The wedding arrangements were progressing at an alarming speed. Invitations were being sent out, tailors and decorators rushed to finalize the details, and florists discussed arrangements with North's mother. The estate was filled with activity, yet North felt strangely detached from it all.
He had once dreamed of his wedding—the grandest day of his life. He had imagined every little detail, from the color of the flowers to the music that would play as he walked down the aisle. It was supposed to be magical, something crafted out of his deepest wishes.
But now?
He could barely muster the energy to care.
Everything was moving forward, but he felt like he was standing still.
A soft knock at the door drew his attention.
Khan entered, carrying a wrapped box in his hands, his expression warm and easy as always. He approached North with the kind of quiet confidence that made people feel safe around him.
"I brought you something," he said, setting the box down on the table near North's seating area. "I figured you could use a little distraction."
North blinked at him, startled. "A gift?"
Khan chuckled. "You sound surprised. Am I not allowed to spoil my fiancé?"
North hesitated before pulling the ribbon loose, revealing carefully wrapped sweets and a small, elegant trinket—a silver charm shaped like a crescent moon.
"It reminded me of you," Khan said simply.
North swallowed. Khan was... sweet. Considerate. It was easy to talk to him, to share the weight of things.
And because of that, North couldn't let him notice the lack of excitement in his voice.
"Thank you," he said, smiling as he picked up one of the sweets. "You didn't have to."
Khan waved him off. "You've been exhausting yourself over all these wedding details. I don't want you wearing yourself out because of me."
North huffed a small laugh. "That's rich, coming from the one who wants to marry as soon as possible."
Khan looked sheepish. "I know, and I do feel bad about rushing you. But I have responsibilities waiting for me back home."
"I know."
That was the problem.
North knew everything about this arrangement—how practical it was, how convenient it was, how reasonable it was.
So why did it feel like he was suffocating?
Before the thought could linger, another knock interrupted them. The door opened to reveal North's mother, her ever-composed expression softening when she saw Khan.
"My lord, I was wondering if you would join us for lunch," she said politely.
Khan, always the gentleman, smiled. "I appreciate the invitation, but I should be heading out soon."
North's mother nodded gracefully. "Of course. Another time, then."
Khan turned back to North, giving him one last reassuring glance.
"Don't overwork yourself. I'll see you soon."
North forced a smile as Khan left, closing the door behind him.
The moment he was gone, his mother moved to sit beside North, her hands folding neatly in her lap.
"We need to talk," she said.
North exhaled slowly, knowing there was no avoiding it.
North's mother sat beside him with the grace she always carried, but this time, there was something heavier in her presence—something knowing. She reached into the folds of her dress and retrieved a small velvet box, placing it gently on the table between them.
North felt his stomach tighten before she even opened it.
The moment the lid lifted, revealing the white gold ring with faint streaks of blue, his breath caught in his throat.
His father's ring.
The one he used to admire as a child, watching how it glinted in the light whenever his father placed a hand on his head, ruffled his hair, or held him close in quiet moments of warmth.
North swallowed hard.
"I thought," his mother began carefully, "you might want to give this to your husband-to-be."
A crack formed in his chest.
How could you even ask me that?
The words burned in his throat, but he didn't say them.
Instead, he forced a smile—one so practiced it barely wavered—and reached for the box. His fingers trembled slightly as he closed it.
"I'll think about it," he said, his voice light and pleasant, betraying none of the storm inside him.
His mother nodded, satisfied, before changing the subject to something about flower arrangements. But North barely heard a word of it.
The ring was in his pocket, heavy, unbearable.
As soon as he found an excuse to leave, he made his way to the only person he trusted with this.
—
"Hide it," North pleaded, pressing the velvet box into Tiger's hands.
His cousin raised an eyebrow, looking down at the ring before meeting North's desperate gaze.
Tiger had seen many expressions on North's face over the years—joy, excitement, mischief—but this? This was something else entirely.
