Sylvan Ashford had never considered himself a man ruled by desire.
For twenty-four years, he had lived according to discipline, duty and reason.
As an imperial prince, he had been taught to conceal his emotions before he had even learned to understand them.
Three years in the Imperial Legion had only strengthened that habit.
He could remain calm before an enemy’s blade.
He could endure pain without complaint, make difficult decisions without hesitation and command hundreds of soldiers without allowing his personal feelings to interfere.
Yet that morning, as he walked away from a neglected bedroom in the Valemont mansion, he could barely recognize himself.
He had kissed Rosylin’s forehead.
Only her forehead.
And somehow, that small gesture had left him wanting a thousand things he had never wanted before.
He walked through the deserted corridor with his hands clenched at his sides.
The memory followed him relentlessly.
Rosylin standing in the doorway, her extraordinarily long burgundy hair falling over her faded red dress.
Her brown eyes widening as he leaned toward her.
The warmth of her forehead beneath his lips.
And the way she had looked at him afterward.
Completely astonished.
A helpless smile appeared on his face.
“Little idiot.”
He wondered whether she was still standing behind her locked door, touching her forehead and wondering why he had kissed her.
He could almost imagine her scolding him if he returned.
Your Highness, do you always behave so strangely before sunrise?
He laughed quietly.
Then he remembered how close he had come to kissing her lips.
His smile disappeared.
“God help me.”
He quickened his pace.
The moment Sylvan entered his guest room, he shut the door behind him and leaned against it.
Silence surrounded him.
He closed his eyes.
It was a mistake.
Rosylin immediately appeared in his thoughts.
He could still see her sitting on the edge of her narrow bed, her long hair spilling across her shoulders, looking at him with those beautiful brown eyes.
He remembered the moment he had leaned toward her.
How close her face had been.
How desperately he had wanted to kiss her.
And how she had whispered, almost breathlessly, asking him to move away.
He had obeyed.
Of course he had.
But now, standing alone in his room, he realized just how difficult it had been.
“Damn it.”
He loosened his collar.
Then he unfastened his dark coat and threw it over a nearby chair.
He had never felt like this before.
Never.
During imperial banquets, noblewomen had approached him wearing magnificent gowns and priceless jewels.
Some had attempted to flirt with him.
Others had made their intentions so obvious that even his younger sister could recognize them.
Sylvan had always remained courteous.
But he had never wanted any of them.
He had admired beauty without feeling the slightest urge to pursue it.
He had never imagined taking a woman into his arms simply because she smiled at him.
Even during his years in the Imperial Legion, when his fellow officers spoke endlessly about their lovers, he had listened with detached amusement.
He remembered one particular evening when a young captain had declared that a beautiful woman could drive even the strongest man insane.
Sylvan had laughed.
Then perhaps he wasn’t particularly strong to begin with.
Now, three years later, he wished he could find that captain and apologize.
Because a nineteen-year-old girl in a repaired red dress had just made an absolute fool of him.
He walked toward the window and pushed it open.
Cold morning air rushed into the room.
It did nothing.
He dragged both hands through his black hair.
“Rosylin, what have you done to me?”
He had known he loved her since the night he found her in the kitchen.
The memory still amused him.
She had been eating bread alone, startled by his sudden appearance, and had eventually pushed an imperial prince onto the kitchen floor to avoid being discovered with him.
He had been lying there, staring at the ceiling, when the realization struck him.
He loved her.
At the time, he had almost laughed at himself.
He had imagined that love would be a gentle, manageable feeling.
Something that could be kept safely behind his usual composure until he found the proper moment to confess.
What an extraordinary fool he had been.
Love was not gentle when Rosylin was involved.
It made him impatient.
It made him jealous of the hours he was forced to spend away from her.
It made him furious whenever he remembered her injuries.
And tonight, for the first time in his life, it had awakened a desire so fierce that he scarcely knew what to do with it.
Sylvan stared at his reflection in the dark window.
He wanted her.
There was no longer any reason to deny it.
He wanted to hold her.
To kiss her.
To feel her arms around him instead of watching her retreat whenever he came too close.
