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Daven huffed as he took in his environment. After the rescue mission and the confirmation that the stranger—his stranger—was one of them, Milanov had Ryneth brought to his private medical wing.

When Daven had shown up that same night with a duffel bag, announcing that he wanted to spend some time with his uncle, for family bonding and all that shit, Milanov had just snorted.

It was infuriating, really.

Especially because the man had left that same night to see his wife, royal consort Norma Zephyranth. Daven’s aunt had spent the last twenty years asleep, trapped in a state she’d most likely never wake from, and even while away, Milanov had still forbidden him access to the patient.

Now, Daven stepped into the guard’s personal space. “I’m not a visitor. I was the one who hauled him out of the rubble. Now move.”

The guard didn’t. His hand stayed near his weapon. His stance didn’t shift.

“I mean it.” Daven bared his teeth. The urge for violence buzzed under his skin.

The guard’s eyes dropped to Daven’s mouth. Then he swallowed. “It’s just that I’ll be in trouble if—” His breath hitched as Daven clenched his hand, causing the pressure around the guard’s throat to tighten.

“If what?” Daven lifted his hand, his fingers brushing the black and gold collar of the guard’s uniform. “If you don’t let me in? Or if you do?”

The man’s feet left the ground. He made a gurgling sound, face turning purple. “O-okay,” he wheezed. “G-go.”

With a single click of his fingers, the air pulled back and the man nearly tumbled to the ground when his feet were suddenly dropped. “Open the door for me. Treat me with the respect I deserve.”

“Yes, Daven.” The man clutched his throat, panting, then swung the door open. Daven didn’t miss how the man’s shoulders sagged in defeat when he caught him by the shoulder and shoved him aside, pushing past.

“Thank you.” Daven pointed toward the corridor. “You may leave us alone. Close the door.”

“Of course, Daven. Sir.”

Sir. Daven scoffed under his breath. He wasn’t a sir by far, or a lord, or whatever the hell people called him. He was an asshole, a prince who always got what he wanted.

And he didn’t give a flying fuck about that.

Slowly he approached the large bed that stood in the center of the spacious room, his skin thrumming with each step.

There he was—the reason Daven had been so restless.

Ryneth.

The intensity of it irritated him. He didn’t understand why one injured stranger had gotten this far under his skin.

From this close, the man was breathtaking, with his white-golden hair and knife-sharp jaw. Ryneth’s skin was translucent, a white that made the blue lines of his veins show at his temples and wrists.

Daven moved to the edge of the bed. He leaned closer, his shadow falling over Ryneth’s chest. His ringed fingers traced the shape of his eyebrows, which were light and arched, adorning those eyes, wide even in sleep. Daven remembered them open, remembered a silver that seemed to be made only for him.

Ryneth’s nose was straight when Daven’s fingertips trailed down to his lips. They were full, the lower one split and swollen. They had bled when Daven had saved him.

He looked at the wiry strength in Ryneth’s arms. The man wasn’t built like the guards in the mansion. His muscles were made for survival, for a struggle Daven was eager to witness.

Daven’s incisors throbbed. He wanted the breath in Ryneth’s lungs.

The hunger made no sense. The man was half-conscious and bruised, and still Daven felt drawn tighter with every breath he took.

Behind him, the door opened.

“I see our patient’s still asleep.”

Daven glanced over his shoulder. “I thought you were at the hospital.” He kept his fingers pressed to Ryneth’s forearm, feeling the rhythmic thrumming of the man’s pulse against his own skin.

“I was,” Milanov said. “I’m back. And you scared the guard.” His uncle walked toward the bed. He wore a tailored white suit, his platinum hair polished.