IWAPUF 50

“I want to be the only man for you, Beonne,” Sir Tilt said, his earlier flustered demeanor
replaced by that infuriatingly slick charm. I swallowed the sigh that threatened to escape and fixed
him with a glare.
He was trying his best to hide it, but I could tell his breathing had grown ragged. I didn’t know if
it would help, but I had to do everything I could to bring his fever down. The biggest problem,
though, was that he had no intention of cooperating.
“What will it take for you to take off your clothes willingly?” I asked, exasperated.
“Hmm,” he mused, stroking his chin as he looked at me. “If you agreed to marry me, I might
consider—”
“Fine,” I cut in.
“What?”
“I said I’ll marry you, Sir Tilt. So, as promised, take it off.”
His eyes widened, as if he hadn’t even considered the possibility that I’d agree. Seizing the
moment of his hesitation, I lunged forward. He tried to pull back, but the cramped cave—barely
large enough for two people to sit, save for the space near the fire—left him nowhere to go.
Caught off guard, he missed his chance to stop me.
His outer coat was already drying by the fire, handed over to me before we’d entered the cave. All
that remained was the thin silk shirt clinging to his skin, soaked through. I grabbed it and yanked
with force.
“Wait, wait—” he protested, but the sound of popping buttons cut him off as the damp fabric
peeled away from his body. I felt a surge of triumph at finally getting the shirt off, but it was
quickly overshadowed by an awkward realization.
In my fervor to undress him, I hadn’t noticed our positions. Now, as I came to my senses, I found
myself straddling him, my hands still gripping the shirt. I’d been so focused on the task that I
hadn’t registered how close we’d become.
“Well, this is quite the provocative wake-up call,” he said, reclining fully with a sly grin. His
movement shifted me forward, so I was now sitting squarely on his stomach. Despite the cold
sweat beading on his skin, he still managed to act as if nothing was wrong, playing it off with his
usual nonchalance.
“Enjoying yourself?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Thrilling,” he replied, his voice teasing.
“Glad you approve,” I shot back.
I placed my hand on his bare chest, and a searing heat radiated through my palm, as if I’d touched
a flame. His resilience in refusing to show weakness was impressive, but it also pained me to see
what was driving him to push himself so hard.
“Beonne?” he murmured, his voice softer now.
“Stay still,” I ordered.
Still perched on his stomach, I wrung out the soaked shirt. The position was awkward, even
embarrassing, but I knew if I got up, he’d try to follow. So I stayed put, moving only my hands to
wipe down his feverish skin. His lean, well-defined muscles twitched under my touch. This wasn’
t the first time I’d seen him like this—our marriage, though brief, had given me glimpses of his
bare form before. It was familiar, in a way, but not entirely.
Yet, as I watched his chest rise and fall, flushed with fever, my heart pounded relentlessly, despite
the gravity of the situation. The thudding in my chest was so loud I feared he might hear it. To
drown it out, I spoke.
“You look strong, but you need to take care of yourself first,” I said.
He didn’t respond, his expression unreadable as he gazed up at me. Then, slowly, he closed his
eyes. I didn’t press him further. The crackling of the fire filled the cave, the only sound breaking
the silence. He kept his eyes shut as I finished wiping down his torso.
I slid off him, wringing out the shirt once more. Lukewarm water trickled down my hands. I shook
out the damp fabric and set it near the fire, then picked up his mostly dry coat. Even a slightly
damp coat was better than leaving him bare. But when I turned back to cover him, his condition
looked worse than before.
His face was flushed with fever, his breathing labored. Nothing about him looked well. Panic crept
in as I shook him gently.
“Your Highness!”
At my call, he slowly opened his eyes. When our gazes met, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I
was holding.
“I thought I told you to call me Tilt,” he said weakly.
“Fine, Tilt,” I said, my voice tinged with urgency. “Are you getting worse?”
“If I said I was fine, you wouldn’t believe me, would you?”
“No.”
He let out a soft, breathy chuckle, almost like a sigh. “I wanted to show you only my best side.”
I draped the coat over him, shaking my head. “Stubborn pride isn’t going to help you.”
“Pride, huh?” he murmured.
“Shall I call it recklessness instead?”
“Ouch,” he said, his voice faint. “Am I really that pathetic?”
I didn’t answer, instead tearing a strip from my outer dress and soaking it in rainwater. The cool
water seemed to ease the heat radiating from him. He lay there, watching me quietly as I wrung
out the makeshift cloth and placed it on his forehead.
“If you don’t get up from this, I’ll have even harsher things to say,” I warned.