He wanted to bury his face in her burgundy hair and discover whether it was as soft as it looked.
He wanted to hear her say his name without that suspicious little frown she wore whenever she thought he was about to tease her.
And he wanted her to look at him the way he looked at her.
As though there were nobody else in the world.
His fingers tightened around the window frame.
“Bloody hell.”
He had never been desperate for anyone.
Yet he was desperate for Rosylin.
He turned away from the window and paced across the room.
His imagination was becoming his worst enemy.
He pictured returning to her bedroom.
She would probably be sitting on her bed, examining the books he had brought her.
Perhaps she would have discovered the secret he had hidden inside the third one.
He imagined knocking.
She would open the door, look up at him and demand to know why he had returned.
And he would tell her.
Everything.
That he loved her.
That he had fallen in love with her ridiculous arguments, her stubborn courage and the way she became excited over the smallest kindness.
That every time he saw her scars, he wanted to take her away from the mansion and give her a life in which nobody would ever make her feel unwanted again.
That he had spent four nights finding excuses to remain beside her because leaving her had become the last thing he wanted to do.
And then he imagined drawing her into his arms.
Kissing her.
Not a hurried kiss stolen before dawn, but one she willingly returned.
His breathing grew uneven.
He stopped pacing.
“No.”
He pressed a hand over his eyes.
If Rosylin had the slightest idea what was happening inside his head, she would run away.
He knew her too well.
The girl had nearly attacked him with a pillow simply because he complimented her dress.
What would she do if she discovered that he wanted to kiss her every time she smiled?
He could already picture her horrified expression.
Your Highness!
Have you completely lost your mind?
She would probably lock her bedroom door and refuse to open it even if he brought the entire imperial library.
Sylvan let out a frustrated laugh.
“She’d never speak to me again.”
But the amusement vanished almost immediately.
Because the possibility genuinely frightened him.
He could endure her embarrassment.
He could endure her stubbornness.
He could even endure another pillow striking his face.
What he couldn’t endure was the thought of Rosylin becoming afraid of him.
Sylvan sat heavily on the edge of his bed.
He remembered the first time he had embraced her beneath the old garden tree.
She had been crying.
He hadn’t planned to touch her.
He had simply seen her trembling, heard the pain in her voice and found himself pulling her into his arms.
She had seemed so small against his chest.
And he had wanted to keep her there until every terrible memory stopped hurting.
That feeling had never disappeared.
If anything, it had grown stronger.
He wanted to protect her, certainly.
But he didn’t want her to mistake his love for pity.
He didn’t want to become another powerful man who made decisions about her life without asking what she wanted.
He wanted Rosylin to choose him.
Not because he was an imperial prince.
Not because he brought her food, books and medicine.
Not because she felt indebted to him.
He wanted her to reach for his hand because she wanted to hold it.
He wanted her to smile when she heard his footsteps because she was happy he had come.
He wanted her to kiss him first someday.
The thought made him close his eyes.
“That would finish me.”
He laughed softly at himself.
A man who had never once lost his composure over a woman was now imagining the consequences of receiving a single kiss.
But he knew the truth.
If Rosylin ever approached him of her own accord, looked into his eyes and told him she wanted him to kiss her, he would find it extraordinarily difficult to remember the disciplined prince he had once been.
He rose again.
There was something almost beastlike about the restlessness beneath his skin.
Not cruelty.
Not anger toward Rosylin.
Something far more unfamiliar.
A fierce longing that made him want to abandon every responsibility waiting for him and return to the neglected corridor.
He wanted to gather her into his arms and tell her she belonged somewhere she would be cherished.
He wanted to bring her to the imperial palace, fill her rooms with books and watch her discover that beautiful dresses didn’t have to be stolen from forgotten wardrobes.
He wanted to see her seated beside him at breakfast.
He wanted to hear her complain about his arrogance across an enormous dining table.
He wanted to wake up and find that she hadn’t disappeared.
He wanted an entire lifetime of her.
And the realization made his chest ache.
Because he had to leave that morning.
Four nights.
He had bargained for four nights with her, and now they were over.
