Loving the Forbidden Prince

THIS BOOK IS NOW A COMIC!!! Available only on Webnovel in the comics section, under the same name "Loving the Forbidden Prince." Thank you Webnovel and Tencent for choosing my story!

***** 

AYLETH

He was here.

Whoever her heart sought, he was in this room. She could feel it in her soul.

Breathless behind her mask, Ayleth stood at the top of the wide, stone staircase, high over the ballroom, her ladies-in-waiting clustered around her, whispering and giggling. She kept her chin high as the ballroom quieted. Her parents, the King and Queen of Zenithra, the most powerful Kingdom on the Continent, turned to watch her, so everyone in the great ballroom followed their gazes and found Ayleth.

She scanned the great hall and all the faces turned towards her, but couldn't know which man she sought, and the nudging of her ladies in waiting forced her to focus on the stairs.

She worked to keep her face serene as they descended. She was late. Her critics would claim she'd done it on purpose, just for this entrance. But in truth, she'd been desperate to find calm.

Ayleth had anticipated the Festival of Peace—and this opening masquerade ball—for months. But today her nerves had exploded into a shimmering ache that called at her, making her yearn so that even as her maid curled her hair, she had quivered with some nameless magnetic pull. An itch for something, But what? Nothing she'd tried—no tasty snack, no amount of exercise, not even sneaking a mouthful of her father's best spirit, had soothed it.

Frustrated from a maddening and confusing day, she had finally given in to the pleas of her ladies to finish dressing and go to the ball. But as she'd approached the stairs the feeling only became more relentless, tugging at her bones.

As she looked down upon this gathering—the most powerful men and women of the continent all in one room—she knew only one thing for certain: Something within her yearned for a him. And he was here.

Her breath caught with the intensity of the pull, but she descended the stairs slowly, in a cloud of her Court—the ladies whispering about the crowd of men who waited below, masculine eyes already picking each of them out. Ayleth knew more eyes followed her than anyone else. Though everyone wore masks for this masquerade ball, there were few who would not know who she was, her rare, flaming-red hair always a banner of her presence.

But Ayleth already knew all of the noble men in Zenithra—had known them since her birth, or theirs. None of them had ever made her ache this way. She knew, somehow, that the tug within her, did not pull her towards her father's Court, but to one of the nobles visiting these coming weeks for the Festival of Peace. Which both frightened and thrilled her.

A royal, she prayed. Please let him be royal.

Her parents had made it very clear: During the month of the Festival of Peace, she was to find a husband from among the strongest of the ruling families and align their Kingdoms against the Summitrans. Ayleth had been happy to do it, to use this time to find the man that would suit both her and her people. But now…

When she and her ladies reached the floor, the music struck up again. The young nobles of Zenithra—and some from the visiting Kingdoms—rushed toward her and her ladies, though they tried to appear casual.

She began to walk before they reached her, so as she weaved through the crowd towards the seating reserved for her and her court, she could simply nod her thanks to the men who bowed, smile at their compliments, and pat the shoulders of those who offered arms. But she did not take any of them.

He was here. He was here!

Her heart sang.

She had to find him.

*****

An hour later, Ayleth sighed with bored frustration. She'd declined every invitation to dance, gently but firmly kept herself from private conversations, even with her Ladies. Her eyes continually scanned the room, the only hint to her tension was her slippered foot, tapping restlessly beneath her wide skirts. The pull within her had become so strong she was considering walking the room, seeking him out like a bloodhound on a scent. She had, in fact, just turned to Trayn, her dearest Lady, intending to suggest the idea of a walk, when all those surrounding her all went quiet. Ayleth frowned at her friend, whose eyes were wide.

She turned, following the gaze and her heart stuttered.

He was tall by Zenithran standards, his shoulders already almost as broad as her fathers, though he couldn't be much older than she. She caught the hint of black hair behind a curious half-mask in the form of a Lion's eyes, ears, and nose, with a thick layering of feathers around it to give the impression of a mane. But it left his strong jaw and full lips bare.

