The Dragon's Heart: Unspoken Passion-Chapter 126: Presence Over Duty

The bath had left her hair dark and heavy at her shoulders and the scent of herbs clinging to her skin. Levan moved around her with that careful ease of a man who knew exactly how to hold both towel and silence, helping her step into the pale pink dress as if folding a bloom into his palm.

Once the fabric settled against her, she swirled around to face him. And he smiled without meaning to, the kind that lingered as though he was memorizing the angle of her jaw and the way the pink dress she chose softened the light around her.

He clamped his hands firmly on her shoulders, steadying her before she could spiral anywhere else.

"Sit," he said. Once she did, he took the towel and draped it over her head, drying her hair.

It was almost absurd, when he thought about it. Because this was him now, standing close to fasten buttons she could have managed herself, smoothing creases she had not noticed, and coaxing sleeves over damp wrists with the patience of someone who had never once been made to wait.

He had bathed her, dressed her, guided her like she might shatter if handled too roughly, and she had accepted it all with the unthinking trust of someone who had always been cared for. Spoiled like something precious that had never been dropped nor been asked to fend for itself... And somehow, he had become the one doing the spoiling.

His fingers brushed her neck now and then as he continued to press the towel on her hair, and each time she leaned into the touch without thinking. He adjusted the fabric when it slipped, murmuring something low and fond when she tilted her head the wrong way and smiling when she obediently corrected herself.

It was an unremarkable thing, really, drying someone’s hair, and yet it felt strangely intimate, more so than all the moments that had come before.

Ilaria tipped her chin up after a moment, peering at him from beneath the edge of the towel, eyes bright and curious as if she had only just remembered he was there. Levan tilted his head the same way she had, calm and restrained, yet quietly reflecting her brightness like a still surface catching the sun.

"What?"

"You’re very serious about this," Ilaria mused, swinging her legs happily.

Levan brushed a damp strand away from her cheek with the back of his fingers before returning to the towel. "If I don’t dry it properly, you’ll complain later that your neck is cold."

"I wouldn’t," she protested, then paused, considering. "...Maybe I would."

That earned her a look, fond and knowing. "See?"

"You’re good at this though," she grinned, like it was a discovery she was proud of. "Did you practice?"

"On whose hair would I have practiced?"

She thought about it seriously, then shook her head. "Then you must be very talented."

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. He resumed drying her hair, slower now, indulging the way she tilted her head obediently whenever he nudged her to one side or the other. "Or," he said mildly, "you’re just simply very cooperative today."

She beamed at that, clearly taking it as praise.

A few minutes later, Levan gave her hair one last careful pat, then straightened. Once the towel was folded and set aside, his attention immediately returned to her like she was the only thing left in the room.

"Alright. Now lie down and rest. I’ll come get you when it’s time for dinner."

She nodded obediently at first, watching him fuss over himself with that quiet efficiency of his, bare skin still warm from the bath as he reached for his shirt. He slipped one arm through, gathering the fabric like this was already decided — when the princess suddenly yanked it away.

The expression on Levan’s face was a mix of shock and speechlessnes.

"...?"

She looked just as startled by her own boldness, eyes wide, fingers still clenched in the fabric because she had acted on instinct before her thoughts could catch up. For a fleeting, mortifying second, a thought crossed her mind... Did that look like I wanted him to stay undressed? Heat rushed straight to her ears.

Ilaria cleared her throat quickly and shoved the shirt aside. "...You were leaving," she said very seriously, as if that would undo everything.

"I was about to," he corrected, still watching her like she might do something else unhinged.

"Well, that’s worse."

"..."

They stared at each other for a beat. The air felt strangely tight, like it was waiting to see who would move first.

Levan finally opened his mouth. "My shirt—"

But she did not let him finish.

With a small, indignant sound, she quickly leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his hips, pressing her chin to his side while looking up at him with a pronounced pout. Then, as if that were not enough, she hooked one leg around his, then the other, locking him in place with shameless determination.

"No, you can’t go," she said softly but firmly. "You haven’t finished being here. Why are you always leaving me."

Levan waited a few seconds, long enough to let the illusion of the fact that he was being ’caged’ settle before lifting a hand and patting her head like he was soothing an unreasonable but beloved creature.

"I already stayed with you long enough," he said carefully. "I have to go."

Her fingers twitched, then she whined. "...Go where."

He hesitated for a moment, the Queen’s letter brushing past his mind before he pushed it aside.

"The study," he assured. "I’ll only be on the other side of that door. There are reports I still haven’t review—"

"But if you leave," she cut in immediately, brows knitting, "I’ll be cold."

Levan looked at her warmly, wiping her fake tears with his thumb. "Well, there are blankets to keep you warm. And if you want, I can also ask Marion to bring you a herbal tea."

She frowned harder. "But it’s not the same as you... The blankets and the tea don’t breathe."

That made him pause. Probably because he could not process a more reasonable answer to give her. So she took advantage of it instantly.

"You bathed me," she continued, "you dressed me, you told me to rest..." she blinked slowly, eyes shining, "and now you want to abandon me to paperwork?"

"I didn’t say abandon."

"You’re thinking it."

"I am thinking of state matters."

She insisted. "Am I not a state matter?"

"You are not—" He stopped himself, exhaling. "...Not in the way you mean."

Her mouth curved into a small, victorious smile despite her pitiful act. "So I am a state matter."

"No."

"Yes."

"Aria."

She shifted, one knee sliding up his thigh, clearly settling in while being entirely unbothered. "If you leave now," she said lightly, "I’ll assume those reports are more important than me."

"I wouldn’t say so," he sighed, aware on how her knees suddenly pressed higher. "But they are urgent."

She gasped softly, like she had been wounded. "More urgent than your wife?"