He looked toward the window again.
Somewhere beyond the grand gardens and polished corridors, Rosylin was alone in that little bedroom.
His expression darkened.
He remembered Stella Valemont’s voice.
He remembered her daughters’ accusations.
And he remembered that Cedric Valemont had discussed military supplies and troop movements with him for hours without once showing concern for the daughter living in the neglected wing of his own mansion.
Sylvan’s jaw tightened.
He had wanted to seize Cedric by the collar and demand how a father could treat his own child so cruelly.
But that would have exposed Rosylin.
And the last thing he wanted was to make her suffer for trusting him.
He would have to find another way.
A pale line of sunlight appeared along the horizon.
Sylvan stared at it with irritation.
Morning.
He had never hated the arrival of morning quite so much.
It meant packing his belongings.
It meant bidding farewell to Cedric and Noah.
It meant returning to his father, Emperor Lucien, and resuming the endless responsibilities that accompanied his position.
And it meant leaving Rosylin behind.
He sat at his desk and opened the military documents he had brought from the meeting.
For several minutes, he attempted to concentrate.
He read the same paragraph three times.
Then he shut the folder.
“Unbelievable.”
He leaned back in his chair.
His mind had returned to Rosylin again.
This time, he remembered her holding out a pastry and ordering him to open his mouth.
He smiled.
An imperial prince, fed like a child by a girl who had spent the first half of their evening insulting him.
He would have gladly endured a hundred such insults if it meant seeing her smile again.
Then he remembered her answer when he asked why she thought he cared about her.
Perhaps you feel sorry for me.
His smile disappeared.
How could she possibly believe that?
How could she look at him after four nights of secret meetings and imagine he had done it all out of pity?
He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was.
How desperately he wanted her.
How every ordinary moment spent beside her had become more precious than the grandest imperial celebration.
But she wasn’t ready to hear all of it.
And he knew exactly what would happen if he confessed too suddenly.
She would retreat.
She would avoid him.
She might even convince herself that their friendship had been a mistake.
Sylvan rubbed his forehead.
“One step at a time.”
He had to be patient.
For a man accustomed to issuing commands and seeing them obeyed, patience had suddenly become an exceedingly difficult virtue.
He rose and approached the mirror.
His black hair was disheveled.
His collar hung open, and there was a faint exhaustion in his piercing blue eyes.
He looked nothing like the composed imperial prince who had arrived at the Valemont estate four days earlier.
He stared at himself for a long moment.
“So this is what love does to a man.”
He almost laughed.
Then he remembered the kiss he had given Rosylin before leaving.
Her forehead.
Her astonished expression.
Her hand slowly rising toward the place his lips had touched.
A warm smile softened his face.
Perhaps he hadn’t accomplished very much in four nights.
He hadn’t confessed.
He hadn’t kissed her lips.
He hadn’t discovered whether she felt anything remotely similar to the love that had taken possession of him.
But she had trusted him enough to let him into her little world.
She had laughed with him.
She had accepted his gifts.
She had allowed him to hold her hand.
And when he had leaned down to kiss her forehead, she hadn’t stepped away.
For now, those memories would have to be enough.
He looked toward the neglected wing of the mansion one last time.
“Don’t run away from me, little rose.”
His voice was barely above a whisper.
“Not when I’ve only just found my way back to you.”
He returned to his desk, took a clean sheet of paper and began considering how soon his imperial duties would permit another visit.
He had promised Rosylin he would return very soon.
It wasn’t a promise he intended to break.
Somewhere in the third book, he smile.
And inside it waited the little secret he had left for her.
He wondered what expression would appear on her beautiful face when she finally discovered it.
Perhaps she would blush.
Perhaps she would become angry and call him an arrogant prince again.
Or perhaps, just perhaps, she would begin to understand why he had found it so difficult to say goodbye.
For the first time in his life, he had found someone he desperately wanted to love.
And beneath all his discipline, beneath the unfamiliar desire and the restless beast he had discovered within himself, one certainty remained.
He didn’t merely want Rosylin for a night.
He wanted her for a lifetime.