"You want me to just... hide your father's ring?"
"Yes," North exhaled sharply. "I can't give it to Khan. I just—I can't."
Tiger studied him carefully, seeing the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled into his palms as if he were holding himself together by force.
He had thought, at first, that North simply had a lingering crush on the prince. That it would pass.
Then he learned the truth.
And now, looking at his cousin—so dull, so unlike the North he had always known—Tiger felt something ache deep inside him.
North was suffering.
And he didn't know how to fix it.
"...Alright," Tiger finally said, tucking the box into his coat. "I'll keep it safe."
North exhaled in relief, nodding quickly before straightening up, already preparing to pretend none of this ever happened.
Tiger watched him go, fingers tightening around the ring.
There had to be something he could do.
But for the first time in his life, he didn't know what.
-
Now that Johan had finally stopped drinking his body weight in expensive liquor and North was busy planning a wedding he clearly didn't want, Arthit had the luxury of focusing on what truly mattered—winning over Daotok.
The problem?
Dao's family was actively praying for his downfall.
And they were doing a damn good job of making sure everything that could go wrong did go wrong.
But if there was one thing about Archduke Arthit, it was that he never backed down from a challenge.
Even if that challenge came in the form of an entire household working against him.
Arthit had never been the type to send flowers, but Dao was different. So, he decided to go all in—hand-selecting the finest blooms from the best florist in the city. He made sure the arrangement had every meaning laced into it:
* Red camellias for admiration.
* Forget-me-nots because there was no chance in hell he'd let Dao forget about him.
* Peonies for prosperity, because Dao deserved the world.
He even added a small, personal note that he rewrote at least ten times before finally settling on:
"For someone as lovely as these flowers, though they pale in comparison to you."
It was meant to be delivered first thing in the morning.
But when Dao opened the box, instead of a beautiful bouquet, he was met with wilted, half-dead flowers and a swarm of bugs escaping from the petals.
Dao screamed. Napat nearly fell out of his chair laughing.
Arthit, horrified, spent the next hour chasing down the florist, only to find out that someone (Dao's mother) had accidentally switched his order with an old batch meant for disposal.
When he finally saw Dao that evening, he cleared his throat and, with as much dignity as he could muster, handed him a single, perfect flower he had picked himself.
"Just this one, then," he muttered.
Dao, despite everything, took it. His lips twitched. "You're terrible at this."
"Yeah," Arthit exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know."
If Dao's family thought they could scare him off, they had another thing coming. Arthit had heard that grand gestures were a key to romance, so naturally, he decided to go big.
Dao loved music, so what better way to impress him than with a heartfelt serenade?
He enlisted the help of some musicians, had everything arranged beneath Dao's balcony (very romantic), and even spent hours practicing the lyrics to a love song that definitely wasn't meant for his voice range.
Everything was set.
But then...
* The musicians he hired mysteriously got "lost" and never showed up.
* It started raining right as he opened his mouth to sing.
* And worst of all—Dao's father walked onto the balcony instead.
"Who the hell is wailing outside my house?" the man demanded, eyes narrowing in horror.
Arthit froze mid-lyric, his heart dropping.
Dao burst out laughing behind him.
Needless to say, the serenade was a failure. Dao smirked at him and said, "You really are hopeless."
Arthit leaned closer, voice low. "And yet, you're still talking to me."
Dao didn't reply. But he didn't walk away either.
By some miracle, Napat had warmed up to him (a little), which meant Arthit was officially allowed to take Dao out for an afternoon ride.
Everything was going well... until Dao's evil little cousins (his mother's spies) let loose a swarm of birds right as they were passing by.
Arthit's horse, naturally, panicked.
The Archduke—pride of the cavalry, one of the best riders in the kingdom—was promptly thrown off and landed in the mud.
Dao gasped in shock.
And then, the little menace laughed so hard he had to grip his horse to stay upright.
