Morning greeted the palace with a dull winter light and heavy, damp air. The sky hung low, the colors washed out, as if even winter itself was tired of holding in the cold. Theodor was up early.
He splashed cold water on his temples, pulled on heavy, plain clothes with no ceremonial marks. No crown, no cloak—just a thick, dark shirt and a warm travel cloak. He looked stricter than usual, and much more closed-off.
From his chambers to the council hall, he walked quickly, silently, never pausing. Guards, servants, and scribes barely dared to look at him; there was a barely contained anger in his stride. But that anger wasn't for anyone else.
It was for himself. For how, just yesterday, he almost forgot who he was.
For how he let himself dream of her not as a Queen, but as the woman he wanted.
And the most humiliating part—it wasn't just desire. It was deeper, more dangerous.
He was afraid that if he let himself have this weakness, he'd lose her. Or worse—he'd doom her. Theodor clenched his fists under his cloak. No foolishness. No steps forward unless he was ready to protect her to the end.
And yet, when he finally saw Beatrice, his heart still faltered.
She was laughing at something, quiet, light, like a long-forgotten melody.
And that made him even stricter with himself.
He bowed his head in flawless greeting, just a touch colder than usual.
Beatrice replied with a soft smile, but there was a flicker of confusion in her eyes, as if she sensed the change.
And Theodor walked past her without stopping. Not because he didn't want to stay. But because he wanted to stay too much.
The days after the ball were strange.
Beatrice could feel the change in the air. Before, Theodor—reserved, attentive—always kept a reasonable distance between them, like king and queen, like allies, like two rulers.
But now, everything was different.
He still greeted her in the corridors, still bowed his head, still listened to her opinions. But in his gaze, in the way he stood a step further away, there was something new. Something tense. Wrong.
She started to notice the little things.
When they crossed paths in the library, where she searched for books on the kingdom's history, he'd say hello quickly and leave almost at once, without asking what she was looking for.
When they had lunch together at the small table in the private dining room, he stared into his glass longer than he looked at her.
One time, when she innocently laid her hand on his arm while pointing out a border on the council map, he flinched—barely, but it was there, as if she'd shocked him.
And Beatrice, without meaning to, started reaching out to him. A slight tilt of her head when they spoke. Letting her gaze linger a little longer. A gentle smile, too soft for mere formality.
She wasn't flirting. She didn't even think about what she was doing.
It was instinct. A need to warm up that strange, cold wall he'd suddenly built between them.
One evening, left alone in her rooms, Beatrice smirked, sinking back into her pillows. She ran her hand through her hair, feeling the glow of the evening still under her skin. Had I really been so blind?
She remembered how Theodor's gaze would sneak over her shoulders when he thought she wouldn't notice. How his fingers trembled when she brushed his hand. How he seemed afraid to look her in the eye for more than a moment. And suddenly, the realization came—easy, without drama.
He wasn't cold. He was suffocating. He was holding himself back with everything he had.
Beatrice laughed quietly—not embarrassed, but genuinely, with a sly satisfaction. So clean, so strong, so disciplined—down to his fingertips… And yet alive enough to lose his mind next to me.
Warmth spread through her chest and down her stomach. Not smugness, not pride—just awareness. He wanted her. She drove him mad, and damn, it felt good.
Beatrice stretched out on her bed, lazy as a cat, pleased with herself.
This time, she wasn't going to pretend not to notice. She wasn't going to act like she didn't care. If he wanted to keep his distance… let's see who lasts longer.
She smiled at the thought—calm, confident, feminine.
Beatrice woke up feeling like she could move mountains. But her "mountain" was Theodor. She mentally sketched a plan of attack—and thus began the de Lancy Temptation.
In the days that followed, Beatrice made it a silent hunt. She wasn't in a rush. Didn't provoke him openly. But over and over, she tossed little sparks into their invisible game, testing his composure.
The first blow came in the library.
Theodor was bent over a heavy scroll, tracing the lines with his finger. Beatrice slipped behind him, so close she almost brushed her hip against his.
— Excuse me, Your Majesty, she said softly, her breath brushing his neck.
She casually reached for a book on the top shelf, making the fabric of her dress tighten across her back, the curve of her waist and hips outlined in the light.
Theodor froze, like a wounded animal.
He backed away slowly, leaving a chasm between them.
Beatrice smiled to herself, not turning. One–nil.
The second blow came during a walk.
They walked through the small garden, the guards trailing at a distance. Snow crunched under their boots.
Beatrice, looking at the frost-covered branches, slipped just a bit and instinctively grabbed his arm. Theodor caught her—firm, almost rough. His fingers closed around her waist. Her chest pressed against his, just for a second.
She met his gaze. Close. Too close.
— Thank you, Your Majesty, she whispered, her voice lower than usual. And Theodor let her go so fast, it was as if she'd burned him. Two–nil.
Next came lunch.
He was lost in thought, staring into his cup, probably brooding over negotiations, when Beatrice, as if by accident, reached across the table for the fruit bowl, her elbow lightly brushing his arm. Skin on skin—hotter than the wine.
She lingered just a moment too long, then slowly drew back, licking a drop from her fingertip, letting her tongue trace it—casually, as if she was just wiping off some juice.
Theodor swallowed. The de Lancy campaign went on.
Final blow.
Evening fell over the palace in soft velvet light.
Beatrice and Theodor were left alone, looking over fabrics and decorations for the palace. The table was buried in bolts of velvet, silk, the finest lace.
Beatrice, apparently at random, picked a thin, silvery cloth, shimmering in the lamplight. Instead of laying it on the table, she draped it over her own shoulders and let her hand glide slowly along her neck, her collarbone.
— Fabric should please more than just the eye, she said lazily, as if thinking out loud. — It should please the skin.
Her voice was soft, almost purring.
Silk slid over her skin as if it were his hands, not just cloth.
Beatrice looked up and caught his gaze. He was watching—hungry, intense. Like a predator, only held back by a leash. She tilted her head, baring her neck.
The fabric slipped lower along the line of her chest, to where the warmth of living skin began just past the edge of her dress. Theodor didn't move. But the air between them was thick enough to cut. His fingers gripped the edge of the table so hard the wood creaked.
Beatrice let the cloth drop back to the table, perfectly calm, without a wasted gesture.
— Your Majesty, she said with a sly smile, — I think this pattern is just right for us.
Theodor was silent. His chest rose and fell, hard and fast. One more step and he would lose control. He knew it. She knew it. And her smile grew softer—more dangerous. Three–nil.