The confrontation sharpens the instant Valdor recognizes the same entitled reach that bruised Amor before, forcing Amor to balance his fear of a diplomatic disaster against the undeniable relief of having someone finally intervene.
Valdor crossed the salon before anyone recovered enough to stop him.
The temporary trousers pulled dangerously across his thighs with every long stride, while the ripped shirt remained forgotten within one clenched hand, but the absurdity of his appearance vanished beneath the controlled menace gathering around him. He moved with neither theatrical anger nor the hurried aggression of someone seeking an excuse to fight. He simply placed his immense body between Amor and the duke as though closing a gate against an approaching threat.
Amor’s view disappeared behind a wall of deep caramel skin, black markings, and brutally defined muscle.
One moment Alphonsins stood before him with contempt sharpening his handsome features, and the next Amor could see little beyond the powerful breadth of Valdor’s back. The warrior’s shoulders nearly filled the space between the fitting mirrors, each hardened plane drawn rigid beneath markings that seemed darker beneath the crystal lamps. Amor remained seated for one startled heartbeat, his charcoal pencil still resting uselessly between his fingers.
"Valdor...."
He said carefully. The warrior did not look back.
His attention remained fixed upon Alphonsins, whose expression had shifted from speechless surprise into offended disbelief. The duke was accustomed to men moving aside when he approached, not stepping between him and someone he considered his former possession. Being confronted by a nearly bare foreign warrior several inches taller and substantially broader than himself was apparently not an experience his court education had prepared him to navigate. Alphonsins straightened.
"Move."
He ordered. Valdor remained where he stood. The silence stretched long enough for the command to become embarrassing. Amor’s pulse quickened.
His relief at being shielded lasted only until political reality forced its way through the warmth. House Moons possessed wealth capable of influencing royal policy, extensive lands, and roots reaching back to the kingdom’s earliest noble houses, but Lanslet remained a marquess. Alphonsins was a duke, a celebrated commander, and the king’s own nephew. The difference in rank could not be dismissed merely because Amor considered Alphonsins insufferable.
Valdor’s position made the danger even greater. He was not a kingdom noble protected by familiar laws and alliances, but the son of a foreign chieftain visiting under a twenty-year treaty that remained precious precisely because its history was so fragile. A public insult against the king’s nephew could become evidence that Blackstone envoys lacked respect for the crown, particularly if Alphonsins chose to present the confrontation as an attack.
Amor imagined the consequences with alarming clarity. Court factions already hostile to the treaty would use the incident to demand sanctions, renewed border restrictions, or the suspension of the envoy tradition. Northern villages would lose the protection of Blackstone hunters, trade routes would become vulnerable to monsters, and years of careful diplomacy could collapse because of an argument surrounding one marquess’s son. The humiliation of becoming the romantic scandal that shattered a historic alliance would follow Amor into every account of the kingdom’s decline. He refused to allow it.
"Valdor..."
Amor repeated, more firmly this time.
"There is no danger."
The warrior’s head shifted slightly. He had heard him, though nothing in his posture suggested agreement. His gaze remained upon Alphonsins’s hands rather than his face, tracking every movement with the same concentrated stillness he had shown before the ram charged. Amor recognized the posture and felt fresh alarm. Alphonsins did not.
"I told you to move..."
The duke said, raising his voice enough that several customers near the far mirrors stepped backward.
"Do you know who you are obstructing?"
"Yes."
Valdor answered. The single word carried no deference. Alphonsins’s jaw tightened.
"Then perhaps the Blackstone Tribe failed to teach its chieftain’s son the respect owed to the royal family."
Valdor’s eyes darkened.
"Respect is owed when earned."
Master Edric made a strangled noise behind the workroom doors. Amor stood immediately.
The fitted coat swirled around his narrow body as he placed the sketches aside and moved around the chair, determined to intervene before Valdor transformed a humiliating encounter into a matter requiring ambassadors. His heeled boots struck the carpet more sharply than intended.
"This is a misunderstanding."
Alphonsins glanced past Valdor’s shoulder.
"Do not excuse him."
"I was not speaking exclusively to you."
