The smell coming off Anthony.
A rancid, visceral stench.
Since the curse had been lifted, it had become rare for human desire to register as a physical odor. But occasionally — just as during the worst of the curse — certain individuals would provoke that sense in him. Crown Prince Nigel. His father, Grand Duke Ossilote. And now Anthony.
Leon had tried to dismiss it until now, attributing it to some lingering trace of the curse, a ghost of what had passed through him. But was it really coincidence that this particular rot came from men bound to him by blood?
And today, Anthony’s scent was particularly sharp — almost on par with Nigel’s, a smell that turned the stomach.
Leon felt the same keen, honed tension he remembered from the nights before a decisive battle — a bone-deep instinct pulling taut, nerve by nerve.
Why it should trigger now, directed at his own younger brother sitting across from Kasha, was entirely beyond him.
If Kasha had not been involved, perhaps Leon would have forced himself to ignore it. Anthony was his brother. The person he had guarded more carefully than his own life — his other self.
But right now, that same Anthony was directing a smile at Kasha that Leon could only call deeply irritating.
“You look so happy, Leon. It’s wonderful to see.”
“…Yes.”
Leon noticed the tension running through Kasha’s back as she spoke with Anthony. Her hands in her lap were clasped too tightly.
The moment he saw it, the warning Anthony had once given him came back.
Leon. You’re going to regret this. Don’t trust that woman.
And another thing. Kasha had fled the Elor estate — in what had seemed very much like a retreat — right after Anthony appeared.
Something was wrong. The instant that recognition took hold, Leon’s hand moved without hesitation. He reached across and closed it over Kasha’s, saying her name.
“Kasha.”
She turned to him immediately.
Kasha’s eyes — that deep, vivid pink, the color of the most brilliant petal, yet carrying something quietly mournful. The moment Leon saw them, he understood. She was struggling again, right now, against something she had not yet named to him.
That was enough for him. The hesitation ended.
He tightened his grip around her hand. She did not pull away.
“You look tired. Shall we go in?”
“…I’m fine.”
Kasha shook her head, firmly.
He considered pressing the point, but stopped himself.
No doubt she had come here today with a purpose, as she always did. Otherwise, someone who neither enjoyed nor sought out social occasions — and who had every reason to avoid being in the same place as Leon — would not have come to this picnic at all.
When he said nothing more, Kasha turned away and faced forward. Her gaze was deliberate, unswerving — as if bracing against Anthony’s presence. Fortunately, Margaret spoke to her from across the table a moment later, and the two slipped into easy conversation.
Leon used the pause to send Anthony a wordless warning.
Whatever you suspect about Kasha — whatever you’re planning — stop. Now.
Two pairs of eyes met sharply across Kasha, who sat between them.
Anthony’s gaze wavered for a moment. Leon was precise and exacting, but to his siblings he had always been warm, unfailingly gentle. For that same Leon to fix him with the cold, impersonal stare he reserved for strangers — that was something Anthony had never experienced before.
But only for a moment. A slow smile spread across Anthony’s face.
And what that smile held — inexplicably — was elation. The elation of someone who had spent their whole life waiting for something, and was now seeing it come.
Anthony. What on earth are you thinking?
Leon’s gaze sharpened to a fine edge.
Ding. Ding.
At that moment, someone tapped a crystal glass with a cheerful ring. Every conversation at every table fell instantly silent as all eyes snapped to the center.
“Now then. It looks as though everyone is seated — shall we add a little entertainment to the evening?”
Crown Prince Nigel rose from his chair and scattered his most charming smile across the assembly.
The young nobles erupted in enthusiastic agreement, glasses raised.
“His Highness never does anything halfway when it comes to fun!”
“He’s experienced so many different countries — of course he knows how to make an evening memorable.”
“There’s a reason a princess from Kazim, famous for passion and high spirits, fell for him, wouldn’t you say?”
People murmured, glancing at the Crown Princess — her cheeks flushed as she gazed at Nigel with an expression that left nothing in doubt. A woman completely and irrevocably in love.
Yet in truth, Jasmine had looked out of sorts for much of the afternoon.
She was performing elegance for the assembled guests, but Jasmine was, at her core, a daughter of Kazim — fire-natured and volatile. Her anxiety was visible no matter how she tried to suppress it.
She had a devoted husband — the most powerful man in the empire, attentive and considerate — and she was still newly married. What could she possibly be afraid of?