Saints, this woman...

Levan gently pried her hands away and lowered himself until he was level with her. He braced his arms on either side of her, effectively caging her in, and Ilaria instinctively looped her arms around his shoulders, clinging without hesitation.

For a moment, he just looked at her, eyes slow and searching, like he was mapping constellations across her face. It would have been easier to give in. It always was. But Eryndor’s words lingered in the back of his mind, heavy with things he was not ready to bring into this room.

But this wife of his... Ah, what could he possibly do?

There was no graceful way to say no to her. Because every refusal felt like a betrayal, every reason hollow the moment it left his mouth. She did not argue like a courtier or plead like a supplicant. She simply stayed, stubborn and impossibly certain that he would choose her in the end.

And the truth is, he already had.

He was a prince trained to turn a blind eye on measly requests, yes, but here like this... he was only her husband. That is why surrender did not feel like failure. It felt inevitable.

He lifted a hand and gently pinched her cheek, the only scold her could offer. "You yanked my shirt away, and now you ask me questions you already know the answer to," he drawled, amusement threading through his voice, "I think I’m the one who deserves pity."

Ilaria shook her head. "That was instinctual. It’s the only way to prevent you from leaving."

"But now I’m here half undressed," he said, glancing down at himself before looking back at her, one brow arching. "And I’ve been like this for an hour."

Her eyes betrayed her immediately, trailing down the lines of his torso before she caught herself. Heat rushed to her cheeks and she looked away, pouting.

"...Are you cold too?" she asked, clearly regrouping. "Then we’re both cold. We should stay together."

A laugh slipped out of him before he could stop it. "Witty woman," he murmured. "You really know how to twist things back in your favour."

Ilaria looked back at him with a sheepish smile. She cupped his face, bright and giddy. "...Is it working?"

He tilted his head in her hand, eyes glinting with quiet challenge. "What if I still wanted to go?"

She wilted instantly, turning away from him again with exaggerated sorrow without removing her hands. "I see. Your priority has a seal on it."

"Hey—"

"And I," she continued, voice mournful, "apparently do not."

He laughed again, helpless this time. "Come now, you do not require a seal."

Ilaria glanced back at him. "That’s because I’m already stamped," she said smugly. "Yours."

Oh My...

"And that’s also why you should stay with me," she added giddily.

The words hit him like sunlight through glass. For the first time in the evening, the usually poker-faced Levan felt a flutter in his chest, a ridiculous, uncontainable warmth that made him want to squeeze her until she could not wiggle free.

At this point, any other thoughts simply evaporated from his mind. He caught her hand, the one cupping his face, and pressed a quick, reverent kiss to her palm, smiling into it like he might never stop.

"Yes, you are," he murmured, the growl soft but unmistakably his own, a low sound of possessive delight that left him blinking against the weight of his own happiness.

Before she could even react, he wrapped his arms around her, leaning in until all that was against him was her. He nuzzled his face into her chest, inhaling the faint scent of herbs and bath, and whispered again with a teasing, delighted rumble, "Yes... mine."

Ilaria let out a small, startled laugh, but she did not struggle. Instead, she draped her arms around him, contended at the unexpected clinginess. And somehow, between her laugh and his triumphant hum, they ended up cuddling on the bed.

The room was warmer now, the faint herbal scent still clinging to her hair as Levan cradled her against his chest. He rested his cheek against the crown of her head, eyes half-lidded, fully aware of the way his thoughts had unraveled somewhere between her sigh and the slow rise and fall of her breathing.

He knew very clearly that he was distracted. Any other night, he would have reprimanded himself for it. Any other night, duty would have won. But right now, he did not care. Because here she was, warm and real and tucked so neatly against his heart that the world outside felt like an inconvenience at best.

Let it wait, he thought with a quiet defiance that surprised even him. Let the ink dry, let the mess remain unresolved for a few more hours. This fragile peace he had accidentally chosen was worth the cost anyway. And if anyone were to accuse him of neglect tonight, he would accept it without regret.

He almost closed his eyes when he heard her call.

"...Husband," Ilaria called softly, tilting her face up toward him.

"Hm?"

"It’s been a long time since I went to the solarium."

Levan looked down at her, surprised not by the request, but by how quickly his mind rearranged itself to make room for it. He could already picture her sitting at the tea table, feet swinging as she stole one macaron after another from the neat batch she had just baked.

For some reason, that was the first thing he thought of when the solarium was mentioned...

"You want to go there?" he asked.

She nodded a little, testing the idea. "If you allow me."

"Of course, you can," he said without hesitation, brushing his hand along her arm. "You can go there whenever you want. Tomorrow, even. Or today, if you decide you don’t feel like waiting."

Her eyes brightened. "Really? I can?"

"Really." The words came out easily. "I’ll walk you there myself if you want. Or I’ll leave you and your handmaden to it, if you’d rather be alone with the light." He smiled gently, "It’s not off-limits for you."

He dipped his head closer, forehead nearly touching hers. "Did you miss it," he asked tenderly, "or did you simply remember it because you’re comfortable enough to want things there?"

Her gaze softened. "I missed it," she admitted. "That’s where you ate my pastry for the first time."

He let out a quiet hum, fondness seeping into his mind at the memory. "Ah... I remember."

"Then, tomorrow, we can go." She wiggled herself closer against him. "In the morning because the sun is bright but not scorching."

He nodded. "Okay."

A hush fell over them, and for a moment, Levan felt the weight of silence settle like dust.

Her fingers traced his chest thoughtfully as she murmured softly to herself, "...your mother would have loved being there every day, just soaking in the light."

Caught off guard, Levan stiffened for a heartbeat, then rested his cheek against her head and said nothing.