Chapter 16
Est didn’t move.
Not for a long time.
He simply sat there, knees bent beneath him, thighs trembling, chest slick with sweat – William in his lap, arms around his shoulders, skin flushed and luminous in the low light. Their bodies stayed joined, Est still buried deep inside him, the prince’s inner walls pulsing occasionally from aftershocks, warm and tight and utterly wrecked around him.
William’s forehead rested against Est’s, eyes fluttering open and closed like he couldn’t quite stay in his body yet – like the moment still had its teeth in him.
Est reached up and gently cupped his jaw, guiding his face into a kiss – soft at first, reverent. A slow, open-mouthed brush of lips. Then another. And another.
William sighed against him, all soft lips and trembling breath. “You’re still – “
“Inside you?” Est murmured against his mouth, nipping at his lower lip. “Yeah.”
He shifted slightly – just an inch – and William whimpered, his body clenching involuntarily around him. It made Est’s cock twitch, the sensitivity fading into a slow, rekindled hunger.
“Don’t move yet,” William breathed, nails digging lightly into Est’s back. “I can still feel everything.”
“Good,” Est said, his voice rough and low. “I want you to.”
His hands slid up William’s back, over the damp curve of his spine, before trailing back down to grip his waist again. He pressed another kiss to his shoulder, then lower – to the swell of his chest, his collarbone, his throat.
And then his mouth found a nipple.
William inhaled sharply, a visible shudder running through his body.
Est smiled.
He kissed it – slow, open-mouthed – tongue flicking across the hardening peak before sucking it gently into his mouth. His other hand came up to toy with the second nipple, rubbing lazy circles over it with the pad of his thumb.
The reaction was immediate.
William gasped, his whole body tightening – including the soft, slick heat around Est’s cock. The clench made Est groan, hips twitching slightly, and William whimpered at the sensation.
“Sensitive?” Est asked softly, teasing with another suck.
“You – ngh, gods, you know I am,” William whispered, head falling back slightly, throat arched.
“Good.”
Est switched to the other nipple, lavishing the same attention, kissing and licking, hands smoothing over William’s bare back, down to his hips, then squeezing gently. The prince was still trembling, legs loose on either side of Est’s waist, but the slow build of friction, the subtle stimulation, was stirring something electric between them again.
William pressed his lips to Est’s forehead, eyes shut tight, his whole body taut and flushed again. He rocked slightly – not enough to fuck himself on Est’s cock yet, but enough to feel it.
Est growled low in his chest, wrapping his arms around the prince and lifting him slightly before settling him back down. The movement dragged his cock deeper, and William cried out softly, fingers tightening on Est’s shoulders.
“I could stay inside you forever,” Est murmured, voice like gravel, kissing along his jaw. “So warm. So tight. You’re still fluttering around me – like your body doesn’t want to let me go.”
“Maybe it doesn’t,” William whispered, grinding down, slow and deliberate. “Maybe I want to feel you for hours.”
Est looked up at him, something hot and dangerous flickering behind his eyes.
“Then ride me again.”
William’s mouth parted – but he didn’t protest.
He shifted in Est’s lap, slow and graceful, planting his knees more firmly on the mattress, hands on Est’s shoulders to brace himself. Then he started to move – shallow little rolls of his hips at first, a slow grind that made them both groan.
“You feel even deeper like this,” William panted, forehead pressed to Est’s. “I can feel every inch of you – “
Est didn’t let him finish.
He kissed him – messy, open-mouthed, deep. Their tongues met in a slow dance, the kind that was less about dominance and more about tasting every inch of the other person.
William moaned into his mouth and began to ride him in earnest now, hips lifting and falling, slow but needy, the angle perfect. Est kept one hand on his waist, the other drifting down to stroke his cock in time, squeezing gently, thumb teasing the tip.
“You’re so perfect,” Est whispered against his mouth. “Every time. Every part of you. I want to ruin you slowly. Worship you.”
