Lucius visibly took in a slow, shaky breath. Then another. And another.
Each inhale sounded like it hurt.
His spine straightened with that familiar, mechanical grace—shoulders drawn back, chin lifted—but his eyes…
His eyes betrayed him.
Wide, stunned, and glinting with something raw.
'He's horrified.'
Florian didn't need any sixth sense to see it. The always-composed, unreadable Lucius—who'd once stared down assassins without blinking—was falling apart behind his glasses. That perfect mask he wore like a second skin was cracking at the edges, letting something stormy bleed through.
Lucius turned sharply to Heinz. His voice came clipped, formal. Controlled—but not steady.
"What… are you doing in His Highness's room, Your Majesty?"
Then—he turned.
And looked at Florian.
Really looked.
His gaze dropped—collarbone to chest, to the faint ridges of Florian's stomach. It lingered. Too long. Too heavy.
Florian squirmed under the weight of it, his throat tightening.
