Ian's Morning
Ian woke with a jolt, breath caught in his throat, silver-grey eyes snapping open as sunlight bled through the heavy curtains of his chamber. His heart thundered against his ribs, and for a long, dazed moment, he was adrift—trapped between the molten shadows of a dream that still pulsed beneath his skin, and the weight of the waking world pressing down on him.
He lay still, staring at the intricate carvings above his bed, sweat clinging to his chest, the sheets twisted around his hips. The heat was unbearable. Not from the sun, but from her.
The dream had been vivid—dangerously vivid.
Ines. Her dark hair loose around her shoulders, her body glowing with magic, bare and bold beneath his hands. But she hadn't been wild or out of control. She had been focused. Intentional. Her green eyes locked on his with such purpose it had set his whole body alight.
And then…
Gods.
He let out a low, broken sound and dragged a hand across his face as fragments of the dream came crashing back—her mouth on his skin, her voice in his ear, her hands guiding his. She had taken control of him with a single glance, a single kiss. His name on her lips had sounded like both prayer and sin.
The press of her body against his, her thighs tightening around his waist, the drag of nails down his back, the gasp she'd made when he—
Shit.
He sat up abruptly, breath sharp, running a hand through sweat-damp hair. The dream clung to him with a desperate hunger, every detail burned into his nerves. His body still ached for her, hard and restless beneath the sheets.
"What the hell, Ian?" he muttered under his breath, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
This was not how the day of his engagement ceremony was supposed to start.
He stood and began pacing, the cold floor doing nothing to settle the fire still smoldering in his gut. The dream shouldn't have mattered. It was just fantasy.
And yet… it wasn't just the physical hunger that haunted him.
It was the way she made him feel.
Open. Exposed. Hers.
"She's not even my type," he mumbled, tugging on the coat that hung over the back of a chair.
And yet the memory of her—the sound of her breathing, the heat of her skin, the way she had whispered his name while pulling him deeper—made that lie fall flat in the space around him.
He splashed cold water on his face, gripping the edges of the basin hard enough to pale his knuckles. The icy sting did little to clear the fog of want still thick in his mind.
Focus. You're the seventh prince of Elandria. You don't lose control. Not over a dream. Not over a girl. Not over her.
But as he dressed for the ceremony, smoothing the folds of his finest jacket, he couldn't stop the thought from sliding between the cracks of his defenses—
What if it hadn't been just a dream?
And worse—
What if he wanted it to happen again?
___________
Ines's Morning
Ines sat stiffly at the breakfast table, with her parents on either side of her, their expressions caught between worry and stern disapproval. The weight of a sleepless night pressed down on her, and her eyes burned after hours spent explaining the events of the festival.
"Let me get this straight," her father said, his tone measured but cold. "You used your magic—a magic you barely understand—in public, during a crowded festival, to save your brother from a faulty stall?"
Ines clenched her fists under the table. "Yes, Father. I didn't have time to think. I just… acted."
Her mother sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Ines, do you have any idea how dangerous that was? Not just for you, but for our entire family? If anyone saw your mark glowing—if anyone realized what you were doing—"
"I know!" Ines burst out, her voice rising before she could stop it. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. "I know I made a mistake. But what was I supposed to do? Let Elien get hurt?"
Her father's expression softened slightly, but his voice remained firm. "You should have trusted your instincts—and your limits. Magic is not something to use lightly, especially yours."
Her mother reached across the table, placing a hand on hers. "We're not angry with you, Ines. We're worried. Your powers are… unique. And that makes you a target."
Ines lowered her gaze to the untouched plate. She hadn't had the courage to tell them about Ian's involvement, about how he had stepped in and taken control when her magic had gone out of hand. She doubted they would find comfort in knowing that her future husband was the one who had saved her brother.
Her father stood up, adjusting the collar of his formal jacket. "Today is a new day. The court will be watching you closely, especially during the ceremony. Stay calm, Ines. Show them that you're not just a mage with an unknown power—you're a Belladonna."
Her mother gave her a soft smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "It'll be all right, dear. Just… try to avoid any more public displays of magic, all right?"
Ines nodded, though the very thought of the ceremony made her stomach twist. As she rose from the table to leave, her mother stopped her in a gentler voice.
"And, Ines? Whatever happened last night… it's in the past now. Focus on what lies ahead. You're stronger than you think."
Ines forced a small smile, her thoughts swirling as she returned to her room to get ready. She didn't feel strong. She felt like she was drowning—in expectations, in her own power, and in the tangled web of this engagement.
But as she slipped into the emerald dress prepared for the ceremony, her thoughts briefly turned to Ian. He had been sharp and irritating, yes, but there had been something in his eyes the previous night—something that made her suspect he didn't just see her as a pawn in the Emperor's game, but as an equal in this strange and unpredictable dance.
She shook the thought away. Focus, Ines. Today is not about him. Today is about surviving the court—and yourself.
As the palace bells began to ring, marking the start of the ceremony, she took a deep breath, readying herself for whatever lay ahead.
---
Ines's Preparations
Ines stood before the mirror while the handmaidens bustled around her hair and makeup, working with an efficiency that only fueled her growing irritation. Her emerald gown shimmered under the morning light, the tight bodice and intricate embroidery far too elaborate for her taste. The court expected her to look regal, composed, and every inch the future wife of a prince. But Ines just felt tired.