"Are you—" Arthit wiped mud from his cheek, glowering at Dao. "Are you laughing at me?"
Dao tried to look serious. He failed.
"It's just..." Dao covered his mouth, shoulders shaking. "You look ridiculous."
Arthit groaned, running a hand through his mud-soaked hair. He was never going to live this down.
But then, unexpectedly, Dao leaned forward and offered his hand.
"Come on," he said, voice softer. "I'll help you up."
Arthit looked at him, at the way the sunlight caught in his eyes, at the smile he was actually trying to hide.
And suddenly, falling into the mud didn't seem like such a loss after all.
Despite everything, despite his every failure, Arthit wasn't giving up.
Because every time Dao laughed, every time he smirked at him, every time he saw him—Arthit knew one thing for sure.
This was worth it.
And one way or another, he was going to win Daotok over.
-
Arthit left the house through the front gates, all formalities observed, nodding respectfully to the guards as he mounted his horse.
The moment he turned the corner, however, he swiftly veered off the main path, looping around the estate until he reached the back entrance—one that led directly to the greenhouse.
He had no intention of leaving. Not yet.
Inside, the warm scent of earth and blooming flowers filled the air.
Golden afternoon light filtered through the glass ceiling, casting a soft glow over Daotok, who was already lying on the cool stone floor, gazing at the sky beyond the glass panels.
"You're late," Dao murmured as Arthit flopped down beside him.
Arthit smirked, resting his hands behind his head. "Had to keep up appearances. Your father would have me hanged if he knew I was sneaking around his house just to see you."
Dao hummed in amusement but didn't look away from the clouds above. "Maybe he should, considering how terrible you are at courting."
Arthit groaned. "Are you ever going to let that go?"
"Absolutely not," Dao replied, the corners of his lips twitching.
They fell into a comfortable silence, staring up at the drifting clouds.
"That one looks like a rabbit," Dao pointed out lazily.
Arthit squinted. "That is definitely
not a rabbit."
Dao turned his head, arching a delicate brow. "Then what is it?"
"A lion," Arthit said with absolute confidence.
Dao scoffed. "Where do you see a lion?"
"Right there," Arthit gestured with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Look at the big head, the fluffy mane—"
Dao shook his head, amused. "You're ridiculous."
"And you're blind."
They continued like this for a while, pointing out shapes in the clouds, laughing over the most absurd comparisons. It was simple, it was easy—something neither of them often had the luxury of.
Eventually, the conversation drifted into something softer, something more delicate.
"What do you want for your future, Dao?" Arthit asked, his voice quieter now, serious in a way that made Dao glance at him.
Dao hesitated. He had always been expected to follow a path dictated for him—one carved by duty, by tradition, by his family. But what did he want?
"I want peace," he admitted. "A life where I don't have to constantly look over my shoulder. I want to be able to choose what makes me happy."
Arthit nodded, absorbing every word. "I want that for you too."
Dao looked back at the sky. "What about you?"
Arthit grinned. "Many, many children."
Dao turned to glare at him. "Excuse me?"
"I want a big, loud household," Arthit continued, entirely unbothered by Dao's glare. "Can you imagine little ones running around, driving you absolutely insane?"
Dao groaned, covering his face with his hands. "You're unbelievable."
Arthit chuckled, entirely pleased with himself. "Come on, imagine it—little feet running through the halls, laughter echoing in every room. Our home would never be quiet."
Dao peeked at him through his fingers, his cheeks dusted pink. "Our home?"
Arthit turned onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow to look directly at Dao. "Of course. Where else would you be?"
Dao's breath caught. The way Arthit said it—so effortlessly, like it was an undeniable truth—made something warm settle in his chest. He hated how easily this man could disarm him.
"You're insufferable," Dao muttered, turning away.
Arthit grinned, reaching for Dao's hand. He traced slow, deliberate circles against Dao's palm before sliding his fingers over his ring finger, caressing the bare skin there.
