I stumbled to the bathroom, gripping the sink edge with white knuckles. My reflection stared back. Blood matted my hair where I'd been hit. Bruises bloomed across my jaw, my temple, my throat. Dried blood crusted my shoulder where the wound kept seeping.
The shower ran hot enough to hurt. I stood under it until the water ran clear, until the blood washed away and left just broken skin and bruises. The cut on my shoulder kept bleeding, sluggish but persistent. Deep enough to need stitches. Not deep enough to explain without questions.
I pressed a towel to it, breath hitching. Watched pink water pool at my feet.
A soft knock on the bathroom door made me freeze.
“Your Highness?” Élodie's voice. Gentle. Worried. “Dr. D'Souza's asking for you. Routine check.”
Fuck.
I'd forgotten. Monthly wellness exam. Standard palace protocol. Completely unavoidable.
“Tell him I'll come down,” I called out, forcing my voice steady. “Give me twenty minutes.”
“Are you alright? You sound?—”
“I'm fine. Just tired. Couldn't sleep.”
Silence. Long enough that I knew she didn't believe me. But she'd learned years ago not to push.
“Twenty minutes,” she said finally. “Don't make him wait.”
Her footsteps retreated down the corridor.
I looked at my reflection again. At the bruises I couldn't hide. The cut that kept bleeding. The exhaustion carved into every line of my face.
Viktor couldn't know. Couldn't see this. Couldn't find out what I'd been doing while he was pulling away.
I dried off carefully, every movement measured. Found clean bandages in the first aid kit I kept hidden in my bathroom. Packed theshoulder wound with gauze, taped it down tight enough to stop the bleeding. The pressure hurt. Good. I deserved it.
I pulled on a loose linen shirt. White. Long sleeves. Hid the bruises on my arms and the bandage on my shoulder. Combed my hair forward to cover the cut on my temple. Tilted my head to check the angle.
Almost convincing.
Almost human.
The mask slid into place piece by piece. Posture straightened. Expression smoothed. The prince returning, burying the killer beneath silk and practiced smiles.
I left my quarters, locking the door behind me. Apollo followed at my heels, pressing close like he knew I was hurting. I scratched behind his ears, grateful for something warm and uncomplicated.
We made it three corridors before he stopped, nose lifting, tail starting to wag.
“Really? Now?”
He looked at me with those amber eyes that said yes, absolutely now, because breakfast was the most important thing in the world and I was clearly being unreasonable.
“Fine. Go.”
He took off down the hall toward the kitchens, golden fur catching morning light. I watched him disappear around the corner, remembering the first time he'd discovered the kitchen staff would slip him treats. He'd been six months old. Now he had the entire staff wrapped around his paw.
My father especially.
I'd found them together once, early morning just like this. My father sitting on the floor in his study, still in his robe, Apollo's head in his lap while he scratched behind those perfect ears. They'd both looked peaceful. Content. Like for just a moment, the weight of the crown didn't exist.
My father needed that. Needed something that loved him without agenda. Without politics. Just pure, uncomplicated devotion.
I envied the dog sometimes.