“Then do it,” William whispered back, biting at his lower lip. “Don’t hold back.”
Est didn’t.
He moved with him, upward thrusts timed to the prince’s rolls, their bodies sliding together slick and seamless. He kept murmuring praise – broken, half-finished things like “so good,” and “mine,” and “look at you, riding me so well.” Every word made William clench tighter, moan louder, his own cock leaking against Est’s stomach.
Their rhythm built steadily, no longer slow, now a frantic crescendo – the slap of skin against skin louder, the moans sharper, more desperate.
Est’s hands were everywhere – on William’s chest, gripping his thighs, cupping his jaw to kiss him again, greedily.
He thrust harder now, deeper – and William cried out, biting at his shoulder as he broke apart for the second time that morning, trembling and breathless, his cock painting Est’s stomach again.
Est came seconds later – with a sharp groan, spilling deep inside, locked tight in the prince’s trembling body.
They stayed like that for a while – tangled, breathless, foreheads pressed together.
And when they finally collapsed back onto the bed, limbs knotted and skin slick, Est didn’t pull out. He wrapped his arms around the prince and pulled him close again, burying his face in William’s hair, breath slow and warm. The prince’s fingers traced idle, invisible patterns on Est’s shoulder, as if etching something permanent into his skin.
Sunlight was beginning to filter through the slits in the heavy drapes, catching on the sheen of sweat on William’s temple, painting his cheekbones in gold.
Est stirred slightly, shifting beneath him.
“I should go,” he murmured, voice hoarse with the weight of morning and everything that had passed between them. “I have to report soon.”
William didn’t move.
For a moment Est thought he’d fallen asleep – but then he felt it, the tightening of fingers against his side, the press of warm breath against his neck.
“No,” William said softly, without opening his eyes. “Stay.”
“I’ll be late.”
“I don’t care.”
Est gave a quiet huff of breath – somewhere between a protest and a laugh – but didn’t move.
William lifted his head just slightly. His eyes were still heavy-lidded with exhaustion, lashes fanning shadows across his cheeks, but they were on Est now – searching, soft. Not the eyes of a prince giving orders. Just… his.
And then he leaned in and kissed him.
There was nothing hurried about it – no roughness, no demand. Just a slow, melting press of mouths, the kind of kiss that slipped under the ribs and settled low in the belly, warm and deep.
Est made a quiet sound, a low exhale against William’s lips, his hands curling against the small of his back, holding him there. He kissed back slowly, lazily, parting his lips just enough to taste the night still lingering on the prince’s tongue.
William’s hands found his face – the fingertips reverent, thumbs stroking lightly across Est’s cheekbones, as if trying to memorize the shape of him.
They kissed again. And again. Longer this time.
Deeper.
The kind of kiss that made time fold in on itself.
When they finally pulled apart, William didn’t say anything. He just brushed his nose against Est’s, lips a breath away, and sank slowly back onto his chest – one hand splayed across his sternum, the other curled under his own cheek, right against Est’s neck.
Est let him.
He lay still, one arm around the prince’s waist, the other gently stroking his spine in slow, absent lines. The tension in William’s body was melting now, inch by inch, breath softening against his throat. He was already drifting – but not yet asleep.
“Just for a little longer,” William whispered.
Est didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His hand kept moving in quiet rhythm, tracing the prince’s spine like a tether.
He should have left.
He should’ve pulled away – put on the uniform, stepped into his role again, wrapped himself in that neat, invisible barrier of duty and professionalism.
But instead he stayed.
Even when William’s leg slid between his own, even when their bodies tangled deeper under the sheets, even when William sighed – a low, content sound – and tucked his face into the curve of Est’s neck like he belonged there.
It wasn’t about sex now. There was no urgency. Just the raw, private simplicity of holding someone when no one else could see.
Eventually, William’s breath evened out.
Est tilted his head slightly and kissed the top of his damp hair. He didn’t think. He just did it.
And when the silence stretched, he whispered something so quietly that even he wasn’t sure if it had been said out loud:
“Fine. Just a little longer.”
