty involv...
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SOREN WOKE up feeling safe and comfortable cocooned inside Raffe's arms. He could think of two or three reasons for him to get up, but his body refused to acknowledge every sensible thought swimming in his head. Too content with the warmth and weight of the man next to him. It felt so good. So right.
He squirmed to move a little bit and looked up to see Raffe's sleeping face. Soren smiled despite himself. A fluffy, warm feeling rose from his gut and settled deep into his chest.
Raffe was always a man with an imposing character and an air of authority around him. But right now he looked like any ordinary man—a slack expression on his stupidly handsome face, a light stubble darkening his chin and jaw, the sound of snoring coming from his lips.
His lips.
Soren remembered kissing Raffe. Sucking his tongue, tasting his breath, marveling at the softness of his curls, delighted and slightly disconcerted at the same time.
He didn't want to admit it, but seeing Raffe battered and bruised and his body vibrating with a terrible fever wasn't exactly nice. His stomach flipped and a bile rose from his gut. He'd never been afraid like that before. Soren hoped he'd never have to feel that terrible fear again.
Raffe shifted and now he was lying practically on top of Soren, well half of him anyway. Soren was already having trouble breathing but he was not sure if he had the strength to complain. He recently found out that he quite liked being manhandled. The pinning down, crushing hugs, bruising kisses—it was hot. Undeniably so.
Soren dipped a kiss to Raffe's shoulder, feeling himself sigh in wonder and asking himself for a millionth time why and how this happened—why they happened—when they were supposed to be snarling and making ways to not care about each other.
Their relationship was ridiculously insane in the first place. But now it was becoming even more so.
It was the last thought that Soren had before his eyes grew heavy. He snuggled his face into Raffe's neck, breathed him in, and let the drowsiness take him once again.
When Soren returned to Raffe's room to check on him after helping the other healers in the ward—against their protests that Soren shouldn't do that kind of work because he's a prince, which earned an incredulous snort from Soren, of course, and waved away their awkward objections—he found the bed empty and the boob nowhere to be found.
Curse him.
Soren specifically told him not to get out of bed because his infected wound had just started healing. And he had a slight fever this morning.
Soren groaned loudly.
Raffe was the worst patient he'd ever known. He was really going to kill that stubborn man one of these days.
