My arrogant ROYAL.

Chapter thirteen.

(So I had to edit my chapters to make them longer. Enjoy.)

Prince Evan's POV.

Regret consumed me, an unending, suffocating tide that washed away any semblance of rationality. What had become of me? My mind, a twisted maze of obsession and delusion, had led me down this dark path. The object of my misguided affections? My own brother. The crushing realization that my feelings were nothing more than a manifestation of my own foolishness left me shattered and broken.

Curiosity had been my undoing, convincing me that there was some glimmer of legitimacy to these emotions. But deep down, I knew it would never be accepted as normal, no matter how hard I tried to rationalize it. And so, I lay curled up on my bed, drowning in a sea of conflicting emotions. The pain was unbearable, and I was utterly lost, unsure of how to even begin to process what I was feeling.

My inner monologue continued, each thought a heavy weight pressing down upon me. I just had to follow him, didn't I? Like some sort of pathetic, obsessive creep. And what did I gain from it? Nothing but heartache. If only I had just minded my own business, I wouldn't be this broken, desperate shell of a person, yearning for an affection that I know will never be reciprocated.

The cruel truth was clear to me now: the person I so desperately desired would never see me in the same light. Throughout my life, I had always hoped, even believed, that I would one day find the love and acceptance I felt I deserved. But now, as I lay in the wake of my own foolishness, those dreams seemed to crumble into dust before my very eyes.

Yet even in the throes of my despair, a small part of me knew that crying alone in this room was foolish. I no longer had the luxury of privacy, for he had somehow convinced my father to let him share my space during his final week here. He had business to attend to, after all.

As the door swung open, Prince Adar walked in, oblivious to the storm of emotion swirling within me. I couldn't bring myself to care what he might think of me in this vulnerable state. He could laugh, mock, or judge me all he wanted. It didn't matter anymore.

He regarded me with a gaze that seemed tinged with concern, yet he maintained a careful distance as he seated himself on the couch near my bed. My eyes, sore and swollen from the torrent of tears, met his as he studied me in silence. There was something in his expression that I couldn't quite decipher, a mix of curiosity and perhaps a hint of sympathy. Yet still, he said nothing.

Despite my pain, I couldn't help but feel a flicker of intrigue at his uncharacteristic silence. Here he was, so close and yet so removed from my anguish. Why didn't he offer some words of comfort, anything to help me forget the betrayal I had witnessed? After all, it was the sound of my brother's intimate encounter with a servant—one whom I loathed with every fiber of my being—that had shattered my fragile hope. And in the midst of their passion, I had heard those three words I had so desperately wished would one day be mine.

Finally breaking the silence, I turned to him and asked, my voice thick and slurred from the alcohol that had coursed through my veins, "You're not saying anything?" It was then that I realized that perhaps the drink had played a part in amplifying my emotions, pushing them to the brink of breaking. But even so, the pain remained very real, and his continued silence only served to deepen my despair.

His response, though gentle, was tinged with an air of caution. "Would you want me to?" he asked, his words measured and careful. "You haven't been very kind to me, so I have to choose my words wisely around you."

In that moment, I felt a pang of something unfamiliar stirring within me. Could it be guilt? Was I feeling remorse for the way I had treated him, even in the midst of my own pain? The thought was both unexpected and disconcerting.