The duke’s expression hardened. Amor regretted the reply as soon as it escaped, though he refused to retract it. He had spent the entire confrontation absorbing insults in the hope that Alphonsins would eventually exhaust himself, yet the sight of Valdor standing protectively before him had weakened Amor’s willingness to remain passive. Still, indulging that anger would endanger too many people who had nothing to do with his former relationship. He moved closer.
"Valdor is a guest of House Moons and unfamiliar with the precise hierarchy of kingdom titles..."
Amor said, arranging his voice into the polished calm expected of a marquess’s heir.
"He heard raised voices and believed assistance might be necessary. No insult to the royal family was intended."
Valdor finally looked toward him. The warrior’s expression made it perfectly clear that an insult might not have been intended initially, but he was developing considerable enthusiasm for the possibility. Amor gave him a warning look. Valdor did not move aside. Alphonsins laughed coldly.
"Assistance..."
He repeated.
"Have you already begun collecting another brute to fight your battles now that I am no longer willing to endure you?"
Amor felt the insult land against Valdor more sharply than those directed at himself. The warrior’s shoulders became still. Celestine stepped forward before either man could respond.
"Your Grace, Lord Amor has not done anything since we entered. Perhaps we should leave and return another day."
Alphonsins looked toward her as though surprised she had spoken. The discomfort upon Celestine’s face should have restrained him, especially when he claimed Amor’s jealousy threatened their new friendship. Instead, the duke appeared offended that she had failed to recognize him as the victim. His pride had already carried him too far to retreat gracefully.
"He followed us!"
Alphonsins insisted. Celestine’s brows drew together.
"We entered after him."
"He arranged it so it’s look like that."
Amor inhaled through his nose. Valdor looked back at him again, apparently seeking confirmation that the accusation was as irrational as it sounded. Amor’s expression provided it. The warrior returned his gaze toward Alphonsins with visibly diminished respect.
"I came here with Valdor..."
Amor said.
"We arrived together, ate at the confectioner across the square, and entered this shop because I intended to commission clothing for him. Your presence was neither expected nor desired."
The final sentence sharpened despite his efforts.
Alphonsins stared.
Perhaps the entire scene had been sustained by his belief that Amor remained secretly obsessed, every denial merely a complicated disguise for devotion. Being told before witnesses that his arrival was undesirable struck at the foundation of that certainty. His gaze moved over Valdor’s body with renewed hostility.
"This is who you replaced me with?"
He asked. Amor’s cheeks warmed. The question reduced his outing with Valdor to a competition Amor had never intended to create, while simultaneously defining their connection more boldly than either man had dared. He could feel Valdor’s attention shift toward him, waiting for the answer without turning his head. Every eye in Maison Reverie seemed to do the same.
"I did not replace you..."
Amor replied.
"That would imply I require another person to occupy a position you no longer hold..."
The duke’s face tightened. Amor continued before Alphonsins could interrupt.
"Valdor is my guest..."
Only my guest sounded unexpectedly inadequate. The warrior remained silent, yet Amor felt the difference in his posture.
"And my companion for the day."
Amor added. Alphonsins gave a derisive laugh.
"A barbarian companion dressed in stolen trousers."
Master Edric looked offended.
"Those trousers belong to the establishment!"
No one acknowledged him. Valdor’s gaze remained upon the duke’s right hand.
The hand hung near Alphonsins’s side, partially curled within a dark leather glove. Its shape seemed ordinary enough, but Valdor remembered the fading impressions wrapped around Amor’s wrist—five marks, the thumb placed against the pulse, pressure distributed with the certainty of someone accustomed to restraining rather than merely touching. The duke’s body carried precisely the arrogance Valdor had described beneath the fountain.
He reached as though the world should yield. He stood too close. He spoke of Amor as something that had belonged to him and might still be recovered through sufficient humiliation. Valdor did not require a confession. The suspicion formed with such clarity that it felt like recognition.
Amor saw his gaze lower and instinctively drew the bandaged hand closer to his body. The small movement confirmed more than any words could have. Valdor’s obsidian eyes became colder.
"Valdor."
Amor said softly. The warrior looked at him.
Amor stepped nearer, lifting one hand toward his arm. He intended to draw Valdor aside, explain quietly that Alphonsins’s identity made retaliation impossible, and perhaps remove them from the shop before the conflict attracted royal guards. The movement brought him partly between the two men.
