The Prince and His Loyal Hound

This chapter contains themes of trauma and anxiety, including internalized emotional flashbacks. Reader discretion is advised.

The moment passed—

and with it, the illusion of distance.

From the edge of the ballroom, she made her move.

Valessia Mireille Durent, daughter of a minor yet fiercely ambitious viscount, was not known for subtlety. But she had mastered timing the way a blade-dancer mastered footwork—with precision, elegance, and deadly intent.

She had waited.

Waited until Sir Caelan Grey, ever the silent shadow at the prince's side, had been drawn into yet another dance—surrounded by laughter, by spinning silk and fluttering fans, by too many eyes and far too much delight. The knight was momentarily distracted, and that was all the opportunity she required.

With the grace of a serpent in silk, she slipped through the swell of the crowd. Her gown shimmered with every step—the red fabric clinging where it flattered, falling away where it teased. The neckline dipped daringly low, held firm by a corset so tightly laced it sculpted her posture into near-perfection. Her breaths were shallow, her chest perfectly poised—

One deep bow away from scandal.

She approached with purpose, fan poised, smile demure but honed to a razor's edge.

August didn't notice her at first.

His attention remained on the dance floor—on him. The knight who moved with practiced confidence and just a hint of flourish. But as the waltz turned and Caelan disappeared briefly behind a column of bodies, the prince's gaze faltered...

...and Valessia struck.

"Your Highness~" she purred, her voice dipped in honey and heat. She stepped into the prince's space—not with the caution others afforded him, but with bold, deliberate poise. Closer than etiquette allowed. Not close enough to spark scandal. Just enough to make it known.

"Must you remain hidden away in solitude?" she asked, voice soft as silk, sharp as a needle. "The night longs for your light. Let us bask in it a little longer."

She pressed forward gently, arm sliding through his, her perfume heady—roses, and something darker beneath. She tilted her body just enough for the swell of her chest to graze his arm, the motion concealed beneath the pretense of flirtation. She smiled as if it were all effortless, natural.

But August stilled.

Not visibly—never that.

But behind his violet eyes, something snapped tight.

A flicker, sharp and raw, like a string drawn too far.

He hadn't expected her to get that close.

Not before he could deflect.

Not before the distance could rise like a shield.

Her perfume suffocated.

Her touch—feather-light to others—pressed against his skin like crawling bugs from the gutter.

And then—she leaned in further.

Deliberate. Confident. Her body pressed fully against his arm, her chest flush against the silk of his sleeve.

She mistook his stillness for shyness. For intrigue. For surrender.

That was his breaking point.

He thought he could endure a moment longer. Thought he might offer a gentle deflection, an excuse and a step away.

But then—

She pressed in just a little closer. Her softness, once bearable through the sleeve of his coat, now sank deeper—felt fully, sickeningly, against his arm.

And that was it.

The breath left his lungs in a slow, strangled ripple. The plan dissolved. He didn't want to excuse himself anymore.

He wanted to flee.

Her scent clung to him—thick, heavy, choking.

His stomach turned. The floor felt distant beneath his feet, the air sharp in his lungs.

He could feel them—their eyes. Her eyes. That touch. That softness.

His body recoiled before his mind could catch up.

His arm jerked away from her—sharp, instinctive.

One hand clutched his stomach.

The other was already over his mouth.

He didn't hear what Valessia said next.

Her voice was muffled. Distant.

Drowned beneath the rising tide in his head.

Too much.

Too close.

Too soft.

Too real.

His mind shattered—splintering beneath a flood of old fears and whispered horrors.

"Disgusting."

Not her voice.

Not now.

But his own—twisted, cruel, echoing from dark corners of memory.

A venomous hiss beneath his skin.

"You let her touch you."

"You let her close."

"Do you want her to find you like this? Weak, exposed?"

"You're filthy."

"Always have been."

The words clawed, scraped—burning deep, like acid on raw flesh.

"Scrub it off."

"Scrub the shame clean."

"Hide it before she comes."

A chilling laughter slithered inside his skull—high, cruel, a predator's purr from a past he thought buried.

His breath hitched—caught in a tightening noose of panic and self-loathing.

He flinched, trembling—fighting for control as the room spun and darkened.

The laughter grew louder, mocking, relentless.

He wasn't safe.

Not here.

Not anywhere.

His stomach lurched.

The ground tilted beneath him—too loud, too bright, too close.

And yet, he moved. Smooth. Silent.

A prince trained to bleed without showing it.

To retreat without a stumble.

To suffer beautifully.

But his body was betraying him.

His heartbeat pounded—

Not in his chest, but in his throat, in his ears, in his fingertips.

Each beat a drum of rising panic.

Each breath thinner than the last.

His ribs locked around his lungs like a cage.

His skin crawled. Her perfume still clung—syrupy, suffocating.

Still there. Still on him.

Creeping in through his sleeves. Burrowing under his collar.

His hand pressed harder to his mouth.

The other curled over his stomach, as if to hold himself together.

He stepped away—

Not stumbling, not rushing.

But with the cold grace of porcelain seconds before it shatters.

Just a turn.

A shallow bow.

A quiet exit.

The crowd parted as if they always meant to.

They saw a prince, aloof as ever.

Composed. Cold. Impeccably unreadable.

They didn't see the terror behind his eyes.

The way his lashes trembled.

The way his shoulders twitched, barely restrained.

Off. Get it off. Her hands. Her skin. Her scent. Off.

Don't let them see. Don't crack. Not here. Not here.

The ballroom melted behind him.

The music warped, distant and warped like it came through water.

Her voice—Valessia's—followed him, soft and confused.

He didn't hear it.

Didn't hear anything

But the blood in his ears.

By the time the doors closed behind him,

He wasn't walking anymore.

He was running.