His arm tightened around the prince, pulling him a fraction closer, and he closed his eyes. Not to sleep. Just to feel.
And in that soft hush of gold morning and tangled limbs, Est let himself have this one quiet moment – even if it wasn’t meant to last.
_______
By the time Est returned to the prince’s chambers, later that same morning, he had bathed and dressed in the sharp, clean-cut uniform of the palace guard – dark navy with brushed silver trim, crisp lines hugging the frame of his body. His damp hair was combed neatly back, a short sword rested at his hip, and his posture had shifted once more into that quiet, unyielding composure that defined him during the day. Professional. Steady. Impenetrable.
But inside, he was still full of the heat from the morning – from William’s arms, from the languid warmth of their shared bed, from the ache between his legs that hadn’t quite faded despite the release. There was something about the prince that lingered – something that tugged at him even after he’d stepped away.
William was already dressed, standing near the writing desk, half-turned toward the window where daylight spilled in in amber strokes. He looked immaculate as ever – in a deep emerald doublet stitched with delicate gold thread, high collar open at the throat. The quiet authority in his posture was impossible to miss.
When Est entered, William glanced over his shoulder, a quick once-over that made something hot curl in Est’s stomach.
“There you are,” the prince said, not bothering to mask the faint smile that curved his mouth. “I wasn’t sure you’d come back so soon.”
Est inclined his head, stepping into the room fully. “Your Highness called for me.”
William hummed. “I did. Come in.”
Est closed the door behind him. The room was quiet but not idle – a stack of freshly delivered correspondence lay on the desk, and near the hearth, palace attendants had left a tea tray untouched.
William gestured to a chair. “Sit for a moment. You’re early, and I might as well brief you before the day swallows us both whole.”
Est obeyed, lowering himself into the offered seat, every inch of him coiled in that perfect soldier’s readiness. Yet something in William’s tone – something quieter, more weighted – made him pause.
“I’ve received word this morning,” William said, turning more fully now. “Over the next few days, we’ll be preparing for the arrival of nobility and royal envoys from across the continent.”
Est raised a brow. “A summit?”
William nodded. “Of sorts. But not political. A coming of age celebration – in honor of Popeya.”
Est tilted his head slightly – the name familiar – and nodded.
“My younger sister,” William clarified. “She’s eighteen now. And my father, and the Council, believe it’s time to find her a suitable match.”
Est stilled. “A match.”
William’s jaw tightened, just a little. “Yes. They’ll dress it up as diplomacy. Goodwill. Celebration. But the reality is that she’ll be paraded and politicked over – courted by any number of desperate, ambitious noble houses looking to elevate their rank.”
His voice was even, but Est could hear the undercurrent of discomfort there. Protective. Maybe even angry.
“You don’t approve.”
“I don’t disapprove,” William replied, but the words were a little too fast. “It’s the way of the court. I just hope she remembers she has a choice. That she holds the power here.”
Est nodded slowly. “I understand.”
Before either of them could speak further, a brisk knock echoed through the chamber doors.
“Enter,” William called.
An attendant slipped inside, bowed quickly, and opened the heavy door fully – and in came a blur of movement wrapped in pale blue silk and laughter.
A young girl – no more than twelve or thirteen – launched herself into the room like a gust of wind and ran straight for the prince.
“Will!”
“Mia – !” William’s face broke open with a rare, radiant joy as he dropped the papers in his hand and caught her with practiced ease, lifting her off the ground and twirling her in a smooth, delighted spin.
The girl squealed, arms around his neck. She kissed his cheek with a loud smacking sound and pulled back, grinning. “I missed you!”
William laughed, holding her tighter for a moment before setting her back on her feet, though he didn’t fully let her go. “You’re back early.”
“They let me leave three days ahead!” she announced proudly. “For the holidays. They said I’ve been exceptional at my court etiquette and languages – and I didn’t argue.”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” William said fondly, brushing a curl from her cheek.