Alphonsins saw only Amor approaching another man. His restraint broke.
"Who is he to you?"
The duke demanded. Amor turned.
"That is none of your concern."
Alphonsins reached for him. The gesture came too quickly for thought but exactly as Valdor expected, the duke’s right hand closing toward the same wrist Amor had guarded throughout the confrontation. His fingers wrapped around the bandage before Amor could withdraw, pressing directly over bruises that had only begun to fade beneath the herbal treatment. Pain sparked through the tender joint.
Amor inhaled sharply. Valdor moved. One instant Alphonsins held Amor’s wrist.
The next, Valdor’s enormous hand closed around the duke’s forearm.
His grip landed below the elbow with such speed and precision that Alphonsins barely had time to register the contact. Valdor did not squeeze hard enough to shatter bone, though the strength contained within his fingers made that possibility unmistakable. He pulled the duke’s arm sharply away from Amor. Alphonsins lost his grip.
Valdor continued the movement. He stepped aside, turned his hips, and used Alphonsins’s forward momentum against him with the effortless efficiency of someone redirecting a charging animal. The duke’s boots slid across the polished floor, his balance collapsing before pride could command his body to recover. Valdor released him at precisely the moment the pull became impossible to resist.
Alphonsins lurched forward. His arms failed to rise quickly enough. The king’s nephew struck the carpet face-first. A dull impact sounded through the salon.
Every customer, attendant, and tailor became motionless.
Alphonsins lay sprawled across the refined floor of Maison Reverie, one leg twisted awkwardly behind him and the immaculate front of his military coat crushed beneath his own weight. His cheek pressed against the carpet while the silver insignia at his shoulder tilted almost comically. The position was so thoroughly undignified that several witnesses appeared uncertain whether breathing too loudly would be considered treason.
Celestine covered her mouth. Master Edric’s measuring ribbon slipped from his fingers. Amor stared down in horror.
The event had happened too quickly for him to prevent and too publicly for any graceful reinterpretation. A foreign chieftain’s son had just thrown the king’s nephew onto his face before half the capital’s most influential tailors and patrons. Even worse, Valdor remained standing over him bare-chested in trousers strained nearly to destruction, making the humiliation impossible to frame as a formal duel between equals.
"Valdor...."
Amor breathed. The warrior had already turned away from the fallen duke. He reached for Amor’s bandaged wrist with both hands but stopped before making contact, waiting despite the urgency hardening his expression.
"May I see?"
The question struck Amor amid the panic. Even now, after reacting with enough force to flatten a duke, Valdor refused to take Amor’s wrist without permission. The contrast between his violence toward Alphonsins and restraint toward Amor softened something inside him despite the political disaster unfolding at their feet. Amor nodded.
Valdor lifted his hand gently. His fingers supported the underside of Amor’s palm without touching the bruised skin, while his other hand adjusted the silk sleeve and inspected the bandage. A faint crease had formed where Alphonsins’s grip compressed the cloth. Valdor’s jaw hardened.
"Did he hurt you?"
"It was brief."
"That is not an answer."
The familiar words returned, though this time Amor lacked the heart to evade them.
"Yes..."
He admitted.
"A little."
The air around Valdor changed. Alphonsins began pushing himself upward behind them, coughing once as he regained his breath. Valdor’s head turned slightly at the sound. Amor caught his marked forearm immediately.
"Don’t."
The warrior looked down at him.
"No more..."
Amor repeated, tightening his hand despite knowing he could not physically restrain Valdor if the man chose otherwise.
"You’ve protected me. I’m safe."
Valdor’s gaze moved between Amor and the duke. The promise made beneath the fountain burned within him, demanding a punishment far greater than one humiliating fall. This was the man who bruised Amor, reached without permission, and assumed past intimacy granted permanent ownership. Valdor wanted to break the hand that had closed around the bandaged wrist.
Amor’s fingers remained upon his arm. Valdor stayed still. Behind them, Alphonsins rose onto one knee.
His face had reddened where it struck the carpet, and a thin line of blood appeared beneath one nostril. The carefully arranged silver hair had fallen across his forehead, destroying the severe perfection he carried into the shop. Humiliation burned more fiercely within his eyes than pain.
"You—"
He began. Valdor turned fully toward him. The word died.
