"You there—Anya, was it?"
Standing at the doorway, Tristan's voice cut through the silence. Both Anya and Selva startled where they stood outside the room, stationed nearby in case the couple needed anything. But neither of them expected the prince to call on them—not tonight. Even the guards didn't flinch, though their eyes flicked his way, just as surprised.
Anya stepped forward, bowing quickly. "Yes, Your Highness. Is there anything I can help with?"
"We need a change of sheets," Tristan said, pausing for just a moment, "and a basin with water. A clean cloth too."
His face was calm, collected, as usual. But beneath it, disbelief buzzed like a fly in his chest. What was he doing? Following along with Ivy's ridiculous plan like it made any sort of sense. This wasn't him. He didn't bend to whims—yet here he was. Married to a woman he didn't know, dancing at a wedding he hadn't planned, and now… helping her stage a fake consummation.
And the worst part? It was working.
Anya's gaze briefly flicked to his appearance—his open shirt, the very clear marks blooming across his neck—before she looked down, cheeks flushed. She nodded quickly and turned to fetch the requested items.
Selva, however, didn't bother hiding her stare.
Her eyes roamed over the disheveled prince, mouth slightly open in disbelief. From everything she'd heard about Prince Tristan—the cold, untouchable ninth prince who hated being close to people—this was not what she expected to see. She'd thought Ivy would be sent back to her family humiliated.
But judging by the state of him, the rumors weren't entirely true.
Well, I suppose even an ice prince is still a man at the end of the day, she thought. And with a bride as stunning as Lady Ivy, who could blame him?
"You planning to bring what I asked for?" Tristan's voice turned cold. "Or have your eyes stopped working?"
Selva flinched and scrambled after Anya, red-faced.
A few minutes passed before they returned, arms full. As Tristan opened the door slightly, Ivy's voice called from inside, hoarse and ragged, "Don't let them in. I don't want them to see me like this."
Her voice was rough. Used and worn.
How in the world did she manage that? Tristan wondered, momentarily thrown.
He exhaled and stepped into the hall, taking the basin from Anya and the sheets from Selva, then shut the door behind him.
Selva, of course, couldn't resist. She leaned forward to sneak a peek through the barely-cracked doorway.
The room was a mess. Buttons littered the floor, Ivy's nightgown lay shredded by the bed. And Ivy herself—barely covered by the sheets, her skin flushed, hair mussed—looked every bit the satisfied bride. Selva stared, eyes wide.
Anya quickly stepped in front of her. "What do you think you're doing?" she hissed. "You can't just peek inside! That's rude!"
Before Selva could respond, the door shut firmly in her face.
Inside, Tristan turned slowly toward the bed… and stopped in his tracks.
Ivy had fully discarded the sheets.
She stretched out across the mattress like she lived there. Completely unbothered. Completely naked.
"Should I be concerned with how comfortable you are being naked around a man?" he asked, half-joking, trying very hard not to look directly at her.
She smirked. "Already getting jealous now, are we?"
He wasn't. At least he didn't think so. But being around her felt like unraveling a puzzle with no edges. "Just how much did you keep hidden?" he muttered.
"Maybe if you stop acting like a monk, I'll tell you." Her grin widened. "But I won't hold my breath."
"Not happening," he said dryly.
She let out an exaggerated sigh. "Well, I tried."
Then, without warning, she stood. And yes—still naked.
Tristan turned away instantly. "Would it kill you to have a shred of modesty?"
She padded across the room like it was nothing, going to the basin. "You know, it'd be very romantic if you offered to wipe me down," she teased.
"I'm good," he muttered and turned to change the sheets instead.
She cleaned herself while he fumbled with the linens. It was harder than he thought. He managed to strip the bed, but trying to put the new ones on? That was proving… difficult.
"Why are you just standing there?" Ivy asked once she was done. "Shouldn't you be finished by now?"
He didn't answer. Mainly because he didn't know how to admit he'd never done this before.
Her eyes lit up. "No way. You don't know how to spread sheets?" She burst out laughing.
He looked vaguely offended. "Why would I?"
She was still giggling as she grabbed the fresh linens and began spreading them with practiced ease. "Wow. You nobles really don't know how to do anything, huh?"
"I am a noble," he reminded her.
"Exactly."
She finished the bed and glanced at him. "Give me your shirt."
"What?"
"I can't sleep naked next to you. You'll combust." She rolled her eyes. "The robe is too long. Shirt, please."
He sighed and handed it over.
She pulled it on, the hem falling just below her thighs, and slipped under the sheets.
Tristan joined her, lying on his back and staring up at the soft glow of magic stones in the ceiling. A long silence stretched between them.
Then she spoke, voice softer than usual. "Why did you agree to marry me?"
He didn't answer immediately.
"Maybe," he said after a moment, "because I was intrigued. It's not every day someone dares to speak to me. And then there was you—bold enough to pick me out of a crowd… without even knowing who I was."
"I really didn't," Ivy said with a small laugh. "Not a clue."
He smiled faintly, the expression barely there. "Exactly."
Silence fell again, but this time it wasn't awkward. Just still.
Comfortable.
He lay back, arms folded beneath his head, listening to the faint hum of magic stones and the soft rustle of sheets as Ivy shifted beside him.
For a while, the room was quiet.
Then Ivy moved. Again.
She rolled onto her back.
Then her side.
Then her stomach.
Then back again.
He turned his head slightly, opening one eye. "Do you… always sleep like this?"
Silence
Tristan sighed, staring at the ceiling again.
She shifted once more, this time flinging an arm over his chest.
He blinked at the ceiling.
"…Ivy."
No answer.
He looked down. Her breathing had evened out.
She was already asleep.
Tristan, on the other hand, lay very much awake, arm trapped under hers, staring at the faint shimmer of the ceiling lights.
This marriage was going to test his patience.
Or his sanity.
Possibly both.
He exhaled slowly.
And closed his eyes.
Tomorrow was going to be a very long day.