Mia beamed up at him, and only then did her gaze shift – sharp, observant – to the man seated behind her brother.
She blinked. “Who’s that?”
William turned, his hand still resting lightly on Mia’s shoulder.
“Ah,” he said, voice shifting again – softer, but now touched with something cool and deliberate, like he was carefully choosing his words. “That is Est.”
Mia tilted her head. “Est who?”
“Est,” William repeated, mouth quirking. “My personal guard.”
Est stood automatically and offered a small bow. “Your Highness.”
Mia’s eyes widened slightly. “He doesn’t look like a guard,” she said, rather bluntly. “He looks like a storybook knight.”
William chuckled under his breath, clearly amused.
“Well, he’s both,” the prince said. “And don’t let the face fool you – he could break bones in five languages.”
Est didn’t flinch. “Six,” he corrected dryly.
That drew a surprised laugh from Mia – bright and musical.
“I like him,” she declared, clearly and without hesitation.
William looked at Est – eyes glinting with a flicker of something unreadable. “So do I.”
Est glanced away at that, trying not to react, but the warmth that bloomed in his chest was impossible to suppress entirely.
“Est, this is Princess Mia,” William continued. “My youngest sister.”
“Not that young,” Mia corrected proudly. “I’ll be thirteen next month.”
Est nodded. “A pleasure, Princess.”
Mia reached for another biscuit from the tray and chewed happily. “Are you going to be with Will all the time?”
Est hesitated. “That’s my duty, yes.”
Mia narrowed her eyes, clearly analyzing. “Good. He’s bad at sleeping. And worse at eating. If you’re here all the time, make him rest.”
William groaned. “Gods, not you too.”
Est fought the twitch of a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind, Your Highness.”
Mia beamed and wandered toward the window with a content hum, leaving William and Est alone again for a moment.
The prince gave him a sidelong glance, expression unreadable.
“She always did have good instincts,” William murmured under his breath.
Est said nothing – only offered a half-bow again and resumed his post by the door.
But the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, brief and private, didn’t go unnoticed.
________
The royal council chambers were bathed in rich morning light that poured through stained glass windows – ruby and emerald light spilling across the polished floors. High arched ceilings held banners bearing the crests of each of the royal houses, and at the head of the long crescent table sat the thrones: the King’s at the center, flanked by the Queen and Crown Prince James.
Guards and attendants moved briskly and quietly as preparations were completed, scrolls unfurled, and refreshments placed just out of reach on sideboards. This was not a ceremonial court gathering – it was business, sharp and weighty. The mood in the room carried that electric kind of tension, full of legacy and ambition.
Est entered silently behind Prince William, his boots soundless against the marble. He took his usual place – just off to the right, standing guard near the carved pillars alongside the other personal bodyguards assigned to the royal family. His posture was precise, back straight, hands loosely clasped behind him, sword sheathed.
He scanned the room automatically. The king and queen had already taken their seats – the king with a thick, silver-streaked beard and a lion-like posture that commanded attention even in silence. The queen, elegant and restrained, had her fingers laced over a scroll, reading.
The room was filling rapidly with figures draped in silks and brocades, every step measured, every expression veiled. Advisors, nobles, heads of houses – and then the royal siblings.
“Long meetings,” a warm, easy voice said near his left shoulder. “Best to pick a good corner and learn the family politics fast.”
Est glanced sideways.
A knight stood beside him – tall, broad-shouldered, with thick, tousled brown hair and a boyish smile that seemed wildly out of place among the austere formality of the room. His uniform was neat but worn at the edges. He carried himself like someone used to being both respected and underestimated.
“Sir Jeff,” the man introduced himself quietly. “Royal Guard, second-in-command under Captain Renn. Assigned to Crown Prince James.”
Est inclined his head. “Est.”
“Oh, I know.” Jeff grinned. “You’re the new ghost shadowing Prince William. Everyone’s been talking.”
“Should I be worried?”
