Chapter 481: A Dangerous Suggestion

The bedroom was still quiet and dark when Philia opened his eyes.

He didn’t move. He lay entirely still beneath the heavy down quilt, his breathing kept strictly shallow and even so as not to wake the man sleeping beside him. Every part of Philia’s body was painfully aware of the heavy, warm presence draped across his back. Yerel’s arm anchored firmly over his waist, his strong fingers resting against Philia’s stomach, his chest rising and falling in slow, deep rhythms against Philia’s shoulder blades.

Philia stared at the curtain covering the tall glass. He hadn’t slept well. Every time he drifted close to unconsciousness, his mind would snap awake in a sudden wave of quiet panic, terrified that in his sleep he might roll over, shift uncarefully, or let Yerel’s wandering hands touch the thick, linen bandages wrapped tightly across his ribs and chest.

The blood beneath those bandages burned with a constant, dull ache, and the fresh wound near his temple throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat. Philia had even dabbed a generous amount of scented oil along his neck and wrists, hoping its sweet floral fragrance would conceal the faint, bitter medicinal smell clinging to his skin. If Yerel felt the uneven texture of the heavy linen, or worse, caught the sharp scent of the herbal ointment beneath the perfume, everything would crumble.

Philia quietly breathed through his nose, then carefully slid his hand over Yerel’s broad wrist, gently keeping the prince’s palm where it rested against his stomach, safely away from his injured chest.

Behind him, Yerel stirred.

A long, deep sigh escaped the prince, his broad frame shifting as his chin rubbed against the crook of Philia’s neck. Yerel’s eyes fluttered open, heavy with residual sleep, and he pulled Philia half an inch closer into his warm embrace.

"You’re awake early," Yerel rasped, his voice thick and low with slumber, his lips brushing against the soft skin behind Philia’s ear.

Philia offered a soft, quiet smile, turning his head slightly against the silk pillow to look at him over his shoulder. "Good morning, Your Highness. Did I disturb you?"

"No," Yerel murmured, burying his nose into Philia’s hair, inhaling deeply. "Have you been lying here awake for long?"

"Only a little while," Philia replied softly, his voice smooth, gentle, and utterly practiced. He lightly patted the back of Yerel’s hand. "I was just watching the sky change."

Yerel let out a contented hum, his arm tightening around Philia’s waist in that familiar, fiercely possessive grip that Philia had come to know so well over the years. Yerel rested his cheek against Philia’s shoulder, staring out into the dim room as his mind slowly cleared of sleep.

"The palace will be loud today," Yerel remarked dryly, his deep voice carrying a faint trace of irritation. "The ministers are meeting again to finalize the arrangements for the foreign delegations. Princess Iryna’s formal betrothal talks are scheduled for early afternoon."

Philia’s gaze flickered slightly, his fingers subtly tightening over Yerel’s knuckles. "Princess Iryna..."

Yerel caught the slight shift in Philia’s tone immediately. He lifted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing with quiet interest as he searched Philia’s pale face. "What about her?"

Philia kept his eyes soft, leaning his head back against Yerel’s chest with an air of delicate, quiet vulnerability. "I was worried at first."

Yerel tilted his head, his dark eyebrows knitting together. "Worried about what?"

"I was afraid," Philia murmured, lowering his eyelashes, his voice dropping into a small, hesitant whisper, "that the King and the senior council were planning to offer you to her. A formal match between the Crown Prince of Auzelian and the Princess of Solaric would have strengthened the ties between both empires overnight."

For a brief second, the room was entirely silent.

Then, a low, quiet chuckle vibrated through Yerel’s broad chest. The tension in the prince’s shoulders melted away into pure, smug satisfaction. He leaned down, pressing a firm, heavy kiss against the side of Philia’s neck, his teeth lightly skimming the soft skin before he pulled back to look straight into Philia’s eyes.

"How could that ever happen?" Yerel spoke with an absolute, unshakeable confidence that verged on arrogance. "I am already with you, Philia. You know that."

"The King has immense power, Your Highness," Philia noted softly, playing his part flawlessly. "Political marriages are rarely a matter of personal choice."

"My father can push his old ministers around all he likes," Yerel said coldly, his eyes darkening into a familiar, intense gaze as he cupped Philia’s cheek with his free hand, his thumb resting firmly against Philia’s cheekbone. "But no one in this kingdom, not my father, not the council, and certainly not some foreign princess, can force me to do a single thing I do not wish to do. My choices are my own. And I chose you."

Philia looked back at him, his pale eyes reflecting the faint gray light of the dawn. The sheer weight of Yerel’s possessive devotion was suffocating, a golden cage built around him with every spoken promise, yet Philia simply smiled—a quiet, graceful, and profoundly sad expression that hid the dark storm beneath his skin.

"Thank you, Yerel," Philia whispered smoothly.

Yerel’s expression softened, his gaze dropping to Philia’s lips. He shifted his weight, his heavy body pressing closer against Philia’s side under the quilt. His hand slid down from Philia’s cheek, trundling warmly along his collarbone before sliding toward the front opening of Philia’s sleep tunic.

"It’s still early," Yerel murmured, his voice dipping into a low, husky warmth as he kissed the hollow of Philia’s throat. "Why don’t we draw a warm bath? We can wash away the morning chill together before the ministers start banging on the doors."

A sharp spike of cold adrenaline shot straight down Philia’s spine.

A bath together meant taking off his tunic in full, bright daylight. It meant exposing his bare shoulders, his bandaged chest, the faint dark veins near his collarbone, and the bitter-smelling salve smeared across his skin.

Philia didn’t panic. He moved instantly, his reflexes refined through years of walking on razor-thin ice.

He lifted his hand, gently placing his slender palm against the center of Yerel’s broad chest, holding him back just half an inch, not with brute strength, but with a soft, delicate touch that felt like an affectionate plea.

"I don’t think that’s a good idea this morning, Your Highness," Philia said, his voice laced with a faint, apologetic tremor. He coughed softly into his hand, letting his shoulders slump into a posture of frail exhaustion. "My chest feels quite heavy today. The cold draft from the balcony got to me last night, and I feel a bit dizzy. I think I would prefer to just stay wrapped up in these blankets a little longer and dress quietly once the room warms up."

Yerel stopped instantly, his hand freezing on Philia’s shoulder. The romantic warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced immediately by a look of sharp, protective concern.

"Dizzy?" Yerel asked, his brow furrowing as he immediately pulled his hand back to feel Philia’s forehead with the back of his palm. "Are you feeling feverish? Did the long carriage ride from the outer territory exhaust you that much?"

"It’s just a mild chill, Your Highness," Philia reassured him gently, catching Yerel’s hand and holding it against his cheek with a soft smile. "I just need a quiet morning. Please don’t worry."

Yerel let out a heavy sigh, but his concern clearly outweighed his desire. He leaned down and pressed one final, tender kiss to Philia’s forehead.

"All right," Yerel murmured softly, pulling the heavy wool quilt up higher around Philia’s shoulders, tucking him in snugly against the cold room. "Lie still, then. I will have the servants bring up hot tea and honey."

"Thank you," Philia whispered softly.

As Yerel pulled himself out of bed and began to gather his clothes in the dim room, Philia pulled the quilt up to his chin, letting out a long, silent breath into the silk pillow, his heart hammering wildly behind his hidden, aching ribs.