Raphael's POV:
The morning crept in too quietly. Not with the soft glow of sunrise or the chirping of birds, but with the heavy silence of shame and something worse—satisfaction.
My eyes fluttered open slowly, adjusting to the muted light seeping in through the sheer curtains. My head pounded, but it was nothing compared to the dull ache low in my spine. The sheets clung to my skin, damp and wrinkled. As I shifted, a sharp sting flared between my thighs, making me suck in a breath through clenched teeth.
I froze.
Something felt… wrong. Tender. Raw. Violated.
My fingers trembled as I reached beneath the sheets, grazing the inside of my thighs. My heart thudded louder as I felt the sticky, crusted remains of dried fluids—some tinged with the unmistakable dark rust of blood.
I pulled my hand back and stared at the flakes of crimson against my skin.
I should've cried. Or screamed. Or panicked.
But I smirked.
No Xavier in sight. Just the suffocating scent of him still lingering in the air. A mixture of sweat, musk, and something darker—mine and his, blended together like poison. His military coat lay draped at the foot of the bed, heavy and creased, the once-pristine fabric now stiff with dried semen.
I grabbed it with a clenched jaw, holding it like a corpse in my lap.
Memories surged, uninvited.
His growls echoing in my ear. His lips bruising my skin. My own breath hitching as he split me open with each brutal thrust. My fingers clutching his shoulders while I spat venom and begged for more. The way his hips trembled when I bit into his neck—right where the pulse throbbed.
Every bruise. Every burn. Every filthy word whispered between thrusts.
I remembered the way he twitched inside me, groaning, when I cursed him again and begged him to ruin me.
Heat flooded my cheeks.
I shoved the coat away with a hiss. But my fingers were already reaching for it again.
Lunatic.
I buried my face into the thick collar, breathing in his scent, trembling uncontrollably.
Minutes passed. Maybe more.
I forced myself to stand. My legs wobbled beneath me, weak and bruised. Each step away from the bed made the soreness worse. I winced, dragging my feet toward the full-length mirror standing tall in the corner.
And then I saw myself.
I paused, breath stuck in my throat.
My neck was littered with hickeys, angry and red. My collarbone had bite marks. My chest bore the shadows of his hands. Finger-shaped bruises wrapped my waist like he tried to mold me into something he could claim. My inner thighs were tender, colored with bruises that stood out against pale skin.
And my lips—swollen, abused.
My eyes met my reflection. Wild. Unhinged.
I looked… ruined.
Beautifully ruined.
"I'm not your fucking conquest," I whispered at the mirror, voice shaking.
But my fingers rose on their own, tracing each dark hickey like they were crafted from gold. I exhaled shakily. My smirk returned.
I had a plan.
I wouldn't hide this. I would wear it. Parade it. Weaponize it.
Let the world see what the great king to be did to his own step brother the whore they hate.
I slipped into a pair of sheer, white shorts—thin as breath, no undergarments. I chose a matching shirt that barely hid anything. My nipples showed through. My bruises peaked out like petals.
Then, I pulled Xavier's stained coat over it all.
It smelled like him.
I looked like a whore in a soldier's trophy.
Perfect.
When I stepped into the hallway, two guards flanking the door stiffened. Their eyes widened instantly, darting over my exposed thighs, my red-stained neck, the unmistakable military coat swamping my small frame.
I kept my eyes low. Limped slightly.
Not a word from them.
Let them think I was fragile.
Let them think I was prey.
The palace floor was cold beneath my bare feet. The walk to my room felt endless, each step a mixture of pain and purpose. But as soon as I entered my chambers and locked the door behind me, I laughed. A soft, twisted, muffled sound.
Checkmate!
(Other side)
Xavier's POV:
Sunlight meant nothing on the battlefield.
But it still burned like judgment here.
I wiped sweat from my brow and glared at my sparring opponent. Wooden swords clashed again, but I didn't hold back. I slammed my blade into his shield with a grunt. Again. And again. Until the splintered wood gave way.
My soldiers didn't speak. They knew the signs. Rage simmered beneath my skin, barely held back by protocol.
I shouldn't have touched him. Shouldn't have wanted him.
But the way he looked last night, moaning and writhing—hating me while begging for more—it carved itself into my brain like an addiction.
He clung to me this morning, whispering things I refused to remember. His body was soft, pliant against mine. Too trusting. Too warm.
It disgusted me.
So I pushed him away. I left before the sun fully rose.
My fists clenched.
He was supposed to be off-limits.
So why do I want to brand him again?
I slammed my fist into the sparring post until blood cracked the skin.
Back To Raphael's POV:
Hours later, whispers spread like wildfire.
The guards. The servants. The concubines.
One of the guards from last night finally opened his mouth. Told a maid what he saw—the Prince, drugged and stumbling, seducing the General.
Then the maid told a cook. Then a footman overheard.
By noon, the story had morphed: "The prince seduced the General at his own engagement party."
They called me a slut. A schemer. A shameless tease.
Perfect.
It didn't take long before the rumors reached the throne.
The King summoned both of us.
His concubine—Xavier's mother—was already there. Her face, tight with disgust. The King's brows were furrowed deep. The chamber was filled with ministers, generals, and witnesses.
Xavier stood tall in the center of the room. His face blank, unreadable.
I entered, slow and limping.
Wearing his coat.
And the entire court went silent.
I could feel their eyes—devouring my every bruise, every whisper of skin.
Xavier's jaw ticked.
I looked at him.
And smiled.
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Author's Note:
Any idea What will happen in the next chapter?
Let me know how smart my reader's are ! (Wink)