Jeff chuckled. “Depends on what they’re saying. But so far? Only that you look too pretty to be deadly, which usually means you’re the deadliest one in the room.”
Est didn’t reply, but the corner of his mouth twitched faintly.
Jeff nodded. “Well met, Est. First full council session with the whole royal lineup. Try not to blink – they move fast when they’re not at war.”
He leaned subtly toward Est, glancing at the central cluster of royals with an expression of fond amusement.
“You know who’s who yet?”
“I’ve met the Crown Prince, Princess Popeya, and Princess Mia,” Est replied.
Jeff’s grin widened. “Then let me fill in the rest.”
He gestured discreetly toward the elegant young woman who had just entered, surrounded by two ladies-in-waiting and flanked by a stern-looking attendant.
“That’s Princess Hansa – second-eldest. Brilliant mind. Impeccable manners. Betrothed to the Crown Prince of Cavellia – a small but wealthy land by the sea. The marriage is set for next year’s fall equinox. Political match. She’s fond of him, but no great romance. Still – very composed about it.”
Est watched her – she moved with regal precision, her gown a deep violet embroidered with subtle gold, her hair arranged in soft, symmetrical waves under a coronet. She took her place beside the Queen with a cool nod, back straight, lips calm.
“She’s the most ‘queenly’ of the daughters,” Jeff added, “and has been since she was a girl. Everyone says she could rule just as easily as James, if law allowed it.”
“And next?” Est asked, eyes scanning the room.
Jeff tipped his head toward William. “Well, you already know your prince.”
Est’s gaze lingered – William stood tall and composed, his uniform immaculate, his posture proud. Yet something about his jawline still held the bite of restlessness. He hadn’t said much this morning – only a polite nod and the usual instructions before they entered the chamber – but Est had felt the simmering weight beneath his calm.
“Third-born,” Jeff continued, “and in some ways, the sharpest blade among them. Prince William doesn’t flatter. Doesn’t grovel. Doesn’t plot. But when he walks into a room, everyone pays attention. Not the diplomatic type, but loyal to a fault.”
Est didn’t answer – but there was a heat behind his stern expression that gave him away.
“And there,” Jeff nodded toward a man entering with an entourage of artists and scholars trailing behind, “is Prince Hong. Fourth-born. The aesthete of the family. Poet, linguist, musician, diplomat. He’s the darling of cultural councils, and most foreign courts adore him.”
Prince Hong was striking – slender, graceful, dressed in silks of pale gold and navy, with a fan tucked into his belt. His smile was devastating – gentle, intelligent, warm – and completely unreadable.
“He’s always polite,” Jeff said in a low tone, “but rarely honest. He’ll flatter a man while arranging his downfall. And yet? No one dislikes him.”
Est raised a brow. “He doesn’t seem dangerous.”
“He’s the most dangerous,” Jeff said cheerfully. “Just not with a sword.”
“Princess Popeya,” Est said next.
“Yes, the fifth,” Jeff nodded. “Bright. Stubborn. Too clever for her own good, some say. Her match is the next big political prize. She’s just shy of her eighteenth birthday, and the invitations for suitors are being drafted.”
She sat beside Princess Hansa, already in discussion with a councilwoman, her expression animated. She had a quick smile, her gown a rose-gold hue with delicate pearls in her hair. She leaned into every conversation like it might be a chess match – and she always wanted to win.
“And finally,” Jeff added, “the baby.”
Princess Mia burst into the room moments later, her long dark braid swinging behind her as she skipped slightly in her step, already wearing a small sapphire diadem. Barely thirteen, she ran straight for her Mother – launching herself into the Queen’s arms.
As she joined her sisters, William finally moved to take his seat beside Crown Prince James, who gave him a long, cool look – not unfriendly, but weighted. The tension between the two eldest brothers could be felt across the chamber.
The King finally stood, raising one hand.
“Let us begin.”
The chamber fell to silence.
