The Prince's Arranged Marriage Chapter 63: Conjugal Bliss

There are stretches of life that pass like a blur—monts too big, too fast, or too painful to absorb fully. And then, there are the rare ones like this: the golden in-between, where ti seems to soften and expand, where hours feel like silk slipping through fingers.

After the wedding, Alexander and I didn’t leave for so faraway destination. There was no tropical escape or mountaintop retreat. Instead, we chose to stay in Valtoria, tucked safely within the heart of the kingdom that had, slowly and without my permission, begun to feel like ho.

The days after the wedding had been quiet, wrapped in soft sheets and sunlight filtered through sheer curtains. There was no formal breakfast, no staff knocking at our doors. Just the two of us, limbs tangled, hearts at rest. We didn’t speak much. Words felt too clumsy for the gentle awe that lived between us. So we touched—hands brushing against skin, silent affirmations exchanged through fingertips and lips pressed to bare shoulders.

It was the first ti I truly believed this union might bring sothing resembling happiness.

As the days passed, we drifted through Valtoria like ordinary lovers, leaving behind titles and crowns at the palace gates. The city, still adorned in the remnants of wedding celebrations, greeted us with open arms and cheerful smiles. We walked through cobbled streets hand in hand, our fingers laced like we’d been doing it all our lives.

People stopped us often. So asked for photos, others just offered blessings or little gifts wrapped in silk and tied with handwritten notes. An old woman once gave a sprig of rosemary for fidelity, and I carried it in my coat pocket for days.

We visited the theater district and watched a late-night performance of *The Mirror Prince*, seated in the back row with Alexander’s arm around my waist and my head resting on his shoulder. We dined in hidden courtyards with flickering candlelight, and we laughed more than I thought possible. There were monts when I forgot about the weight of diplomacy, the wariness that had once lined our every exchange. Those edges between us softened. Our banter remained, sharp and witty, but now it was flavored with affection rather than resentnt.

The palace beca our sanctuary. With our belongings moved to the private royal wing, we found ourselves surrounded by luxury, yes—but also by quiet, by privacy, by freedom. We learned each other’s routines. He liked to hum in the shower. I liked to read late into the night. We made space for each other in ways I never expected from an arranged marriage.

And there were nights—many nights—when we didn’t sleep right away.

We’d start with a kiss, sothing unhurried and familiar. But it always deepened. Always led to more. Sotis urgent, other tis slow and exploratory. The tension that had once sparked from resentnt had transford into sothing warr, needier. In those hours, I let go of the world outside. In his arms, beneath his touch, I stopped being a prince. I was simply Lucien.

I never imagined desire could feel like this—so full of wonder, so endlessly consuming and yet comforting. There were mornings I’d wake sore but satisfied, curled beside him, skin still warm from the night before. We rarely spoke about it aloud. The intimacy was enough. It didn’t need to be nad.

But life, of course, didn’t stay suspended forever.

The palace resud its rhythm eventually—advisors returning to their posts, etings quietly scheduled for the weeks to co. And with it ca the gentle reminder that soon, we’d have to rise again as princes, not just as two people in love.

And then ca the goodbyes.

Elara was the first to tell she’d be returning to Veridian. We were in the garden, sitting on a wrought-iron bench beneath a lattice of roses. Her hair had been pinned in soft waves, her traveling cloak neatly folded beside her.

"You’ll be fine," she said, nudging my shoulder with hers. "More than fine."

"I know." I stared ahead, watching the sunlight filter through the leaves. "Still doesn’t make it easier."

She reached over, gently straightening the collar of my coat. "You’ll visit. I’ll visit. And besides, your husband won’t let you sulk for long."

My laugh was soft. "He’s annoyingly good at that."

Elara’s expression grew fond. "I’m proud of you, you know. Not just for going through with the wedding, but for letting yourself feel."

My throat tightened, and I nodded, unable to speak for a mont. When we embraced, I held her tighter than I ant to. She slled like lilacs and parchnt, and her grip was just as fierce.

Later that evening, I stood on the palace steps with Alexander at my side as my parents’ carriage was prepared for departure. King Christopher looked regal as ever, though his eyes had softened since the day I told him I wouldn’t abandon Veridian for the sake of Avalorian politics. Queen Alicia embraced twice, brushing my cheek with her gloved fingers, a quiet I-love-you mouthed before stepping into the car taking them to the airport.

Alexander bowed respectfully to them both, and I watched closely—relieved to see the sincerity in his expression, the quiet deference he showed my family.

When the carriages rolled away, I stood in silence, watching the banners flutter in the fading light. My chest ached, not from loss exactly, but from transition. From the knowing that life had moved forward, and I was no longer just the son of Veridian’s monarchs—I was soone’s husband. Soone who now carried dual duties. Dual allegiances. A dual heart.

Alexander reached for my hand, threading our fingers together.

"They’ll visit again soon," he said gently.

"I know." My voice was quiet. "It’s just... a lot."

He nodded. "It always is. But we’ll navigate it. Together."

Together.

That word had changed everything. Once a threat. Now a promise.

The rest of that day passed slowly. We walked through the halls of the palace, returned to our wing, and lay sprawled across the couch reading old poetry aloud to each other, taking turns with ridiculous voices until we were breathless with laughter. There was no need to fill every silence with sothing aningful. Sotis, it was enough to simply exist beside him.

That night, he kissed as though the whole world had narrowed down to the space between us. We made love with the windows open, moonlight painting patterns across our skin. And when he whispered my na, it no longer felt like a declaration—it felt like ho.

In the two weeks that followed our wedding, we lived not as political figures, not as heirs burdened by expectation—but as two people who had found sothing unexpected in each other.

Not perfection.

Not ease.

But sothing real.

And for now... that was more than enough.