"I'll have the honor of placing a ring on this finger one day," Arthit murmured, his voice a shade lower, softer. He lifted Dao's hand and pressed a lingering kiss against it, eyes never leaving Dao's. "And a mark on your neck."
Dao swallowed, his heart hammering against his ribs. He wanted to scold Arthit, to push him away, to tell him he was being far too bold. But all he managed to do was bite his lip, feeling warmth spread through him like wildfire.
He didn't pull his hand away.
He didn't say no.
Arthit's gaze flickered to his lips, but he didn't lean in. Instead, he smiled—slow and sure, as if he already knew.
"I'll make you my husband, Daotok."
And Dao believed him.
-
Tonfah was worried. He'd spent the past few days turning over every possibility in his head, weighing the most logical course of action against the gnawing feeling in his chest. The cold, harsh truth was that withdrawing from the capital until the family's financial situation was more stable was the most rational decision. It would be temporary—a strategic retreat rather than a defeat. If their positions were reversed, it was what Tonfah himself would have advised.
And yet, when it came to Typhoon, rationality failed him.
Selfishly, he told himself that leaving wouldn't be good for Typhoon. That he'd be doing a disservice by allowing him to step away from the life he knew. That he was only looking out for him.
But deep down, he knew.
He simply didn't want to let him go.
The voices in the room beyond grew louder—his father's and Typhoon's father's discussion escalating, the weight of their choices pressing down on them. Tonfah stepped away from the door before it could get any worse. He wasn't meant to be part of this conversation yet, and he was unwilling to let frustration cloud his judgment.
As he turned the corner, his sharp eyes immediately caught sight of a familiar figure just a few steps away.
Typhoon.
He was standing stiffly near the hallway's edge, hands clasped in front of him, his usual bright presence dimmed with worry. His shoulders tensed as he realized he had been caught, but he didn't step away when Tonfah reached him.
Tonfah didn't speak right away. He simply placed a hand between Typhoon's shoulder blades, a steadying touch, before gently guiding him away from the closed doors.
"You could have told me this before," Tonfah said, voice calm but firm.
Typhoon didn't answer immediately. His fingers fidgeted against the fabric of his sleeve, a small, familiar habit that betrayed his unease.
Tonfah's patience held. He had learned long ago that Typhoon needed time to gather his words.
Finally, after a long pause, Typhoon spoke.
"Who else knows?"
His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, but the weight of the question was clear.
Tonfah exhaled slowly. "Just my family."
Typhoon's brows furrowed slightly. He had suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed still stung.
Tonfah studied him for a long moment. The flicker of sadness in his eyes, the tension in his jaw.
"...You don't want to leave," Tonfah said, not as a question, but as a certainty.
Typhoon bit the inside of his cheek before shaking his head. "No."
A long silence stretched between them.
Tonfah glanced back toward the closed doors, where the discussion was still ongoing. Then back at Typhoon.
He made a decision.
"Then we'll figure something out," he said simply.
Typhoon's head snapped up, eyes widening. "Tonfah, you don't have to—"
"I know," Tonfah interrupted. His expression didn't waver, but something in his voice was quieter, more resolute. "But I will."
For the first time since the conversation had started, Typhoon searched his face—his brows still slightly furrowed, uncertainty lingering in his gaze.
And then, slowly, that uncertainty softened.
"...Alright," he murmured.
Tonfah gave a single nod. He didn't know how, or what it would take, but one thing was clear.
He wasn't going to let Typhoon disappear from his life.
-
Daotok and Typhoon exchanged a glance as they stepped into the grand hall, their footsteps barely making a sound against the polished floors. The venue was stunning—high vaulted ceilings adorned with intricate gold detailing, soft drapes cascading from the chandeliers, and floral arrangements carefully placed along the grand tables. Everything was meticulously arranged, yet the air felt... sterile.
And then there was North.
