Chapter 40: It’s Not Just A Hand!

“Mel, can you fetch my macarons from the kitchen?” she asked, her voice soft but oddly urgent.

Melyn, who was busy folding the princess’ discarded gown, blinked at her in surprise. Ilaria have a remarkable sweet tooth, but she seldom requests for pastries at night. It was not ideal to eat sweets before sleeping after all. “At this hour, Your Highness?” She questioned.

“Yes, this hour,” Ilaria nodded quickly, shifting restlessly on her bed. She pressed her hands against her flushed cheeks as if that would hide the heat there. “It’s…important. I need to eat something sweet so that I’ll feel better.”

Melyn thought for a moment. Vivienne’s last report to her was the princess is with the prince at the garden and an odd statement saying she was in good hands?

“…Are you unwell?” She asked.

“No, no, I’m perfectly fine!” Ilaria waved both hands, almost frantically. “Just— sweetness cures everything, doesn’t it? Too much studying, too much overthinking, too much…existing, but sugar balances it all.”

Unconvinced, Melyn approached her slowly. “I’m not sure if that would solve anything,” she said, sitting on the edge of her bed, making Ilaria turned to her with her hands now feeling the warmth on her neck, hoping to soothe it.

“You dismissed everyone and plopped on the bed like you just got your heart rended, I thought the crown prince broke your heart again.”

Ilaria widened her eyes and shook her head. “What? No, no, it’s because he held my hand!”

“Held your hand?”

Ilaria nodded eagerly, then the uncontrollable flush was back in her face again. “Yes, and not just held my hand, he held my hand…firmly! He even helped me down from the gazebo like— like some storybook prince.”

Melyn blinked at her, utterly unimpressed. “…That’s it? He did the bare minimum and you got all red like this?”

“That’s it?!” Ilaria repeated, scandalized. She flung a pillow at Melyn’s lap with a little squeak. “How dare you diminish such a sacred moment! Do you know how rare that is? He never touches me like that! He avoids it like I’m some plague. And tonight, he did it without complaint!”

Melyn arched a brow. “So now you’re…what? Melting because he finally used his hand for its intended purpose?”

“It’s not just a hand!” Ilaria groaned, flopping backward onto the bed, covering her face with both palms. Her voice came muffled through her fingers. “His hand is strong and big, his thumb brushed my cheek, Melyn! My cheek! And I thought I would die right there, my ancestors witness me!”

Melyn pursed her lips. “You sound like you’ve been struck by fever. Should I call for the physician instead?”

“No!” Ilaria shot up, hair tumbling around her flushed face. “If anyone finds out, I’ll die of shame. You don’t understand. I can still feel the imprint of his palm on my face—” she slapped a hand on her cheek, “—It’s haunting me!”

Melyn shook her head slowly. “You’re hopeless,” she muttered, standing up at once as she smoothed the sheets where she sat. “But I still think it’s not a good thing to eat macarons so late into the night, what if you can’t sleep?”

Ilaria scrambled up, clasping Melyn’s hands with wide, pleading eyes. “Please, Mel? Just this once, I can’t think of anything else other than him and I need something to cool me down…I promise I’ll go straight to bed after.”

Melyn’s brows furrowed, but after a moment, she let out a small sigh, shaking her head with reluctant amusement. “Very well, princess. I’ll bring them, but only because you’ve completely lost all sense tonight.”

The moment the maid slipped out the door, Ilaria slumped dramatically into her bed, her hand flying to her chest. Why did she feel like her very skin was trembling with anticipation? And why dies she kept thinking of the weight of his hands, the warmth of his palm, the brush of his thumb on her cheek?

Her knees pressed together tightly as she groaned into her palms, mumbling incoherently. “Oh, this is unbearable but sweets— sweets will fix it. I know it.”

Melyn returned a few moments later, carrying the small jar with careful hands. Ilaria’s fingers trembled as she took it, practically ripping the lid off before Melyn could even warn her about making a mess.

She popped a chocolate macaron into her mouth first, closing her eyes as the rich sweetness melted instantly on her tongue. Her cheeks burned hotter, her pulse quickened, but she did not care, every bite was a tiny, defiant relief. She pressed the jar to her chest for a moment, feeling the weight of it as if it were a talisman against the chaos swirling in her body and mind.

She nibbled another, then another, thinking about Levan; about how his hand had felt on hers, how impossibly warm it was, how calm he had seemed even as she fumbled and flushed like a fool. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she bit the inside of her cheek to stifle a sound.

“Why is it not helping…” she whined softly, warmth pooling in her belly with growing insistence. Her gaze drifted to the lanterns strung along the coffered ceiling, their glow dancing across the carved timberwork. She imagined how that same light had etched his countenance earlier, and she bit into another macaron, lost to her thoughts.