The guests could only shrug and speculate — perhaps the tension with Princess Melissa was getting to her.
Even Jasmine’s dress seemed an expression of that restlessness.
A dramatic strapless gown in brilliant orange, baring her shoulders and décolletage. Heavy, elaborate makeup. A hair ornament blazing with dozens of diamonds. For a mere outdoor picnic, it was a great deal.
The effect was of someone straining to dazzle at any cost — precarious, a little desperate. Nigel raised his glass to her with a warm laugh.
“As it happens, we have three tables this evening — what if each table sent up one representative to entertain us all? The table that earns the loudest applause will receive a prize from me.”
The response was immediate and enthusiastic.
“Wonderful!”
“A brilliant idea, Your Highness!”
“Ha. Then let us find a champion for our table.”
The table where the Crown Prince sat erupted in lively deliberation the moment he sat back down. Nobles who would normally have wrinkled their noses at any suggestion of a public performance were raising their hands with flushed, excited faces.
But the moment one person stepped forward, all other contenders quietly withdrew.
That person was Crown Princess Jasmine.
“There’s a dance I’ve been wanting to show you,” she said, lowering her eyes in a manner that was almost coy.
Nigel smiled and nodded. “As spirited as always. A traditional dance from Kazim is no small treat — you’ve all come into quite a stroke of luck this evening.”
“We can’t wait, Your Royal Highness!”
Everyone spoke as one. Witnessing a dance performed by the Crown Princess herself was, in truth, a remarkable honor.
“Bring me my veil and fan.”
There was a steeliness behind the regal composure on Jasmine’s face as she gave the instruction to her ladies.
The ladies-in-waiting moved quickly, as though they had been briefed in advance. The musicians who followed them fell into formation with practiced ease.
Before the preparations were even complete, Jasmine was already standing at the riverbank, the last light of sunset behind her, trailing a crimson veil.
The orange of her dress poured over the curves of her body like light. Between fan and veil, her pale silver-grey eyes caught the fading sky and flashed.
She had only to stand there and the evening already felt charged with something exotic and electric. The applause died, and the musicians began to play.
Ta-ran, ta-ran, darararan—
The strings of a traditional Kazim instrument sent a quick, intoxicating melody out across the water on the evening breeze.
There was something in the melody — sensual, unsettling, impossible to ignore. Jasmine launched into her dance, her movements commanding and intricate, all complex hand gestures and fierce, magnetic expression.
The guests, well and truly wine-warmed, did not notice what Kasha noticed: Jasmine was dancing for one person alone. Her eyes never once left Nigel.
Kasha watched as Jasmine bent at an impossible angle and sent her veil sailing into the air, and thought:
These two are already a married couple. Why does she still need to court him?
This woman has everything. Why is she this desperate, even now — even standing before the great love the world says is destined to be hers?
At that moment, a slender glass appeared before her.
The pale yellow liquid inside it sparkled with small, round bubbles. Kasha looked at it, then looked wordlessly at the man who had offered it to her.
“A sip won’t interrupt your thinking.”
Leon had been watching her the entire time — not Jasmine’s dance, but Kasha. He had read a thirst she herself had not realized she was carrying.
She accepted the glass without speaking. And as she did, she noticed that his other hand was still holding hers.
If she did not pull free herself, he would not let go. She understood that now.
And no matter how sharply she pulled away, he would find a way back to her — and the moment she faltered, he would hold out his hand.
The man who had looked at her with wounded eyes when she announced the end of their contract. The man whose kiss, even as he claimed aftereffects of a curse, had been nothing but sweet.
She had kissed him when the curse was real. She knew the difference.
She knew he was lying.
That a Holy Knight would go so far as to lie — with such brazenness — just to keep her close.
And the reason, right now, that she could not make herself pull her hand away.
Kasha thought about it, and in the thinking, she suddenly understood.
The desperation in Jasmine’s dance — the kind that stripped away every last shred of dignity.
She wanted her husband to love her.
She was struggling so hard it had cost her the pride of a princess and a Crown Princess both.
The reason a man who, outwardly, is a flawless husband, still makes Jasmine feel unsafe.
The old Kasha might not have been able to guess why.
But she had felt Leon’s burning gaze on her. She had felt his uneven breath against her lips. She had felt the force of two hands trembling with desire.
And so she now understood.
Crown Prince Nigel is not sleeping with Jasmine.