He stood near a mannequin, staring at the pristine white wedding suit displayed before him. It was plain, starkly simple—almost unremarkable compared to the grand venue surrounding it. Dao had expected something more extravagant, something that matched North's usual flair. But North had refused to look at any other designs, settling for this one without a second thought.
Dao and Typhoon had no choice but to be supportive.
"It suits you," Typhoon finally said, trying to sound encouraging.
North let out a quiet chuckle, but there was no humor in it. "That's what everyone keeps saying."
Dao crossed his arms, watching his friend closely. North seemed... distant, his voice carrying the same weightless quality it had ever since the engagement had been announced. He moved through the motions, smiling where he should, nodding when expected, playing his role flawlessly—but there was something missing.
They walked with him as he guided them through the venue, explaining the decorations, the arrangements, the carefully thought-out procedures they were to follow as maids of honor. Staff moved around them, adjusting table placements, arranging flowers, ensuring everything was picture-perfect. And North continued, his voice steady, his words rehearsed.
Then Khan arrived.
He stepped into the room with the confidence of a man who had never once doubted his place in the world. He approached North from behind, wrapping his arms around him in a firm but gentle embrace.
"There you are," Khan murmured, his voice warm as he pressed a quick kiss against North's temple. "I've been looking for you."
North melted into the touch seamlessly, tilting his head slightly to acknowledge him.
"It's all coming together beautifully," Khan said as he surveyed the room. His gaze was approving, pleased. "You've done an incredible job, love."
North smiled—so effortlessly, so perfectly, that anyone else would believe it was genuine. "I wanted it to be perfect for you."
From the outside looking in, they really were the perfect couple. The way Khan held North, the way North smiled at him, the way their lives intertwined so neatly.
Dao wanted to say something.
He wanted to pull North aside, to ask him—Are you sure? Is this what you want?
But the words never left his mouth.
North bid his fiancé goodbye with a soft promise to meet him later. Khan gave his hand a final squeeze before stepping out, leaving North to turn back to his friends.
"Let's continue where we left off," North said, his voice smooth, unwavering. "For the reception—"
Dao and Typhoon followed, neither saying a word.
They could only stand by his side.
-
Johan sat at his desk, the late afternoon light casting long shadows across the polished wood. A stack of correspondence lay before him—letters from nobles, reports from advisors, formal invitations to events he never intended to attend. He sorted through them with little interest, his movements practiced and indifferent.
Then, his fingers stilled.
A crisp ivory envelope, adorned with elegant calligraphy. The seal was unassuming but familiar. He didn't need to open it to know what it was.
North's wedding invitation.
A mere formality. High society always sent invitations to the palace, a courtesy rather than an expectation. It meant nothing.
Johan's jaw tightened as he tore it open, his eyes scanning the words. The date. The venue. The names. North and Lord Khan.
Something dark and furious uncoiled within him.
His fingers pressed into the parchment, the edges crumpling slightly under the force of his grip. His heart pounded in his chest, a slow, deliberate rage that he didn't allow to show on his face.
How dare he?
Johan placed the invitation down—calmly, deliberately—on the edge of his desk, beside the rest of the meaningless correspondence.
But he did not forget it.
The image of it, the words inked into that fine parchment, the date of the event—it seared itself into his memory, branded there like a scar.
He would do nothing.
He would say nothing.
But Johan engraved the moment into his mind, and he would not let it go.
The invitation arrived with the rest of the day's correspondence, a neatly sealed envelope bearing no significance beyond the formality it represented. It was customary for members of high society to extend such courtesies to the palace, knowing full well that no royal would trouble themselves with attendance. A mere gesture, nothing more.
Johan picked it up, his gaze flicking over the elegant script that spelled out North's name—alongside another's.
He should have ignored it. Tossed it aside like the countless others.
Instead, he broke the seal.
His eyes traced the details—the venue, the date, the celebration of a union he should not care about. His expression remained unreadable, but beneath it, something unspoken and vicious stirred. The ink on the parchment may as well have been carved into his skin for how deeply it seared into his mind.