Est stood still in his post. He was the outsider here – silent, watching. But not unaware. As the meeting unfolded – discussions of alliances, guest lists, security, succession, and whispered mentions of international politics – Est remained a fixed point of shadow beside the flickering golden light of the monarchy.
But he knew now: every royal had their place.
And his? Just behind the one he could no longer stop looking at.
_______
The days that followed moved at a dizzying pace.
The palace – usually a place of composed grandeur – had transformed into a living thing, pulsing with purpose, noise, and urgency. Courtiers flitted through the corridors like bees, their silken robes whispering secrets as they rushed between meetings, rehearsals, and final fittings. Servants moved in seamless processions – linens, flowers, wine casks, drapes, candles, chandeliers being polished to glassy perfection.
Even the air seemed charged, thick with the scent of fresh-cut flowers, beeswax, and new tapestries.
The upcoming royal event – a multi-week celebration hosting nobility from across the continent – was unlike anything the capital had seen in years.
What the palace publicly called a “Coming of Age Celebration” for Princess Popeya was, in truth, a meticulously orchestrated match-making summit, all of it orchestrated for one central purpose. To showcase the fifth-born royal – one of the kingdom’s most politically strategic daughters. And also to parade the leadership of the Crown Prince to the visiting nobility – cementing his role as the future monarch. It was diplomacy dressed in pageantry. Politics laced with velvet and music.
But her coming-of-age celebrations were only the tip of the iceberg. What was unfolding was something far grander – a subtle assertion of the kingdom’s continued relevance in the complex weave of international diplomacy.
And it wasn’t just the palace that transformed.
The entire capital – from the merchant quarters to the oldest noble estates – shifted under the weight of its preparation. Banner-makers worked round the clock dyeing royal crests and foreign sigils. Cobblestone roads were relaid. Statues polished. Even the canals that ran through the southern district were drained and cleaned, sparkling now with floating lanterns and music boats in the evenings.
The palace itself was a labyrinth of motion. Fresh garlands woven daily. Harpists rehearsing in echoing halls. Diplomats pacing in and out of chamber doors. Silks rustled and jewels glittered and secrets passed from one lipstick – ed mouth to another.
Preparations stretched far beyond the palace walls.
The main royal palace, normally large enough to host dozens of dignitaries, would be overflowing. So two of the kingdom’s smaller satellite castles – Fayreholt Keep and Riverwatch Hall, both nestled on the lush outskirts of the capital – were also being prepared to host the foreign contingents. Fayreholt, known for its towering rose gardens and sun-drenched courtyards, was to accommodate nobility from the southern sea kingdoms. Riverwatch, all dark stone and gothic spires with halls overlooking the vast river plains, would house representatives from the mountainous eastern realms.
Both were undergoing furious transformation – their old tapestries replaced with fresher heraldry, aging furniture swapped for polished oak and velvet, cellars stocked with rare wines and exotic imports. Cooks, seamstresses, scribes, and decorators had been sent from the palace to oversee the efforts.
Back at the palace, entire wings were being reorganized. Courtiers had been shuffled, chambers reassigned, every spare inch of luxury converted into hospitality. Lavish tents were even being constructed in the royal gardens – styled like miniature palaces themselves – for visiting dignitaries who preferred their own staff, or their own eccentric privacy.
It was beautiful chaos.
And at the center of it, Prince William was a storm in motion.
He was called to council after council, meeting after meeting – sitting beside Crown Prince James to weigh guest lists, security briefs, and subtle diplomatic cues embedded in seating charts and parade order. He sparred with advisors over who should be granted access to his sister and oversaw the strategies for each nation’s reception. Every hour, he was needed – and every hour, he gave.
Est watched it all silently.
From his place in the shadows – standing guard beside doors, hallways, entrances to royal chambers – he watched William in his element. In brocade and authority. Sharp-jawed and cutting through indecision with a single sentence. Every gesture precise, every word weighted.
He admired it. Respected it.
But he couldn’t help the hollow ache that grew in the absence of… anything else.