“Such a harsh critic,” he teased, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Then recover quickly and get up. I’ll give you a better review then.”
He chuckled softly, a weak but genuine sound. “You always manage to surprise me, Beonne.”
Sir Tilt’s laughter faded, his strength waning as he closed his eyes again. The sound of his
breathing grew harsher, more labored, and it pained me to see him struggle so visibly. But there
was nothing more I could do for him.
I took the cloth soaked in cold rainwater and diligently wiped the sweat from his face and neck,
trying to ease his discomfort.
“I left markers outside,” he said, his eyes still closed. “When dawn comes, someone will find
us.”
“You don’t need to worry so much, Beonne.”
“I’m not worried,” I replied, keeping my tone deliberately casual to lighten the burden I knew
he felt.
He chuckled weakly, the sound barely audible. “You might not be worried, but I am. Just thinking
about the Marquess storming toward me with a sword and that fierce look on his face makes my
heart race like it’s about to give out.”
“That won’t happen,” I said firmly.
At my words, he opened his eyes, his gaze meeting mine. The Marquess, both then and now, was
unwaveringly loyal to the Emperor. The idea of him drawing a sword against the Crown Prince
was unthinkable. When I furrowed my brow, unable to comprehend his words, Tilt looked up at
me steadily.
“Your indifference is part of your charm, Beonne, but sometimes it feels almost cruel.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Both the Marquess and I—we’re at the mercy of your whims.”
I couldn’t grasp what he meant. I opened my mouth to ask, but he closed his eyes again,
murmuring softly, “I don’t want to explain now. Let the Marquess suffer a bit like I have.”
His breathing grew ragged, as if even speaking was a struggle. Though curiosity gnawed at me, I
held back from pressing him further. The crackling of the fire mingled with the sound of the
pouring rain outside, which was gradually slowing to a drizzle.
—
Act 12: The Trap
A low, pained groan jolted me awake. I must have dozed off while wiping the sweat from his brow.
I removed the damp cloth from his forehead and touched his skin. His fever hadn’t subsided—it
had worsened.
“Tilt,” I said softly, shaking him gently.
After calling his name a few more times, he slowly opened his eyes, meeting my gaze. His lips
moved as if to speak, but no sound came out. He closed his mouth again, and I couldn’t bring
myself to ask if he was alright. Anyone could see his condition was dire.
“I need to get help,” I said.
The rain had stopped, and the faint light of dawn was breaking through. I didn’t know where to go,
but I couldn’t just sit in the cave, waiting for someone to find us. As I turned to leave, Tilt’s arm
twitched, as if he meant to grab me but lacked the strength. I paused, taking his hand and
squeezing it tightly.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t go far.”
He’d mentioned the markers he’d left the night before. Someone searching for us might find them
eventually, but whether that would be today or tomorrow was uncertain. For me, a delay might not
matter much, but Tilt needed a doctor urgently.
“I’ll be back soon,” I promised.
It pained me to leave him alone in his condition, but fetching help quickly was the best thing I
could do for him. I let go of his hand and stepped out of the cave.
The ground and trees were slick with the night’s rain. I glanced at the rising sun to get my
bearings. I didn’t know exactly where we were, but the mountain where the hunting tournament
was held lay west of the palace. Heading east would eventually lead me back to the palace.
With no clear sense of where people might be, I decided to move east, scanning my surroundings
as I went. Just as I turned to start walking, a rustling sound came from nearby.
My breath caught. Could it be the cave’s owner returning? I froze, staring toward the noise. Given
the cave’s size, its occupant was likely a large animal. I hoped it was a herbivore, but animals that
made such dens were often predators. For both my sake and Tilt’s, I prayed it wasn’t something
ferocious.
“Beonne!”
The tension drained from me as the figure pushing through the branches wasn’t a beast but the
Marquess, his face haggard. The moment he saw me, he rushed forward, seizing my arms with an
urgency I’d never seen in him before.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded, his voice sharp and uncharacteristically frantic.
The Marquess was always the picture of perfection, his hair meticulously combed back, his attire
pristine, not a crease out of place—a testament to his relentless discipline. Yet here he was, his
clothes crumpled, his hair disheveled, speaking to me with a raw urgency he didn’t bother to
conceal.
“Are you alright?” he pressed again.
“I’m fine, but Tilt isn’t,” I said. Unable to move with his grip on my arms, I turned my head
toward the cave. “His fever is high. He must have been injured in the fall from his horse—”
“Why are you out here alone?” he interrupted, his voice sharp with worry