The Dragon's Heart: Unspoken Passion-Chapter 108: One More

Warmth still lingered beside her when she stirred, the imprint of someone’s presence pressed faintly into the sheets. For one disorienting second, she thought she had dreamt it all. The kiss, the quiet confessions, and the way his hands had held her like something precious.

Her fingers curled against the mattress, reluctant to wake. But then she heard a slow, steady sound of breathing beside her, making her blinked herself awake.

Levan sat at the edge of the bed, already fully dressed in his uniform. The dark fabric pressed sharp and immaculate, silver embroidery glinting faintly in the early morning light. He looked as though he had been ready to leave a long time ago, yet had not moved an inch. His gloves lay on the bedside table, untouched.

His eyes cut toward her the moment she shifted, not with surprise, but as if he had been waiting for the exact second she woke.

"Good morning," he said warmly, his voice carrying none of the formality his uniform demanded.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

Ilaria pushed herself upright, the blanket pooling around her waist and immediately felt her face warm. She had not realized her hair was such a mess, or that she had slept wrapped in...

Huh?

She looked down, noticing the heavy coat draped over her shoulders.

His coat.

Ah...

She must have fallen asleep while still clinging to him, and he... he had covered her with it.

Her fingers tightened on the lapel, thumb brushing over the soft weave. It still held warmth; still held him. Before she could stop herself, she lifted it closer, her nose barely grazing the collar as she sniffed lightly.

It smelled like him. Familiar, steady, and unmistakably his. The kind of scent that felt less like perfume and more like memory. Ilaria blinked at herself, heart tripping, and very quickly lowered it again, as if caught doing something improper in an empty room.

"I guess it did suits you more than it suits me."

Ilaria jumped, nearly throwing the robe off her like it had bitten her. Levan huffed amusedly at her reaction, finding it adorable more than anything.

"Why are you smelling it?" he asked, too gently to be curious, but just enough for her ears to burn.

"I— it was here," she muttered, clutching the fabric protectively now that she had been caught. "Why did you even put it on me?"

"You wouldn’t let go of me," he said simply. "I thought you might wake up reaching for something that wasn’t there."

Ilaria’s heart fluttered, too soft, too suddenly. "...So you gave me this instead?"

He nodded. "A poor substitute, but better than leaving you with nothing."

Her fingers curled tighter around the coat. She swallowed, then asked, "Where are you going?"

"To the council chambers," he replied, smoothing the sleeve of his uniform as if that might hide how reluctant he was to say it. "Reports came in at dawn. I need to be present."

"...Then why are you still here?" she asked before she could rethink the question.

Levan looked back at her, smiling faintly before leaning a little bit closer.

"I was supposed to leave," he said. "I was planning to after putting the coat on you." His gaze dipped to her face, steady and unbearably gentle. "But I changed my mind, because I figured I didn’t want you to wake up alone."

Her breath stuttered. So he had been ready to go? The coat was not a gesture made in passing. He meant to leave... yet turned back because of her.

Tears gathered before she could stop them. And it was embarrassingly fast.

Levan was startled. "...Ilaria?"

She shook her head quickly, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. Stupid. Crying because her husband was thoughtful. How pathetic.

"I..." she murmured, voice tight, "...like you so much." It slipped out before she could swallow it down. A truth too small to say yet too big to hide.

Levan went rigid. Not alarmed, but caught in that rare space where logic could not quite keep up. His brows drew together, faintly concerned at her reaction.

"...What’s wrong?"

Ilaria shook her head frantically.

And for a man who excelled at battlefield strategy and political cunning, he looked genuinely out of his depth.

With quiet effort, he tried to piece it together, lowering his head to inspect her face.

"You’re emotional because I stayed?"

She nodded miserably, as though it were the most humiliating confirmation of her life.

That made Levan exhaled.

"You are... very easy to affect in the morning," he concluded softly. Logic stated like a tenderness.

He reached out, thumb brushing the corner of her damp eye, not wiping the tear away for her, but offering to, if she let him.

"And here I thought letting you wake up alone would trouble you more." His confusion gentled into a quiet realization. "...I was wrong, then."

The words settled between them. And suddenly Ilaria found it hard to breathe, much less think. She still clutched his outer coat like a lifeline, eyes glossy, mouth parted in a tiny, embarrassed pout she did not mean to make.

Levan noticed. His gaze dipped briefly to her lips, then back up to her eyes long enough for her heart to lurch.

"What is it?"

She sniffled, mortified by her own voice. "I... I... wanted a kiss."

There it was. The small, ridiculous, and completely sincere answer which did not feel as unexpected simply because it came from her.

Levan tilted his head, trying to understand how something so minor had caused such dramatic distress. He let out a slow breath through his nose, the kind that sounded like patience.

"You’re still crying."

"Then make me feel better."

"You realize you’re using tears to negotiate?"

"I’m not negotiating," she sniffed. "I’m requesting."

"Mm," he hummed, unimpressed. "Forcefully."

She pouted harder. "Does it matter if it works?"

For a moment, there was only silence. Then Levan exhaled again, his eyes closing briefly as if accepting fate.

"It appears I married a menace," he murmured.

"You’re going to say no then?" she asked sadly, wiping her face with the back of her hand.

He opened his eyes again and looked at her fully, a reluctant warmth settling in his expression. Slowly, he inched closer, his voice low in quiet surrender.

"No. I’m not."

His hand cupped her jaw gently, thumb brushing away the last tear clinging to her cheek. He leaned down, his lips ghosting over hers as he whispered, "Behave, and I’ll kiss you."

She whispered back, pout deepening, "How am I misbehaving?"

