Silent Crown: The Masked Prince's Bride-Chapter 284: Crumbling Restraint

Elias sat there for a long while, staring at the ceiling in the darkness, but no matter how long he looked, it offered him no wisdom. He could feel it, the sharp, invisible weight in the air between them, the unmistakable tension of Emma being angry. He just didn’t know why.

And truth be told, he rarely did.

He wasn’t good at reading people. Never was. He could read the wind, a forge’s fire, the sound of steel meeting stone... but not people.

And Emma? Emma was the peak of the mountain he’d never been meant to climb. She smiled, and he’d feel rich; she sighed, and he’d feel poor again. Out of all the men in the world, that woman had somehow fallen in love with him. A nobody. He’d never understand how that happened, and he feared he’d wake up one morning and realize it had been a dream.

So when he realized she was mad, he didn’t dare sleep. Not tonight. Not with her lying there, turned away from him, silent, her back a wall of delicate fury.

The faint moonlight slipping through the crack in the shutters caught on the curve of her waist, the slow rise and fall of her shoulders, the soft curl of hair resting in the nook of her neck. He could almost hear the pout in her face.

Gods, he loved that pout. And gods, it broke him.

Slowly, as if approaching a sleeping beast, he rose and moved closer. The floor creaked beneath his step; the sound made him freeze. No reaction. Carefully, he sat by the bed. He could see the outline of her ear, the little shimmer of her earring.

He hesitated. His hand hovered above her shoulder. He shouldn’t touch her; every time he did, it never ended with just a touch. He wasn’t sure if she wanted to be touched, or kissed, or even looked at right now. He’d already blindsided her once, by springing a marriage on her like it was a casual gift from the market.

He wasn’t sure he deserved to reach for her again.

But then she shifted...just slightly, and in the quiet, he caught the tiniest sound. A pouty sigh.

And that was all it took.

He placed his hand gently on her shoulder.

Her skin was warm. His heart stuttered. The world tilted a little on its axis.

"...Emma?" he whispered.

No answer.

He thought of pulling away. He really did. But her hair brushed against his knuckles, and his hand disobeyed him. It stayed there, tenderly, foolishly, hopelessly his.

He wanted to tell her he was sorry. He wanted to tell her he didn’t know what he’d done, but he’d undo it if he could. He wanted to tell her that if she turned around right now, he’d kiss her until they forgot why they were angry at each other.

Instead, he just sat there, like a lovesick fool, holding the shoulder of the woman who had somehow become his wife without ever saying "yes."

And gods, even angry, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

"My dearest wife..." Elias whispered, his voice low and uncertain, as though the words themselves might burn his tongue. "My heart is heavy knowing you’re angry with me..."

Before he knew it, his hand on her shoulder wasn’t enough. It never was. He leaned closer, resting his head gently on her arm, just to breathe her in, to feel her warmth, to remind himself that she was real.

This was Emma. His wife.

How could she be angry when he didn’t even know how to make it right? It hurt in a way his body never did, even when struck or scarred.

Emma’s heart nearly stopped. The soft drop in his voice when he said wife, the way it trembled with something raw and boyish... it made her breath catch in her throat. Her pulse stuttered and raced all at once when his head came to rest on her arm, like she was something sacred.

But pride... that stubborn, flickering flame inside her, would not go out so easily. He remembered she was his wife, didn’t he? And yet he’d left her alone on their wedding night, to sleep in a cold bed while he sprawled comfortably on the floor like some content cat.

"You smell so good, Emma..."

His voice, half-dream, half-devotion, sent a shiver down her spine. He closed his eyes, as though breathing her in could soothe whatever ghosts haunted him.

And just as he’d feared, it didn’t stop there. His restraint crumbled like wet paper.

"I want to kiss you..." he murmured, his lips tracing featherlight paths along her arm. "To hold you..."

She could feel the brush of his breath against her skin, the tremble in his tone that was equal parts guilt and desire.

"Emma..." he whispered again, softer this time, as if confessing a sin. "Don’t be mad at me on our wedding night."

Her pride didn’t stand a chance. When he spoke to her in that tone... that soft, trembling voice that carried apology, desire, and devotion all tangled together... how could she possibly stay still?

Emma rolled over.

Elias immediately sat up, heart leaping into his throat. He froze, eyes screwed shut, as though bracing for divine punishment. He’d crossed the line. He knew he had. And now she would hit him, yell at him, tell him to sleep outside... and he would deserve it. He would take it, all of it, without a word. If that was what it took to keep her, he’d take it.

But no slap came. No indignant shout. No angry flutter of movement.

Only her scent, that soft, warm, unbearably familiar, filled his lungs. The air around him was suddenly too thick, too alive.

He couldn’t bear it. He opened his eyes.

And what he saw took his breath away.

In the dim amber light, Emma sat turned toward him, glancing back over her shoulder. The nightgown had slipped down one side, baring a shoulder that gleamed like porcelain in candlelight. A curl of her hair brushed her collarbone.

Her eyes... gods, those eyes. They caught the faint light, shimmering with something between defiance and hesitation. Her lips were pressed together, trembling ever so slightly, like she was holding back everything she didn’t know how to say.

She looked like a painting, something no mortal man had the right to touch.

Elias’s heart pounded so loud he thought she could hear it. His mind went blank. Every rational thought fled, leaving only heat, raw, aching, undeniable.

This was Emma.

His wife.

And for the first time, he realized what that word meant: the promise, the ache, the right to hold her, to love her, to cherish her with everything he was.

He wanted to make her his, not out of desire alone, but because he already was hers.