The jar emptied far quicker than she had anticipated, each bite a dizzying mix of comfort and frustration. She cradled the final macaron between both hands as if it were a fragile lifeline dangling over a chasm, or the last shard of her sanity, the single thing that might decide whether she could survive the night without losing herself entirely.

Don’t disappoint me!

She closed her eyes and softly muttered the old Caelwynian blessings — ritual words she had learned to ease a restless mind and was proven to be effective whenever she was nervous. But just as she brought the final piece of macaron toward her lips, a gruff voice cut through the room from outside the door, unmistakably Roderic’s as he announced:

“His Highness, the Crown Prince is here!”

Her heart leapt, and the macaron froze halfway to her lips.

The door swung open and immediately, the maids snapped to attention, bowing deeply as the crown prince stepped inside. Their polished greetings echoed softly with a chorus of “Your Highness” that seemed to bounce off the walls.

Ilaria froze on the bed, macaron still halfway to her mouth, cheeks a blazing inferno. Her hair had escaped in stray strands around her face, and her violet eyes were wide in shock, the ridiculousness of her expression not lost on her but she could only watch helplessly as Levan’s gaze swept over the room, landing briefly on the maids.

He muttered something low and inaudible, so quiet that it might as well have been a command, and one by one, they scurried out, leaving the two of them alone.

Finally, the prince’s eyes met hers. He moved with a slow, deliberate grace, the kind of languid confidence that made her heart trip over itself. Reaching the edge of the bed, he paused, voice calm but carrying that subtle weight that could make her melt in an instant.

“…Are you still feverish?” he asked, as if the heat radiating from her was not entirely from the evening, or from the macaron she had not even finished yet. Ilaria could only gulp, unable to form words, feeling as though his very presence had shattered whatever composure she thought she had left.

“W-what are you doing here?” She stammered, her hands tightening around the jar as she dropped the last macaron back inside. Was he really here of his own accord, or was it some trick of the Blithe? After all, it was already night.

Levan’s gaze flicked to the single brown macaron, noting the way she had indulged herself, weighing it with heavy scrutiny as if the piece of sweet has caused a mortal offense. “I sent a physician to your chamber,” he said, leaning slightly against the bedpost, “but was told you sent him away. Why?”

“I…I wasn’t feverish,” she protested, cheeks still flushed, “so I didn’t need him. Why…why are you here again?”

He tilted his head, his golden eyes glinting faintly in the lantern light, voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge. “Because if I don’t, you’ll glower at me all night, and Lysander will accuse me again of neglecting my wife.”

Ilaria froze, blinking at him, caught somewhere between embarrassment and awe. “Y-you came b-because of that?” she whispered, her voice was barely audible at the absurdity of it all.

Levan’s lips twitched, though he made no move to soften the stern expression. “Yes,” he said simply, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. “Are you fine or not?”

Ilaria’s mind screamed yes, every instinct begging her to say it. Any proper lady who knew shame would, but the heat pooling through her, the ache between her thighs, made her body burn hotter than the lanterns’ glow. She pressed her hands lightly against her skirts, trying to compose herself, and deliberately shook her head.

“…No,” she murmured tightly, almost pitifully. Her violet eyes flickered to the floor, refusing his gaze despite how every subtle tremble and flush of heat screamed otherwise.

Levan did not miss a thing. The faint twitch of his lips deepened, not amused, not irritated, but assessing. He hummed softly as he inspect the macaron again.

Ilaria swallowed hard, feeling the heat crawl up her neck and flare across her cheeks. She clutched the jar to her chest as if it were armour, trying desperately to hold herself together. But the warmth coursing through her only seemed to intensify, as if the sweets had amplified her restless need instead of dimming it.

Oh, Saints, why did it got worse?

Before she could dwell on it further, a firm yet careful hand lifted the jar from her grip. Levan placed it neatly on the bedside table. He did not break the quiet, only slid gently onto the edge of the bed beside her, close enough that his presence pressed softly against her senses as the bed dipped beneath his weight.

Levan’s hand hovered for a moment over her shoulder, his gaze never leaving hers. Ilaria could hear the loud thudding of her heart in her ears; could feel the tension of his proximity as she remained locking eyes with him. She breathed heavily to the point of aching, unconsciously closing her thighs and gripping the gown to ground herself.

“Then tell me why, calmly,” he said lowly, one that sounded sinfully seductive in her ears, causing the hairs on her body to rose as she sucked in a sharp, shuddering breath. He closed his hand on her unusually hot arm, making her jerk in helplessness. “Because if you don’t, I’ll have to figure it out myself.”

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