"You’re crying to get what you want."

"I’m emotional."

"You’re dramatic."

"Husband..." she whined.

His lips curved, so subtle it was barely there. Levan kissed her then. Slow and careful. Not because she demanded it, but because he allowed himself to give it.

When he pulled back, he wiped the tears on the corner of her eyes.

"Better?" he asked.

"...Not yet," she whispered.

He nearly laughed. His fingers slid along her cheek, warm and steady, thumb tracing her skin with a softness that contradicted how composed he always looked.

"I’m already late," he said, palm cradling her jaw. "I waited for you to wake up and now you’re going to make me even later."

She stared at him, lower lip wobbling just enough to be ridiculous. "That’s not my fault, you’re the one who decided to stay. I can still be told things when I’m asleep."

"I’m aware. You mumble back. It’s concerning."

Her cheeks burned.

He was about to stand, but her fingers caught his sleeve, not strong enough to stop him, just enough to ask. Her voice came out small and stubborn.

"...One more kiss, and then you can go."

Levan stared at her, like he was gathering patience. Then he leaned in, brushing her hair back with his hand. She had given him no choice at all.

"My wife has no mercy," he sighed against her lips.

And he kissed her again.

~×~

Today, there were books waiting. And research refused to kiss her senseless. So she went to the Royal Library.

The heavy doors welcomed her with the scent of ink and aging parchment, a quiet world untouched by council meetings or teasing husbands who kissed slowly on purpose. Shelves stretched into warm, bookish shadows, sunlight spilling across reading tables in lazy gold.

It had been a while since she had visited. The library always felt like someone had hit pause on the rest of the palace. She wondered vaguely what Lysander was doing now.

Ilaria slipped inside, shoulders relaxing for the first time since she had woken up pushing kisses onto a man who had been trying to work. Here, no one demanded anything of her. No one knew the princess had spent the morning pouting in bed for affection.

"You’re walking funny," Melyn whispered at her side.

"I am not," Ilaria hissed back, walking towards a huge shelf meant to store books about mystiques and supernaturals.

"You are," Melyn insisted, following her like a shadow with opinions. "You look... lighter, or guilty, or both."

"I’m here to read, Mel. We’re in the library, you should be quiet."

"You’re here to hide," Melyn muttered under her breath that was not loud enough for the princess to hear, holding onto the stack of books Ilaria picked from the shelves.

They had already weaved through half the eastern wing, pausing at every row where titles glinted with theories, old reports, and obscure magical trials. Melyn kept stacking them higher in her arms without complaint, though her eyebrows climbed a little more with every tome added.

By the time they reached the Ivory Study, Melyn was carrying enough books to start a small rebellion.

Ilaria sat and opened a book far too dramatically, like she could bury her face inside the pages and disappear.

Melyn watched her for a long moment, arms crossed, expression flat in that way only a best friend could master. It was not even the dramatic book-slamming that did it, it was the way Ilaria’s ears were still red.

The way she kept pretending to read a page upside down. The way she was clearly, painfully, not over whatever happened that morning.

Melyn leaned close. "...So. Should I ask?"

Ilaria gasped, scandalized. "No!"

"Should I assume?"

"Definitely not."

"Hm. If you say so." Melyn pulled out Ilaria’s writing tools, arranging them neatly like she was not actively vibrating with nosiness. Like she did not notice the princess’s lips were still a little bitten-looking. Like she was not two seconds away from shrieking into the spine of a dictionary.

Thirty seconds of silence passed.

Then, without looking up, Melyn asked, "...Was it good?"

Ilaria smacked her book shut, eyes wide. "We didn’t do anything!"

Melyn blinked at her. Ilaria was practically glowing red. Her ears, cheeks, even her neck blotchy. Oh, so it was like that.

"...Alright," Melyn murmured gently, like calming a wild animal. "I won’t ask."

Ilaria cleared her throat and tried to look convinced by her own denial. And then silence returned, less peaceful this time, more Ilaria trying not to combust.

Melyn reached for the stack of books, sorting them absently. Perhaps Levan and the princess did get along during their time in the expedition. Not that she wanted to imagine the exact details, she had already witnessed the aftermath of morning cuddles and dramatic sighs.

Her eyes flicked over the titles.

"...These are all about... old boundary records?" she murmured, flipping through one. Maps, faded ink, scattered notes on territories no longer on current charts. "Forgotten landmarks, lost trade routes. Who even studies this anymore?"

Another book revealed sketches of ruins without labels, structures half-eaten by time, recorded as if the scribe did not know what they were looking at.

Melyn’s brows knit. "These places aren’t even named."

Ilaria leaned forward, her embarrassment fading into quiet curiosity. "That’s the point. No one remembers what they were called."

Melyn tilted her head, scrutinizing the faded maps and fragile pages. "So... we’re supposed to just guess?"

Ilaria’s wiggled a finger. "Not guess. But piece it together, look for patterns, annddd imagine what could have been there!"

Melyn raised an eyebrow. "Sounds exhausting."

Ilaria shrugged, eyes bright. "Maybe. But... it’s exciting too, like holding a little part of history in your hands."

Melyn only shook her head, putting the book down. "You really do have a flair for dramatics, Your Highness."

Ilaria leaned back, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her voice dropped, quieter than usual, almost conspiratorial. "Melyn... could you call the Archivist for me? I think I need someone with a very particular kind of knowledge."

Melyn raised an eyebrow, curious. "Particular how?"

Ilaria’s lips pressed together, a shadow of a smile tugging at the corners. "...Let’s just say it’s about something very old... and very far away."