Since the morning William had held him in bed and kissed him with that sleepy, aching fondness, they hadn’t had a moment alone. No calls to his chamber. No private looks or whispered notes. Just work. Nods. Dismissals. And distance.
It was not neglect.
It was reality.
William did not forget him.
There were days they did not speak, but Est never went unnoticed.
Every morning, without fail, the prince’s steward brought something new to his quarters: books on foreign strategy and war poetry. Silks in his preferred cut. A bouquet of winter-white roses once – with no note, just a knowing scent. The kitchens sent him the best cuts, even when he dined alone. On chillier days, shawls woven in the royal colors.
On one particularly quiet evening, a delicate silver bookmark shaped like a sword – with a note that simply read: “For the knight who guards me from afar.”
It wasn’t a replacement for his presence.
But it was proof that Est was remembered.
But Est missed him.
And that ache – subtle and patient and persistent – was what unsettled him the most.
It was one thing to serve someone. To protect them. To admire their wit, or beauty, or strategic mind.
It was another entirely to find your own hand lingering a moment too long on a cup of tea – thinking, he would have liked this. Or to step into a sunlit corridor and pause, just for a heartbeat, in hopes that the rustle of silks was his. Or to notice how the moonlight spilled across your empty bed, and imagine a weight there that you now knew by heart.
There were small, traitorous moments that betrayed him.
He missed him most at night, when the palace went quiet, and the stars peeked through the high arched windows, and the space in his bed – once so warm – stayed cold. There were nights Est reached for him in half-dreams. Nights he lay staring at the ceiling, wondering if the prince was asleep or still buried under scrolls and council briefings.
But he didn’t dwell.
He adapted. He always had.
He found new rhythms, new ways to fill the long days. He explored the capital whenever his duties allowed – slipping out with Sir Jeff or Tomas to wander the old markets or sip quiet wine by the river. He took up calligraphy again, his strong hands learning to soften into loops and flourishes. He started keeping a small notebook – not quite a journal, but filled with impressions and observations, memories that felt too private to speak.
He wrote home. Often. Long letters to his mother, short ones to his youngest sister. He described the palace gardens, the strange little animals that wandered the servants’ quarters, the time Princess Mia tried to sneak into the stables and fell asleep on a pile of hay. His tone was careful – proud but measured – but sometimes his pen slipped, and words like lonely or restless made their way in.
He trained. He sparred. He watched the changing guard shifts with interest, learned the names of those stationed at the outer walls.
And slowly, the ache of absence grew quieter.
Not gone.
Just folded into the rhythm of things.
And when William did appear – even just in passing – Est’s chest still pulled taut. Still hoped.
But he understood.
The prince had a kingdom to prepare. And a family to serve. And a sister to protect.
_______
One afternoon, as he stood guard outside the royal library, Est caught the sound of William laughing behind closed doors – warm and carefree, no doubt charming the visiting nobles. And instead of smiling, something curled in his gut – something foolish and bitter and lonely.
That same night, Est couldn’t sleep.
He sat at his desk and stared at the books William had gifted him – each one annotated in the margins in the prince’s precise, looping hand. He flipped through them slowly, finger tracing where ink had caught. On one page, William had underlined a line of verse:
“To want what you must never ask for is to bear love like a wound.”
Est closed the book after that.
And he hated – truly hated – how much his chest ached.
Because he knew better.
He was a soldier. He had grown up knowing that power and affection did not coexist easily. That people like him didn’t have the kind of love they might protect with their lives. And yet here he was – sleeping in the prince’s bed some nights, yes – but more often lately… just waiting. Watching. Wondering.
He missed the way William would talk to him in half-sleep. The way he’d curl his fingers around Est’s wrist under the covers, quiet and steady. The way he’d mutter “Come sleep” like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And Est hated himself a little for the way those memories warmed him more than any robe or fire ever could.
He hated how he looked for the prince’s face in a crowd. How his stomach turned when he didn’t find it.
He hated how, when he found it… his heart still stuttered like some foolish boy’s.