"Hold still, my lady," one of the handmaidens said as she pinned down a rebellious strand.
"Easy for you to say," Ines muttered. "You're not the one about to be trussed up like a festival ornament."
A soft knock at the door broke the tension, and her brothers peeked in. Elien grinned mischievously while Elias gave her a sympathetic look.
"Wow," said Elien, stepping in and leaning against the doorframe. "You really cleaned up, sister. Almost like a proper noblewoman."
Ines shot him a frosty glare. "Say that again and I'll make sure you wear this dress to the ceremony instead of me."
Elias chuckled quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Ignore him. He's just jealous he won't be the center of attention tonight."
"Jealous?" Elien exclaimed, feigning offense. "Please! I'm here purely to support my dear sister on the most important day of her life. But I have to ask—are you planning to set anything on fire this time, or are we safe?"
Ines groaned, covering her face with her hands. "You'll never let me live that down, will you?"
"Not a chance," Elien replied, his grin widening.
Elias, ever the voice of reason, patted her shoulder. "Ignore him. You'll be fine. It's just one evening. Smile, say the right things, and you'll survive."
"Survive," Ines repeated sarcastically. "What an inspiring goal."
The handmaidens stepped back, pleased with their work. Ines stared at her reflection, barely recognizing herself. The elaborate hairstyle and meticulously applied makeup made her look like someone else—a woman ready to face the court, the Emperor, and Ian Estalto.
"All right," she said, smoothing the folds of her dress. "God help me."
Elien gave her an exaggerated bow. "Don't trip on the altar, Lady Belladonna."
"Elien," Elias scolded, though he couldn't suppress a smile.
Ines returned the smile with a grimace. "Keep it up, and I'll make you give the toast tonight."
As her brothers laughed, she allowed herself a brief moment of lightness. It wasn't much, but their teasing eased a bit of the tension that gripped her shoulders. For all their antics, they were her anchor in this overwhelming, unfamiliar world.
_________
Ian's Morning Distraction
Ian paced back and forth across the training yard, his jacket discarded on a bench, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The muscles in his arms flexed and relaxed with each step, sweat beading along his brow. Around him, the air rang with the clash of swords and the grunts of sparring soldiers—but his mind was elsewhere.
His attention was captive.
Held by her.
The dream from the night before had etched itself into his thoughts with brutal clarity. Ines's fingers digging into his shoulders, her mouth parted in a moan, her skin trembling beneath his. He could still feel the heat of her breath against his neck, still see the way she had looked at him while pulling him close—fearless, shameless. Pure hunger. Pure desire.
It wasn't real, of course. But it still clung to him. The pressure of her thighs around his hips. The scrape of her nails down his back. The way she had moved beneath him, as if she knew exactly how to unmake him.
And gods, she was succeeding.
"Distracted, Your Highness?"
Ian looked up sharply. The captain stood before him, one brow arched, a half-smile tugging at his mouth with far too much knowing.
Ian cleared his throat, shaking the thoughts off like snow from his shoulders. "Just... thinking," he muttered, struggling to keep his voice level.
"Of course. I'm sure your thoughts were entirely focused on military strategy."
He didn't answer. Instead, he reached for a training sword, gripping the hilt tightly—as if the weight of the blade could ground him. "Let's make sure I don't have time to think."
The bout was brief but intense. Every thrust was a distraction, every parry a tether. But all it took was a breath between strikes, a single heartbeat—and the images returned. Ines's lips gliding against his. The breathless whisper of his name, heavy with need, still echoing in his ears. That maddening alchemy she carried like a perfume. Like a warning.
By the end of the match, Ian was drenched in sweat, body tense. And utterly unsatisfied.
He handed the sword back to the captain, wiping his face with his sleeve. "It's not enough," he murmured.
"What isn't? The exercise?" The captain tilted his head. "Or the attempt to forget her?"
Ian didn't reply. He simply turned and made his way toward his chambers. "Just tired. That's all."
But even cold water couldn't smother the fire burning in his chest. He washed quickly, almost aggressively, as if speed might drown out the memory. Every drop that slid down his skin only reawakened the heat—her touch, her voice, the way she had unraveled beneath him in the dark.
He dressed with mechanical care, trying to find control in the fabric of his tunic, the buttons of his jacket. But his thoughts refused discipline. They drifted back. To the night before. To Ines, standing beneath flickering light, her magic crackling around her like a storm barely restrained. To the way she had looked at him. Too intently. For too long.
It wasn't just desire. It was a challenge. A promise.
He studied his reflection in the mirror: posture straight, jaw clenched, eyes still glowing with something that had nothing to do with the upcoming ceremony. Beneath the polished exterior, his body remained alert. Ready to react to the smallest spark. The slightest glance.
"Get a grip," he muttered, adjusting his collar with a firm hand. "It was just a dream. She's just a girl."
But the way she had made him feel… there was nothing "just" about it. She was too much. Too alive. Too real. Too her. And that thought alone made him sigh, frustrated, hands braced on the dressing table as he tried to calm the storm inside.
When the palace bells began to ring, signaling the start of the final preparations, Ian wondered whether that dream had been a random indulgence of the subconscious—
—or a warning.
Or worse… an invitation to surrender.