The fury came fast and quiet, coiling inside him like a beast held on too tight a leash. His grip on the invitation tightened for a brief second before he forced his fingers to relax, setting it down atop the stack of correspondence as though it were just another insignificant letter.
But Johan did not forget it.
He let it sit there, untouched, unacknowledged. And yet, the date was burned into his thoughts, unwilling to be erased.
Arthit strode into Johan's office with all the ease of a man who belonged there, throwing himself onto the nearest chair without waiting for an invitation. The room was its usual picture of order—papers neatly stacked, not a single item out of place—but there was a heaviness in the air that hadn't been there before. A weight that pressed down on everything, silent but suffocating.
"Damn, the servants sure are scared of you now," Arthit said, stretching out as if he were in his own estate. "They look at you like you're extra insufferable lately. What, did you start docking wages for breathing too loudly?"
Johan didn't respond, merely flipping through the document in his hands with practiced disinterest.
Arthit exhaled loudly, undeterred. "I know you're in your all duty, no fun era, but listen, I'm actually trying to court my omega here. Do you know how hard it is when his entire family is praying for my downfall? I need advice from someone equally—"
"I've received the invitation."
The words were quiet, but they sliced through the air like a blade.
Arthit paused, his usual easy grin faltering for a brief second as he studied Johan.
Johan's posture remained the same—composed, detached, effortlessly unreadable—but there was something in his grip on the papers, something in the way his jaw tensed ever so slightly.
Arthit knew him too well to miss it.
And for once, he didn't try to joke it away.
"Do you plan on going?"
Johan barely looked up from the letter in his hand, his face a mask of indifference.
"No."
That was all he said. No hesitation, no elaboration. Just a single syllable, final and absolute.
Arthit studied him for a moment, leaning back in his chair. "Right," he murmured, dragging out the word as if testing Johan's resolve. But there was nothing to test—Johan had already locked the door on the subject, and Arthit wasn't about to waste his breath banging on it.
Instead, Johan set the invitation aside, as if it were nothing more than another forgettable piece of correspondence, and moved on. "Preparations for my ascension are progressing as planned," he said smoothly, shifting the conversation as though North's wedding had never been mentioned. "The Council has begun finalizing the ceremonial arrangements. The transition will be official within the year."
Arthit exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I still can't believe the old man's really stepping down."
Johan hummed, noncommittal. "He has been considering it for years."
"Yeah, but considering and doing are two different things. And he never seemed to think you were ready."
Johan's gaze was sharp when it met Arthit's, cold and unwavering. "He had no choice but to decide otherwise."
Arthit snorted. "That sounds like a very polite way of saying you forced his hand."
Johan didn't confirm or deny it. He simply picked up another document and continued as if nothing had happened. "The formal announcement will be made after the next council session. There will be a series of banquets and ceremonies leading up to the coronation."
"Sounds thrilling."
Johan ignored the sarcasm. "It is necessary."
Arthit sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, yeah, I know. No fun, no distractions, just endless duty and self-sacrifice. Your whole life dedicated to the throne."
Johan didn't react.
And that, more than anything, made something uneasy settle in Arthit's chest.
-
North sat at the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the wedding suit hanging across the room. It was pristine, white, and utterly lifeless. Just like the ceremony that awaited him tomorrow.
A soft knock at his door broke him from his thoughts. He hesitated, glancing at the clock—it was late. Too late for anyone to be calling.
He stood and opened the door, only to find Tiger standing there with a mischievous smirk and a bottle of his finest liquor dangling from his fingers.
"Well, alphas have bachelor parties, why shouldn't you?" Tiger quipped, pushing past North and stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "You'll get to unwind."
North let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he closed the door. "Unwind, huh?"
Tiger popped open the bottle, took a swig, then passed it to North. "Drink."