He was in deeper than he meant to be. And every day, every gift, every tiny moment of care – every absence – only sank him further.
_______
It was nearing dusk one night, when Est tugged on his gloves, preparing to head out. The air outside his quarters was beginning to cool, and he was only moments from joining Sir Jeff and a few of the younger guards for a quiet drink when the knock came – sharp, deliberate.
A royal runner stood in the corridor, head bowed low. “His Highness Prince William requests your presence.”
Est blinked once – his first reaction quiet surprise – and then nodded. “Of course.”
He dismissed himself quickly, heading back into the more opulent wing of the palace. The halls glowed amber in the torchlight, soft voices echoing behind closed doors. Est’s boots made no sound against the thick carpets as he approached William’s chambers.
The guards at the door stepped aside wordlessly.
Inside, the room was dim – warm, firelit. William sat alone by the hearth, legs crossed, a half-empty glass of wine resting on the table beside him. His coat was tossed over the back of the chair, his dark shirt slightly undone at the throat. He looked up as Est entered, and his mouth lifted into a slow, familiar smile – the kind that made Est’s breath catch despite everything.
“Took you long enough,” William murmured, voice low and rich.
Est bowed slightly. “Your Highness.”
“Sit down,” William said gently, gesturing to the seat across from him.
Est hesitated – then obeyed.
For a moment, William simply looked at him, eyes half-lidded in firelight. And then, so quietly it almost didn’t carry:
“Did you miss me?”
Est froze – not visibly, not obviously – but something in him went still.
He had.
Gods, he had.
But he didn’t say anything. Because he couldn’t. Because this was the same prince who had vanished behind layers of royal duty and silence for weeks. Who kissed him like he couldn’t stay away yet stayed away for weeks at a time.
William stood slowly.
And Est watched as the prince crossed the space between them, calm and unhurried. His steps were soft but sure, the way only William moved – with the kind of grace that masked steel.
He stopped in front of Est and tilted his head, gaze studying him.
“I missed you,” he said softly. “I missed the sound of your voice in the morning. I missed the way you looked half-asleep when I pulled you into bed. I missed how you tasted on my tongue. How you looked under me.”
His hand reached out, fingers brushing Est’s jaw with a touch far more intimate than it should have been. “I missed the way you say my name like it’s something you shouldn’t.”
Est’s throat was dry. His hands curled in his lap.
“I know I’ve been gone. I know I haven’t…” William’s voice dipped, breath catching faintly. “Given you what you deserve. But I was working. I was needed.”
Est didn’t move.
The prince stepped closer.
His thumb pressed lightly under Est’s chin, lifting it. Firelight danced across both their faces. “Tell me,” William murmured, so low it was almost a breath. “How much you missed me, Est.”
Est swallowed.
He hated how quickly his heart began to race.
“…A lot,” he said finally – voice rough, quiet. “More than I should have.”
For a moment, William didn’t reply.
Then he let out a slow, shaky breath and surged forward – and kissed him.
It was not soft.
It was searing.
Est rose into it almost without thinking, the chair scraping backward as he stood, hands coming up to brace against William’s shoulders – but the prince was already pulling him closer, already opening his mouth against Est’s like a man starved.
Their teeth clicked, their tongues slid – it was heat and hunger and everything that had been denied between them for weeks. William pressed flush against Est’s body, fingers in his hair, tugging, gasping softly into the kiss like it was the only air he could find.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Est’s hands were still gripping the back of the prince’s shirt.
William leaned in close, lips brushing his cheek.
“Don’t ever make me wait that long again,” he whispered.
Est’s mouth curled at the corner. “You’re the one who is busy, Your Highness.”
“I know,” William whispered. “Doesn’t make it any easier…”
______
Est is slowly realizing just how attached he’s getting to the Prince – and it’s not necessarily a welcome realization, given the consequences.
There’s some imminent drama in the next chapter. What do you guys think is going to happen?
And as usual, I hope y’all enjoyed this chapter.
