Hiding My Twin Heirs from the Ruthless Prince

CHAPTER 88

POV: Cordelia

It happens without witnesses.

That is how Sebastian wants it—quiet, unrecorded, stripped of the pageantry he pretends not to need. He sends for me after dusk, a sealed note delivered by a servant who does not meet my eyes. The western apartments. No guards. The words are careful. Controlled. Already an admission.

I arrive exactly when I intend to.

He is waiting near the windows, the city spread beneath him like a promise that belongs to someone else. He turns when he hears me, relief flickering across his face before he schools it away.

“You came,” he says.

“I said I would.”

He smiles faintly. “You always do.”

We stand there for a moment, the space between us dense with what we’ve been circling for weeks. No one speaks. I let the warmth rise—not to touch him, not to push—just enough to sharpen the air, to make the silence press.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

“You know what this costs.”

“Yes.”

He studies me, searching for hesitation. He doesn’t find it.

“Then say something that stops me,” he says.

I step closer. “I won’t.”

That’s all it takes.

His hand closes around my wrist, not rough, not tentative—decisive. He pulls me in and kisses me like a man who has practiced restraint until it turned feral. The contact sends a clean shock through me, the warmth flaring bright and eager beneath my ribs, not wild but focused, like it recognizes the shape of this moment.

I don’t soften for him.

I meet him with equal hunger, equal intent, my fingers sliding into his hair, my mouth answering his with practiced precision. He makes a sound against my lips—surprised, undone—and presses me back against the wall.

“I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs, breath hot against my neck.

“I know,” I reply.

“How do you know?”

“Because you waited.”

He laughs softly, breathless. “You’re dangerous.”

I smile. “You like that.”

He doesn’t deny it.

We don’t speak again until we’re in the bedchamber, the door shut, the world narrowed to the sound of breathing and fabric slipping away. His hands are reverent and greedy all at once, as if he can’t decide whether to worship or consume. I guide him without seeming to, shift him where I want him, let him think each step is his idea.

Control tastes sweet.

Sebastian shudders, gripping my hips. “Cordelia,” he breathes, like my name is something sacred.

I let him believe it.

I move with intention, not urgency, feeling how his control fractures beneath my touch.

Ambition sings.

The warmth flares, controlled and exquisite, spilling through me in waves that leave my skin buzzing and my thoughts razor-sharp. I don’t lose myself in it. I ride it, shape it, let it sharpen pleasure into something deliberate and consuming.

After, he lies beside me, chest rising and falling, one hand resting possessively on my waist. The room smells like skin and candle wax and something faintly metallic—magic, stirred but contained.

He turns his head toward me. “This changes things.”

“Yes,” I say.

“For you too.”

I meet his gaze. “Especially for me.”

***

The days after feel different.

Sebastian seeks me out with less pretense now. His eyes linger openly. His voice drops when he speaks to me in crowded rooms. He touches my arm as if he’s allowed to, as if the line between us has already been erased.

Evangeline notices.

She always does.

“This cannot continue,” she says one afternoon, cornering me near the library. Her voice is calm, but there’s steel beneath it now.

“It already is,” I reply.

Her jaw tightens. “You think this ends with you?”

“I think it begins with me,” I say.

She studies my face, searching for cruelty, for triumph. She finds neither.

“What do you want?” she asks.

I consider the question honestly. “Influence.”

“That’s not enough.”

“It is,” I reply. “If you know how to use it.”

She exhales slowly. “You are playing a dangerous game.”

I lean in slightly. “So is your husband.”

She watches me for a long moment, then steps back. “Be careful, Cordelia. Power rarely loves you back.”

I smile faintly. “I don’t need it to.”

At night, alone, I feel the warmth surge more readily than ever before.

It responds to thought now—images of marble halls, of Sebastian’s ringed hand on mine, of whispers turning into directives. The power hums, eager and precise, as if ambition has given it a clearer shape than anger ever did.

I practice control, not concealment.

The flame bends. The air thickens. The runes glow brighter beneath my touch. Nothing breaks. Nothing burns. Everything listens.

This is what I was meant for, I think—not love, not belonging, but alignment. Desire fused to direction. Power answering clarity.

Sebastian sends for me again two nights later.

We don’t talk about what we are.

We don’t need to.

When he kisses me this time, it’s slower, possessive in a way that speaks of intention rather than impulse. I let him think he’s claiming something. I let the warmth hum steady and obedient, the crown inside me settling more comfortably with each imagined step closer to the center.

Afterward, he traces idle patterns on my skin. “You make me want impossible things.”

I turn my head to look at him. “Impossible is just unclaimed.”

He smiles, tired and dangerous. “You see the world like a conqueror.”

I smile back. “You see it like a man who wants to be conquered.”

He laughs softly, but the sound doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Later, alone again, I stand at the window and watch the palace lights flicker below.

Henry’s face crosses my mind briefly—his cautions, his quiet steadiness, the way he looks at me like a question instead of an outcome. I push the thought aside without guilt.

This is not about love.

This is about proximity to power.

The warmth pulses, approving.

I rest my palm against the glass and imagine the crown not as metal, but as weight—felt, not worn. The kind that settles into your bones and reshapes you from the inside out.

A crown within reach, I think.

And I am very good at closing distances.