The duke had faced trained soldiers, border skirmishes, and royal challengers, but something in the Blackstone warrior’s expression made continuing difficult. Valdor did not appear concerned by rank, law, or the roomful of witnesses. He looked like a man calculating exactly how much force could be used without violating Amor’s request.
Amor stepped between them. This time Valdor allowed it, though he moved close enough that his chest nearly touched Amor’s back. The warrior’s presence surrounded him with heat and danger, a silent barrier waiting behind the delicate layers of lavender-gray fabric. Amor lifted his chin toward Alphonsins.
"You reached for an injured wrist, he was only looking out for my wellbeing."
He said. The duke’s eyes narrowed.
"He attacked me!"
"He removed your hand."
"He threw me onto the floor!"
"You fell after he released you."
That distinction sounded absurdly technical, though it was also accurate enough that Master Edric lowered his eyes to conceal a reaction. Alphonsins stood fully, brushing one hand over his coat.
"You intend to defend this?"
Amor glanced toward the patrons witnessing every word. He knew the politically safe response.
He should apologize on behalf of House Moons, explain Valdor misunderstood the situation, and promise that Vervath would be informed. He should flatter Alphonsins’s dignity until the duke accepted an interpretation less damaging to the treaty. Every lesson in noble survival demanded submission before royal blood.
Amor looked down at his wrist. The bandage bore the imprint of Alphonsins’s fingers.
"No..."
He said.
"I intend to clarify it, Your Grace..."
Alphonsins stared.
"You grabbed me after I told you my company was none of your concern..."
Amor continued.
"Valdor separated us. Your inability to remain standing afterward is unfortunate, but avoidable."
Celestine’s eyes widened. The duke’s humiliation deepened. Valdor looked down at Amor with a warmth entirely inappropriate to the dangerous circumstances. He had expected fear, perhaps anger that he endangered the treaty. Instead, Amor stood before him and reshaped the truth without denying Valdor’s protection. Alphonsins wiped the blood beneath his nose with the back of his glove.
"You have lost whatever sense remained to you..."
He said.
"You throw yourself at a foreign savage and believe he can protect you from consequence."
Valdor’s hand curled. Amor reached backward and caught it without looking. The warrior’s fist opened beneath his touch.
"Do not call him that!"
Amor said. Alphonsins laughed harshly.
"Look at him."
"I have."
Amor’s voice softened in a way that made the answer more cutting.
The duke’s gaze moved between them—the small pale hand holding Valdor’s scarred one, the warrior standing protectively close, and the calm certainty upon Amor’s face. Something wounded entered Alphonsins’s expression before anger buried it. He had spent months refusing to look at Amor and now appeared unable to tolerate being excluded from Amor’s gaze.
"He will tire of you, savage..."
Alphonsins said.
"He always does."
Amor felt the old fear stir. Valdor’s fingers closed around his hand. Not trapping but simply holding. The warmth steadied him.
"Perhaps..."
Amor replied.
"But that will be a matter between Valdor and me."
The words acknowledged more than he intended. Valdor’s gaze lowered toward him. Alphonsins heard it as well.
His face changed, though before he could respond, Celestine stepped firmly beside him. The heroine’s earlier discomfort had hardened into resolve.
"Your Grace, we should leave."
Alphonsins looked toward her.
"You did nothing wrong. Why should we leave?"
"Because this confrontation began when we entered, and continuing it will not improve anything."
Her voice remained gentle but no longer uncertain. Several patrons looked toward her with new respect.
Alphonsins seemed prepared to argue, yet the awareness of his disordered appearance and the blood beneath his nose finally returned. Remaining would allow the room more time to memorize his humiliation. He straightened his coat as well as possible.
"This is not finished."
He said to Amor. Valdor stepped forward. Amor held his hand tighter.
"It is finished for today."
Amor replied. Alphonsins’s jaw hardened.
He turned abruptly and strode toward the entrance, forcing the nearest attendant to open the doors before he reached them. Celestine remained behind for one moment. Her amber brown eyes moved toward Amor’s wrist.
"I’m truly sorry."
She said quietly. Amor’s expression softened.
"You did nothing."
The heroine hesitated, looking toward Valdor and then back to Amor as though recognizing that the scene contained a history she did not understand.
