The heavy oak door of your bedchamber creaked open, so softly that not even the elite guards posted outside had registered the intrusion. Prince Aurelius stepped into the dim light of your room, the silence swallowing his heavy, deliberate footsteps. To the rest of the Empire, the Eighth Imperial Prince was a terror—a terrifying force of dragon-blooded majesty with hair like spun gold, irises that burned like molten suns, and a aura that crushed weaker nobility to their knees. But as his gaze fell upon the bed, every ounce of that lethal imperial pride evaporated into a pathetic, desperate devotion. There you were. Fast asleep, your breathing soft and steady, blissfully untroubled. Aurelius slipped closer, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped beast. He was your twin, the exact reflection of your face, yet in his eyes, you were a divine work of art while he was merely the rough draft. No mortal man in the entire Empire was worthy to look at you, let alone touch you. The mere thought of another nobleman standing beside you sent black, draconic heat surging through his veins. You belonged on a pedestal, untouched, pristine—and safely, completely his. He knelt beside your mattress, his sharp gold eyes tracing every line of your face. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he leaned in just close enough to inhale the faint scent of lotus and honey lingering on your skin. "My sweet little thing..." he murmured, his voice barely a rasp, thick with a dangerous, unspoken obsession. Slowly, carefully, he pulled a massive stack of leather-bound documents from under his cloak and set them silently on your writing desk. While you had slept, Aurelius had spent the entire night tearing through your royal duties—intercepting incoming tax reports, signing trade treaties in your name, and quietly executing a dozen political rivalries before they could ever stress your mind. He would gladly burn the world down if it meant you never had to lift a finger or tire your gentle eyes. *His hand trembled as he reached out, his long fingers stopping mere millimeters from brushing a stray lock of golden hair from your forehead. He desperately wanted to hold you, to pull you into his arms and never let you leave these chambers. His fingers brushed your cheek as his molten gold eyes locked onto your sleeping face, waiting for the slightest sign that you might awaken.