Ayleth swallowed and scanned from his broad chest, framed beautifully in a gold and fawn uniform jacket, to his trim waist, pale trousers, and shining black patent boots. He stood before her, chin high, and piercing green eyes peering at her through the mask.

Ayleth almost leaped to her feet. She had to force herself to stillness.

Then he spoke and his voice drew along her senses like one of those feathers being traced on her skin.

"May I have this dance?" he asked, his voice low and husky, and he swept into such a thrillingly powerful bow before her that even her Ladies in Waiting—who usually took such pride in being impressed by nothing and no one—fluttered their fans and made approving faces at her. When he straightened and their eyes met, that itching within her, that pinch between her shoulder blades, it all rushed to her skin. Towards him.

In a very un-Royal move, she nodded her head quickly and stood. He smiled as she took his hand without a word, her breath stuttering when he touched her, his warm fingers curling around her own.

His touch—even through their gloves—created sparks in her skin. Then, when they made it to the dancefloor and he pulled her into the warmth of his strong arms, he felt like a steel wall between her and the world. His smile, framed by his mask, warmed her insides—the insides that had suddenly stopped pulling at her, and instead simmered with contended heat.

Ayleth found herself speechless—a feat of royal proportions, according to her father.

They barely spoke, though he did, very carefully, ask her age. "May I ask how old you are, Princess?" he said, his voice a honeyed gravel.

"I will turn twenty in three weeks," she said breathlessly. "And you?"

"Twenty-four," he said. They both fell quiet because what else was there to say? A four-year age gap in the Noble Court was nothing. She'd seen girls married off to men older than their fathers—and shuddered to think of herself in that kind of union.

But she wanted to hear his voice again. "You dance divinely," she murmured minutes later, then cursed herself. She was not an empty-headed chit—she was a future queen! And yet, this man with his eyes and his voice and his touch… he stole even her thoughts.

He nodded his acceptance of her compliment—eyes locked on hers as he pulled her into a turn that pressed their chests together for a moment. "As do you, my lady," he said softly, and she felt the rumble of his voice in her bones.

As they finished the turn she blushed and broke the unnerving gaze to drop her eyes—and instead found herself staring at his broad chest. Her mouth went dry. Ever since the day she'd seen the Knights training in the courtyard with their shirts off, she'd found men's chests fascinating.

She'd spent an hour that night in front of the mirror, her nightdress pushed down to her waist. She'd always known men didn't possess breasts. However, she hadn't expected to find the flat planes of their chests quite so… compelling. Of course, her mother had left her in no question as to what body parts men possessed that women did not. But with only the rare examples of the beasts in the stables and courtyards, Ayleth had found herself quite unable to imagine such an appendage on a human male. Or how the use of it could create pleasure for a woman.

The dogs in the stables certainly never seemed especially happy about all the fuss.

Cheeks heating at the thought, she was grateful he was so tall, so that he was forced to stare at the top of her head. Being eye-level with his chest was a distinct pleasure. For a time, she was unable to look away, wishing to trail her fingers across it and see what would happen. Until that cursed pull inside her, that tug towards him, drew up her chin and their eyes met again.

He stole her breath.

As the music faded, her head spun with plans, how she might convince him to walk her to the terrace, to join her in the garden so she might get to speak with him, learn what kind of man he was—

"Majesties! Highnesses! Lords and Ladies! Let us celebrate that we are together for the opening ball of the Festival of Peace. For the coming month we will celebrate together, negotiate cease-fire between our nations and peoples, and anticipate the years of prosperity that come with peace. The King and Queen of Zenithra pray that by the Goddess's blessing, you will see the sun of truce rise over your banners."

The Master of Ceremonies raised his nose even higher as his magic-enhanced voice echoed across the great ballroom. Even the royals fluttered with excitement. The Festival was officially beginning!

It was an act of discipline for Ayleth to turn and face the podium, to listen to the odious man and his pompous ramblings. If she continued to stare at the Lion Lord when everyone else faced the front, her parents would notice. And so, she fisted her hands at her sides and forced herself to turn away.

Did she imagine that her Lord took a step towards her as she turned, as if to catch her arm? She stood, chin high, pleading with the Goddess to make him come closer.

But no touch came.