"I hope your wrist is all right."
"It will be."
Celestine nodded and followed Alphonsins from the shop. The doors closed behind them. Silence remained.
Every person in Maison Reverie continued pretending the event had not permanently altered the day’s gossip throughout the capital. One customer studied a bolt of fabric upside down, while another had held the same teacup near her mouth for several minutes without drinking. Master Edric slowly retrieved his measuring ribbon. Amor exhaled.
The sound seemed to release the room. Whispers did not begin yet, though they waited at the edges of everyone’s composure. The two House Moons footmen near the entrance looked prepared to escort Amor away or defend him from further intrusion, depending upon which instruction came first. The tailor’s assistants stared openly at Valdor.
Amor turned toward him. The warrior’s focus returned immediately to the bandaged wrist.
"The medicine should be applied again."
"Valdor."
"He pressed the bruise."
"You threw the king’s nephew onto his face."
"Yes."
The complete lack of regret stunned Amor.
"This could become a diplomatic incident!"
"He hurt you."
"That does not make diplomacy disappear."
"It makes it less important."
Amor closed his eyes. The answer was both horrifying and disturbingly touching. He drew Valdor closer to the side of the salon, lowering his voice so the remaining patrons could no longer hear every word.
"The treaty protects thousands of people. Northern villages depend upon your tribe, merchants depend upon safe roads, and my father’s negotiations involve resources both our territories need..."
Valdor listened.
"A personal grievance cannot be allowed to destroy twenty years of peace..."
Amor continued.
"Even when the person involved deserves to be humiliated."
The final concession softened Valdor’s expression slightly.
"He is the one who bruised you."
Valdor said. Amor became still. The certainty left no space for denial.
"How do you know?"
"He reached the same way..."
Valdor lifted Amor’s hand, his thumb hovering near the bandage without touching it.
"Same hand. Same place. He believed you would not stop him."
Amor’s throat tightened. No one else had recognized it so quickly.
Valdor had observed one movement and understood the entire pattern behind it. Alphonsins’s rank, polished appearance, and public reputation had not distracted him from the simple truth of the act. The duke reached because he believed Amor remained his to seize.
"Yes..."
Amor admitted. The word emerged barely above a whisper. Valdor’s eyes became lethal again. Amor tightened his hold.
"You already made him fall."
"It was not enough."
"For today, it must be."
Valdor looked toward the doors through which Alphonsins departed. His silence carried an unfinished promise. Amor touched his chest.
The gesture brought the warrior’s attention back immediately, his gaze dropping toward the pale hand resting over one black marking. Amor could feel the powerful rhythm of his heart beneath warm skin.
"You listened when I asked you to stop."
"Yes."
"That matters more to me than punishing him further."
Valdor’s jaw remained tight, but he inclined his head. Amor relaxed. Only then did he notice the state of Valdor’s trousers again.
The strained waistband sat low beneath his abdomen, one seam near the upper thigh beginning to show signs of surrender after the sudden movement. Master Edric noticed Amor looking and hurried forward with renewed professional urgency.
"We must return him to the workroom before my establishment suffers another structural failure!"
The tailor said. Amor’s lips twitched. Valdor looked down.
"They are weak pants."
"They were never intended to survive throwing a duke..."
Master Edric replied.
"That requirement was absent from the commission!"
The tension within the salon finally cracked. A startled laugh escaped one patron, followed by another, though both sounds were quickly disguised as coughs. Amor lifted his fan over his mouth, unable to prevent his own amusement. Even Valdor’s scarred lips shifted faintly.
Master Edric gestured toward the rear doors.
"Please return before you expose something that creates a second scandal."
Valdor looked toward Amor. The quiet question in his gaze asked whether leaving was safe. Amor understood.
"I will come with you this time."
He said. Valdor relaxed immediately. Amor kept hold of his hand as they crossed the salon, no longer concerned with what the patrons might infer. Their outing had already produced enough gossip to occupy the capital for weeks. Holding Valdor’s hand could hardly worsen the situation.
Behind them, the customers watched the delicate heir of House Moons lead the half-dressed Blackstone warrior into the backroom after he publicly threw Duke Alphonsins Solaris onto his face.
The story began growing before the doors had even closed.