North hesitated but ultimately took the bottle and downed a generous sip. The burn in his throat was sharp, but he welcomed it. Anything to numb the restless feeling clawing at his chest.
Tiger plopped down on the couch near the window, stretching out as if he owned the place. "So, tell me, dear cousin—how does it feel? Knowing that by this time tomorrow, you'll be a married man?"
North exhaled, setting the bottle aside. "I don't know," he admitted. "It doesn't feel real. Or maybe it feels too real."
Tiger's eyes softened. "That's not an answer."
North ran a hand down his face. "What do you want me to say?"
"That you're happy. That this is what you want."
Silence stretched between them.
Tiger sighed, sitting up. "North." His voice was gentler this time. "You don't have to pretend with me."
North swallowed. "It doesn't matter how I feel. The wedding is happening."
"Maybe so," Tiger said, leaning forward. "But if you had the choice—if you really let yourself be selfish for once—what would you do?"
North looked down at his hands. If he were selfish? If he had a choice?
He closed his eyes.
For a brief moment, his mind betrayed him.
He wasn't in this room. He wasn't in this house. He was somewhere else, standing under the golden glow of candlelight, his heart racing in the presence of a man whose name he had once whispered like a prayer.
A man who had his heart in ways no ceremony, no vows, no legal bond could ever erase.
But reality was cruel.
And tomorrow, North would be bound to someone else.
Tiger watched North carefully, his sharp eyes catching the way his cousin's fingers curled into fists on his lap. The way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. The way his gaze, unfocused, looked past him—at something, at someone, that wasn't here.
Tiger sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. "You're thinking about him, aren't you?"
North flinched. Just slightly. But enough.
Tiger scoffed, reaching for the bottle again. "I knew it."
North didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Tiger took another drink, then tilted his head back against the couch, eyes trained on the ceiling. "You know," he said after a beat, "I used to think it was just a crush."
North turned his head slightly, looking at him.
"In the beginning," Tiger continued, "you always had this...this way about you when you spoke about him. You were always so stubborn about it. You always played it off, made it sound like it was nothing. But the more time passed, the more obvious it became."
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "You loved him, North." His voice was quiet but firm. "You still do."
North clenched his jaw. "It doesn't matter."
"Doesn't it?"
"It doesn't," North snapped. "I'm getting married tomorrow. Khan is a good man. He's kind. He respects me." He exhaled shakily. "And he loves me."
Tiger stared at him for a long moment. Then, he said, "But you don't love him."
North's breath hitched.
Tiger wasn't asking. He was stating a fact.
North's head dropped forward, his hands gripping the edge of his seat. His knuckles went white. "What do you want me to say, Tiger?" His voice was hoarse. "That I don't love my future husband? That I still think about a man who abandoned me? That I—" He cut himself off, pressing his lips together tightly.
The room was silent.
Tiger sighed and set the bottle down on the floor. Then he leaned back again, resting an arm over the couch. "I just don't want you to regret it."
North let out a bitter laugh. "Regret what?"
Tiger gave him a look.
North shook his head, exhaling harshly. "It's already done. There's nothing left to regret."
But Tiger wasn't convinced.
And neither was North.
Tiger exhaled slowly as he pulled the blanket over North's sleeping form. His cousin had finally succumbed to exhaustion, his body curled slightly against the couch, the faintest crease still between his brows even in sleep.
Tiger watched him for a long moment. His chest ached.
This wasn't North.
Not the North he knew. Not the North who used to light up a room with his laughter, whose eyes always carried mischief, who had once spoken so fiercely of love as if it were the most important thing in the world.
This North was quiet. Hollow. Going through the motions like a man sentenced to a life he didn't want.
Tiger clenched his jaw.
He couldn't let this happen.
He wouldn't.
His fingers curled into fists as he straightened, his decision solidifying.
There was only one person who could fix this.
And Tiger had an urge to beat him to the ground before dragging him back.
Prince Johan Theerapan had a lot to answer for.
And Tiger would make sure he did.