Chapter 4
He slept all the way until the next morning.
By the time I had washed, dressed, and arranged my hair, Prince Adrian was still curled beneath the blankets, refusing to get up.
A message arrived from the palace saying that because he was not fully recovered, the Dowager Empress had excused us from the formal post-wedding visit. I thought he was merely lazy and did not mind indulging him.
But on the third day, he still refused to get up.
Worse, while I was eating breakfast, he secretly started carrying his bedding out of the room.
When I returned to the bedchamber, I found him bent over the mattress, dragging a pillow behind him with the determination of a thief in broad daylight.
I walked over, confused. “Your Highness, what are you doing?”
He jumped so hard he nearly fell onto the bed.
I reached out on instinct to steady him, but he dodged my hand with obvious panic.
My arm froze in the air.
Last night he had kissed me. He had held me in his sleep. So why was he suddenly avoiding my touch now?
Had his old injury flared up? Did he not recognize me?
I slowly withdrew my hand and asked carefully, “Does Your Highness not remember me?”
He shook his head quickly and hugged the pillow to his chest.
“I remember wife.”
I let out a quiet breath of relief.
So that was not it.
Then he dropped the real blow.
“Wife… Adrian wants to sleep in the side hall tonight.”
My heart skipped so hard it almost hurt.
When I spoke, my voice came out sharper than I intended. “Does Your Highness dislike me?”
“No!” he said at once, flustered. “Adrian likes wife the most.”
“Then why?”
He opened and closed his mouth several times, but no explanation came out. His ears turned crimson. Then, clearly deciding escape was easier, he clutched the pillow and made a run for it.
I moved faster.
Wrapping both arms around his waist, I caught him from behind before he reached the door.
He went rigid.
“Wife,” he whispered shakily, “can you let go of Adrian?”
Absolutely not.
If the palace heard that my husband had moved out of my bedchamber only three days after our wedding, my head might truly be in danger.
I tightened my hold. “Not until you tell me why.”
He trembled, though he did not actually use any strength to pull away.
Seizing the moment, I dragged him back toward the bed and pushed him down onto the mattress. Before he could sit up, I climbed onto his lap.
He gave a muffled sound of surprise.
His face turned so red it looked almost feverish, but his hands still found my waist of their own accord.
Then he buried his face against my neck and spoke so softly I barely heard him.
“When I sleep with wife… Adrian always… wets the bed.”
I blinked.
He clung to me harder, his voice turning even smaller.
“When wife kisses me, and hugs me, I feel really good… but also strange… and then I can’t control it. Just like now.”
The meaning hit me all at once.
Not wetting the bed.
Not that at all.
I looked down between us. Then back at his face.
His eyes were red at the corners, his breathing uneven, and his expression helpless enough to break my heart.
“Wife,” he whispered, sounding close to tears, “am I sick?”
I shook my head immediately.
“No. You’re not sick.”
He frowned. “But I feel weird.”
The room felt suddenly too still. Too intimate. Too warm.
I covered his mouth with one hand before he could say anything else and forced myself to sound calm.
“Be good,” I whispered. “I’ll help you.”