𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐀𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧

24⚚ United

I seriously don't know wtf is wrong with me like, It's 1AM and here I am obsessing over this book!

Vencie POV:

Viraj paced back and forth in the living room. His phone was in one hand, and he used the other to rhythmically hit his palm, the habit betraying his restlessness.

He glanced at the staircase for the hundredth time, his sharp eyes scanning for any sign of Amaira.

Something was wrong—he could feel it in his gut. She hadn't been her usual self earlier, and though she'd hidden it well, he wasn't a fool.

A part of him already knew the reason, and it gnawed at him like an itch he couldn't reach. He sighed heavily, dragging a hand through his hair. He hated this feeling, this uncertainty.

Upstairs, Amaira spotted the neatly folded blue frock on the bed, its soft fabric beckoning to her. A small note was placed on top of it, the familiar handwriting making her lips twitch into a smile.

"You're going to leave me breathless in this, baby.
Also, I've kept some painkillers on the coffee table—please take them.
Your handsome Vijulu is waiting for you downstairs."

She giggled softly, the last line melting away a bit of the tension in her chest. Your handsome Vijulu. She loved the way he claimed her so casually, so possessively, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Her fingers brushed over the note, and for a moment, she shook her head, laughing at herself.

Why was I even doubting him? she thought, scolding herself internally. So what if he hadn't said the words yet?

He didn't need to.

His love was loud in his actions—the way he was gentle around her, the way he always anticipated her needs, the way he'd never let her hurt herself, even by accident.

His eyes, his touch, his presence—everything screamed love.

She took the painkillers as he'd instructed, then dressed herself in the blue frock. As she twirled in front of the mirror, the fabric flowing gracefully around her, she couldn't help but smile.

Her gaze shifted to her neck, where faint yet dark marks stood out against her skin—Viraj's marks.

Her fingers traced the hickeys, a hiss slipping from her lips as she pressed on one of the more tender spots. But the sting didn't bother her.

If anything, it made her smile widen. She loved these marks—his marks.

They were proof that she was his, and she didn't care if the entire palace saw them. Let them complain to the king if they wanted, she wouldn't conceal them.

These are only hers to wear proudly, indicating only she has his love.

Amaira adjusted her dress, gave herself one last look in the mirror, and began making her way downstairs. Her steps were slow, her legs still slightly sore, but she didn't care. When she reached the landing, she saw him.

Viraj was pacing restlessly, his head slightly bowed, his sharp jaw clenched in concentration. His phone was gripped tightly in one hand, the other repeatedly hitting his palm.

His perfectly tailored white shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, and his dark trousers emphasized his strong, confident stance.

For a moment, she simply stood there, watching him. He looked every bit the man she had fallen for—strong, protective, and yet vulnerable in the way he worried about her.

"Vijulu," she called softly, her voice breaking his train of thought.

He turned immediately, his worried expression softening the instant his eyes landed on her.