My Enemy, My Love

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔑𝔦𝔫𝔢

Prince Thyme [Sea]

The carriage rocked gently as I sat in it, still, my hands clenched into fists on my lap. My pulse was erratic, my breath shallow, my mind consumed by what had just happened. Luka. His hand on my face, his lips so close I could feel his breath against my skin. I wanted to push him away. I should have pushed him away.

But I hadn't.

I was furious. Furious at him for toying with me. Furious at myself for how easily I was shaken. I hated that he could do this to me. I hated him for doing this to me. But the more I told myself that, the more I felt a strange, unwelcome truth settle in my gut. Did I truly hate him?

I stepped out of the carriage and ascended the steps of the house, my thoughts spiraling into chaos. Something had changed. Something in me had shifted, and I didn't know what to do with it.

Pushing the thoughts away, I forced myself to focus on what truly mattered—the war. The temple meeting had resulted in a clear conclusion: bolster the borders, fortify the defences, and wait for the West to come to us. It was a logical decision, though it brought no comfort. The nobility was already divided. Tempers flared like dry grass in the heat of battle, and the Kingdoms were fragile, barely held together by diplomacy and circumstance.

I entered my chambers, intent on composing my thoughts, only to find a letter addressed to me on my desk. The royal seal of Bangkok adorned the envelope, and my heart clenched. My mother.

I broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. The words blurred for a moment before settling into sharp, brutal clarity.

𝐌𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐧, 

𝐈 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐬. 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐥𝐥. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞-𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐚𝐲, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐰𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭. 𝐈 𝐮𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞. 𝐈𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐋𝐮𝐤𝐚 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧. 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞, 𝐓𝐡𝐲𝐦𝐞. 𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞. 

𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐌𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫

The letter slipped from my fingers, drifting onto the desk. My head fell into my hands. Everything was unraveling. The war, the council, my father... Luka. I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing myself to stand. There was no time to dwell on my emotions. I had to inform Luka and make those necessary arrangements for our departure.

I found him in the drawing room, seated by the fire, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He was slouched in his chair, shirt partially unlaced, collarbone and chest faintly visible in the dim firelight. The flames cast an amber glow on his skin, illuminating the sharp angles of his face. I stopped in my tracks, breath caught in my throat.

Damn him.

Luka's eyes flicked to me. A slow, knowing smirk stretched across his lips. "Thyme," he drawled, lifting his glass. "Care to join me for a drink?"

I ignored the invitation and stepped forward. "I received a letter," I said, holding it up. "From my mother."

His smirk faded. "What does it say?"

I hesitated. Then, with a steadying breath, I told him. The illness, the urgency, the need for our immediate departure. His expression was unreadable as he listened, the fire reflecting in his gaze. When I finished, silence stretched between us.

Then, Luka exhaled and set his glass down. "We leave tomorrow morning."

I blinked. That was it? No sarcastic remarks? No teasing?

For once, he wasn't trying to get a rise out of me?

He reached for his glass again, but instead of drinking, he handed it to me. I hesitated only a moment before taking it and downing the rest. I needed the burn, needed something to ground me. Luka watched me, then gestured for another. I poured fresh whiskey into both glasses.

As I did, I felt him move behind me.

I tensed.

His presence was unmistakable, his warmth pressing against my back. A chill ran down my spine as I felt his breath ghost against my ear.

"Luka," I murmured, my voice a warning. "Are you drunk?"

His chuckle was low, smooth. "No."

"Then what are you doing?"

"Helping."

I turned my head slightly, enough to see his smirk. "Helping?"

His fingers brushed my shoulder. A shiver shot through me as he tugged at my shirt, slowly pulling it down to expose my skin. I should have moved, should have stopped him, but I stood frozen.

Then, with one swift motion, he tore the fabric clean down.

I gasped, startled, but he was already there—his lips pressing against my bare skin.

"Luka," I breathed, my fingers curling against the table.

He ignored me, his lips trailing lower, his tongue brushing against my collarbone. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, and my grip tightened around the glass in my hand. His fingers splayed against my waist, his touch possessive, burning.

"Still resisting me?" he murmured against my skin.

I clenched my jaw. "You think this is a game?"

"A very dangerous one," he admitted, pressing a kiss just beneath my jaw.

I inhaled sharply, my body betraying me as I leaned ever so slightly into his touch.

"Say the word," he whispered, his breath warm against my neck. "And I'll stop."

I opened my mouth, prepared to say it—to end this madness.

But nothing came out.

Luka's lips curved against my skin. "That's what I thought."

He continued his assault, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me flush against him. Heat coiled in my stomach, my mind clouded with desire, and I knew—deep down, beneath all the hatred, all the arguments, all the fights—this had always been inevitable.

I was losing.

And for the first time, I didn't know if I wanted to win.

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