Their breath mixed in the cold air. Theodor's hand gripped her waist tighter, pulling her closer, as if afraid that letting go would make something essential vanish. His lips brushed her skin. His breath left hot traces where only cold had been moments ago. Beatrice closed her eyes for a second. Her fingers clenched around the lapels of his coat, desperately holding on to reality.
And then, behind them, beyond the tall doors to the hall, came the sounds—music swelling, cheerful laughter, the clink of goblets. The world reminded them it was still there. Crowns. Rules. The stares of hundreds beyond that wall.
Beatrice was the first to come to her senses. Gently, softly, she placed her palm on Theodor's chest, where his heart pounded wildly, and leaned back slightly. His hand followed involuntarily, reluctant to let go. But she smiled. The smile was light, but her eyes sparkled with that dangerous gleam that could drive any man mad.
– We should go back, – she whispered, barely audible.
Theodor looked at her in silence. His gaze said everything. She slipped past him, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her gown rustled against the floor, leaving behind the scent of honey and winter. Theodor exhaled slowly, quietly, as if returning to his body after a long dream. He ran a hand through his hair, holding himself back.
Beatrice walked a few steps across the balcony, the silk of her dress sliding over the cold stone. But before crossing the threshold, she hesitated. She turned her head over her shoulder. Theodor stood by the railing, hands resting on the cold stone, gazing into the snowy garden, as if lost to the night. She said nothing. Just watched his back, the tension in his shoulders, his figure frozen in shadow. Is he coming with me?
Without turning, as if feeling her gaze on his back, Theodor muttered hoarsely:
– I'll be back in a couple of minutes.
His voice was rough, uneven, like he was holding back too many frozen words. Beatrice understood without needing more. She smiled faintly, hiding it behind lowered lashes.
– Of course, Your Majesty, – she said with a trace of teasing. – Just try not to catch a cold.
With that, she slipped back into the hall, leaving him to face himself. To bring order to his thoughts.
His breathing was heavy, uneven. His chest rose and fell like after a battle. He closed his eyes, teeth clenched. He just needed a few minutes. To regain his composure. To shove back down that part of himself he'd held in chains for too long—the part that had dared to stir tonight.
When Theodor returned to the hall, the ball had already reclaimed its rhythm. Music was livelier, laughter louder, the wine stronger. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to erase the flush that still clung to his skin—but her touch still burned like a brand.
And then he saw her.
Beatrice stood by a column, speaking with some lord, listening attentively, her head tilted slightly. And beside her, Regnald appeared. He approached with flawless courtesy, like a prince from a tale: a smile, a bow, a gleaming cloak draped over his shoulders. But something in his smile slithered—like a snake in the grass. Theodor slowed his steps, didn't approach, only watched.
Regnald leaned in closer to Beatrice than propriety allowed, and with a soft, poisonous politeness, whispered:
– Your Grace... How delightful to see you still know how to adorn the royal court. And I do hope you haven't forgotten who you owe your position to.
A reminder of her place. Regnald's words were wrapped in velvet, but the undertone was unmistakable, as if someone were trying to remind her of a forgotten rule. Beatrice caught it. Something in his tone, in the smooth, too-perfect smile, was wrong. As if he believed he had the right to dictate who she should be. She didn't know why. But deep down, she understood: he was one of those most threatened by her.
Beatrice slowly raised her gaze.
– I owe my position to His Majesty, – she replied evenly, without sharpness or fear. Just with the new steel that had grown into her voice over the past months.
Regnald froze for a second. His smile twitched. Then he stepped back, bowing once more—too sharply, too low to be sincere.
Theodor saw it all. His fists clenched behind his back. But he didn't intervene. Not yet. Beatrice handled it herself. And in the way she now stood—calm, upright, unshakable—there was more power than in any royal decree. He exhaled slowly.
The ball dimmed like a fire burning out to embers. Guests bowed their farewells, handmaidens gathered the trains of gowns, guards yawned in shadowed archways. Beatrice stood at the edge of the hall, lightly leaning on a cold stone ledge, her legs heavy, sweet exhaustion fogging her thoughts. Somewhere in the crowd, Theodor's pale silhouette moved, and the thought of him alone warmed her. Night wrapped the palace in the slow breath of winter. And this night, for the first time in a long while, didn't feel cold to Beatrice—but alive. She let out a small, almost invisible sigh of relief and stepped out of the firelight and into the dark corridors.
By the time Beatrice reached her chambers, the night had taken full hold. The maids met her in the dim room, helping her out of the heavy dress, loosening her hair, bringing warm water for washing. Everything happened so quickly and quietly, as if the air itself pressed down with weariness.
She let them finish in silence.
When the doors closed and only quiet remained, Beatrice slowly approached the bed and sank onto the soft sheets, holding her breath. Her body felt heavy. As if the day had soaked into her very bones. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling where streetlight reflections danced in the dark.
Her fingers drifted to her lips. To the spot where his touch still seemed to burn. Then to her neck, the spot below her ear where his breath had scorched her skin. The memories flared so bright her heart stumbled.
She remembered how his hand gripped her waist. How he held her—tenderly, yet with that edge of command. How his touch had power, and how she both wanted to pull away and press in closer. How easily she could've burned in his arms if they'd stayed on that balcony just a moment longer.
Beatrice buried her face in the pillow. The night felt warm. Heavy. And for the first time in so long, she didn't fall asleep alone with her thoughts. She fell asleep remembering someone's hand on her waist. And with the silent promise that one day, she'd allow herself more.
Theodor wasn't asleep.
He sat in an armchair by the fireplace, one hand gripping a glass of strong wine, the other clenched around the armrest until his knuckles turned white. The fire hissed and crackled. Shadows crawled along the walls. But in his mind, only one image burned.
Beatrice. On the balcony.
Warm. Tempting.
The way her lips parted from his breath. The way her neck bared itself under his kiss. The way she pressed into him, surrendered in his arms, even if only for a second.
Theodor shut his eyes, head falling back against the chair. His trousers strained with the ache between his legs, his body far ahead of his mind still desperately clinging to dignity.
He ran a hand over his face, muttering something harsh under his breath.
– You're the king. Damn it, act like one.
But his body refused to listen. His fingers slid down his thigh as if on their own. Slowly. Carefully. And for a second, he imagined it was her hand. Warm. Delicate. Her breath at his ear. Her soft moan in the depth of night. Theodor clenched his jaw. His hand rested over the tense fabric of his trousers.
One push. One move—and he'd lose control. Heat surged through him. He leaned back, breathing hard, his eyes burning with unbearable need. His fingers squeezed tighter. Just a bit more...
And he stopped.
He flung his hand aside, clenched it into a fist, braced his elbows on his knees.
Like an animal, he thought. Like a cursed boy who's lost his head.
Theodor sat like that for a long time, breathing heavily, shaking from the storm inside. His throat dry. His fingers trembling with fury—at himself, at her, at this damned night. Soon. But not like this. Not this way.
He exhaled between his teeth, pressing his palms to his face like he could scrub out the hunger and the exhaustion both. When he finally rose and walked to the bed, his body felt like it belonged to someone else. Every step was a burden. He collapsed onto the cold sheets, still fully dressed, and for the first time allowed himself to fall asleep with her name on his lips.