POV Khalil
The library is my sanctuary.
I discovered it on my second day at the Aldridge estate—a vast room of leather-bound spines and comfortable silence, far from the constant performance of courtship.
The other princes don't seek me out. For a few precious hours, I can simply exist without measuring my words or calculating my expressions.
Today, however, my sanctuary is occupied.
Soren stands by the tall windows, his back to the room, silhouette sharp against the afternoon light. He's so still he could be carved from ice—which, knowing his reputation, isn't far from the truth.
The Nordic prince hasn't moved since I entered, hasn't acknowledged my presence at all. His pale eyes are fixed on something in the gardens below with an intensity that seems excessive for watching hedgerows.
I consider leaving. Soren and I have exchanged perhaps a dozen words since the courtship began, most of them perfunctory pleasantries that neither of us meant.
He radiates the kind of cold that discourages approach—deliberate, impenetrable, designed to keep the world at arm's length.
But my wolf stirs with curiosity, and my natural inclination toward connection wins out over self-preservation. I've always been drawn to difficult people.
There's usually something worth finding beneath the walls, if you're patient enough to look.
"Beautiful grounds." I approach the window, keeping my movements unhurried, non-threatening. "The Aldridge pack has excellent gardeners."
Soren's response is a grunt—barely an acknowledgment.
I settle into a position a few feet away from him, following his gaze to the gardens below. At first I see nothing remarkable: manicured paths, blooming roses, ancient trees casting long shadows across the grass.
Then movement catches my eye.
Eva walks the garden paths with Sebastian, their heads bent together in easy conversation.
Even from this distance, I can see the golden prince's warmth radiating outward—the way he gestures animatedly, the casual touch of his hand on her elbow. Eva's posture is more guarded, but she's listening. Engaged.
"Competition seems to be progressing well." I keep my tone light, testing the waters. "Sebastian has a gift for making people comfortable."
Soren's jaw tightens. "Sebastian has a gift for performing."
"Isn't that what we're all doing here?" I glance at his profile, noting the rigid set of his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip of his fingers against the windowsill. "Performing for the princess and her father?"
No response. Soren's attention remains fixed on the figures below, tracking their movements with predatory focus.
When Eva laughs at something Sebastian says, a bright sound that carries faintly through the glass, a low sound escapes Soren's throat.
Almost a growl.
My wolf's ears prick forward with interest. That reaction was... disproportionate. A man watching casual competition doesn't growl at a woman's laughter.
A man watching something he wants, something he feels he has a claim to, does.
"You find her appealing," I observe quietly. "The princess."
Soren's head snaps toward me, pale eyes sharp as broken glass. "She's the prize we're all competing for. Of course I find her appealing."
Too quick. Too dismissive. The words sound rehearsed rather than genuine—a deflection rather than an answer.
"That's not what I meant."
I hold his gaze, keeping my own expression mild and curious.
"There's a difference between finding a woman politically advantageous and finding her... compelling. You watch her like she's something more than a strategic alliance."
Something flickers behind Soren's frost-colored eyes. For a moment, his mask slips—revealing hunger, frustration, something almost desperate beneath all that ice.
Then the walls slam back into place, harder than before.
"You read too much into things, Amari." He turns back to the window, shoulders rigid. "A poet's failing, I suppose."
Below us, Sebastian leads Eva toward a stone bench nestled among the roses. He's talking, she's listening, and the afternoon light catches in her dark hair like scattered jewels.
Soren watches with an intensity that borders on painful.
"She's different," he mutters, so quiet I almost miss it. "Changed since..."
The sentence dies unfinished. Soren's mouth snaps shut, jaw clenching as if the words escaped against his will.
My wolf goes very still inside my chest.
Since when?
The question echoes through my mind, sharp and insistent. How would Soren know how Eva was before? We all met her at the same moment—the formal introduction five days ago.
Before that, none of us had ever seen the princess in person. The courtship announcement came out of nowhere, a surprise summons that interrupted all our lives.
So when, exactly, did Soren establish a baseline for Eva's behavior? What was she like before this alleged change?
"Changed since the courtship began?" I offer the interpretation casually, giving him an easy escape route. "I imagine all this attention is overwhelming for someone who's lived so sheltered."
Soren's exhale is controlled. Careful. "Yes. Since the courtship began. That's what I meant."
But it isn't. I can hear the lie in his voice—the slight hesitation, the way his fingers curl tighter against the windowsill. He meant something else entirely. Something he's desperate to conceal.
I think of the gala two nights ago. Soren's intensity during their dance. The way Eva stiffened in his arms, asking if they'd met before. His response—I would remember—delivered with a jaw so tight it could crack stone.
I think of Matteo at the same event, his dark eyes tracking Eva across the ballroom with knowing hunger.
The way he leaned close during their dance, breathing her in, and the confusion that flickered across his features afterward.
Something is happening beneath the surface of this courtship. Something involving Soren, possibly Matteo, and definitely Eva.
"Well." I step back from the window, keeping my movements easy and unassuming. "I should leave you to your... observations. The gardens are lovely this time of day."
Soren doesn't respond. Doesn't even glance in my direction. His entire being remains focused on the woman below—the princess who has apparently "changed" in ways he shouldn't be able to identify.
I leave the library with my thoughts churning like storm clouds.
My wolf—usually so calm, so gentle—paces beneath my skin with unfamiliar restlessness. There's a mystery here. A secret that two of my competitors share while I remain in the dark.
It involves Eva, that much is certain. But how? And why does Soren watch her with the desperate intensity of a man who already knows what she tastes like?
The questions lodge in my mind like splinters, small but impossible to ignore.
I don't have answers yet. But I will.
I've always been underestimated—the gentle prince, the soft Alpha, the poet who prefers words to warfare. People assume my kindness means I'm oblivious.
They're wrong. I see everything. I simply choose when to act on what I've seen.
For now, I'll watch. I'll listen. I'll gather pieces of this puzzle until the picture becomes clear.
And when it does, when I understand what Soren and Matteo are hiding, I'll decide what to do with that knowledge.
My gentleness has never meant I'm harmless.
It just means I'm patient.