My arrogant ROYAL.

Chapter seven.

(Yeah yeah, I know the change in writing .)

Melus's POV.

I felt like exhaustion had taken up permanent residence in my bones. My body was used up, wrung out, and utterly drained. In these past few weeks, I hadn't had a single moment to truly rest. My little brother, with his unrelenting irresponsibility, had driven me to the brink of rage. But amid my exhaustion and frustration, something caught my eye. My chambers—they looked different, not quite right, as if some invisible hand had rearranged them.

Normally, I might have brushed off the odd feeling that something had shifted in my chambers, chalking it up to my own tiredness or stress. But when I encountered a new maid tending to my quarters, the question niggled at me: why had my father seen fit to switch out the chambermaids? A small change like that could have been meaningless, a mere whim of my father's, but it added to the disquieting sensation that something was off.

The new maid met my gaze with a puzzled look, as if trying to decipher my question. She seemed unsure how to respond, and my concern grew. "The young boy who tended to my chambers," I said, my voice firm with a tinge of unease. "Where is he?"

Her words hit me like a physical blow. "He slipped from the stairs," she said, her voice low with concern. "It happened last week." My mind raced. The young boy had been serving me since my earliest memories, his presence a constant in my chambers. To hear that he had fallen and been replaced without my knowledge sent a chill down my spine. Something was amiss.

While I felt a pang of concern for the young boy, my own indifference toward him left me wondering if I was missing something deeper. Yet, something compelled me to find him, to see for myself. Perhaps it was the mystery of his disappearance, or the fact that he had always managed to stir up my emotions in some way. Whatever the reason, I decided to seek him out, if only to satisfy my growing unease.

I wasted no time in making my way to the boy's chambers, a sense of purpose driving me forward. When I arrived, I found him lying in bed, a white cloth resting upon his brow, and his head swathed in bandages. The extent of his injury was unclear, but the sight of him laid up like this sent an uneasy flutter through my chest.

Even in the midst of slumber, his breathing came slow and shallow, a thin veil over the edge of unconsciousness. I found myself drawn to the chair beside his bed, settling myself down in its embrace. My gaze lingered on him, as if my eyes could somehow will him back to health, to wakefulness, where the mysteries of his injury might be revealed. And as I sat there, in the silent stillness of his chambers, I felt myself wrestling with an unnamed emotion, something that swirled in the depths of my being.

My fingers brushed against his skin, his hand cold to the touch, but warming as our flesh met. I allowed myself to linger, to feel the heat that flowed between us, but all the while, a niggling doubt tugged at my mind. How could the boy have been so careless, so clumsy, as to tumble down the stairs? He was always so steady, so meticulous in his work. Something about this accident felt off-kilter, like a puzzle piece that refused to fit.

Swiftly, I drew my hand back, schooling my features into the mask of sternness I had long worn. If he noticed the fleeting tenderness, the trace of concern, it would upset the natural order of things. He must not glimpse the cracks in my facade. Slowly, as if even this motion was a struggle, he sat up, his hand reaching to his temples, likely attempting to soothe the ache that no doubt had begun to throb there.

"My Prince," he murmured, his voice still rough with sleep. "What are you doing here?"

"Your clumsiness has truly surpassed all expectations," I said, my voice cold as ice. "How could you let yourself fall down the stairs? Explain yourself, if you can." The boy's head dipped lower, his expression a mosaic of shame and confusion.