Get to Work, Prince! – Chapter 2 – Aide, Renata

Author: Nikss

Renata’s gaze, caught off guard by the sudden reappearance of Theodor, slid helplessly downward—from his face to the rest of him.

His skin still glistened with the faint sheen of recent washing, droplets clinging to the sharp line of his jaw.

Broad shoulders that perfectly suited his towering frame.

The loosely tied shower robe draped carelessly over them, its wide collar gaping open to reveal the stark, sculpted divide of his abdomen—deeply carved muscles that seemed to demand attention, to pull the air straight from her lungs.

“Your Highness… why are you still… not dressed…?”

And below that—the robe’s tie had been knotted with lazy indifference, leaving a tantalizing sliver of open space that hinted at everything and revealed just enough to set her pulse racing.

“Hm? Didn’t I tell you I’d be ready in five minutes? That you should wait?”

This maddening prince—truly insane.

“I… suppose that’s how you interpreted it. Yes, that could be possible.”

Renata forced her voice into cool, professional detachment, the tone she reserved for official correspondence.

She brushed past him without meeting his eyes, slipping into the room as though his half-naked presence were nothing more consequential than furniture.

Extraordinary opponents required strategic distance.

She deliberately radiated indifference, willing him to lose interest quickly.

Yet the brief, overwhelming flash of bare skin and warm, clean scent lingered in her vision like an afterimage burned behind her eyelids.

It haunted her steps.

She stared rigidly ahead, each footfall an act of willpower, fighting the magnetic pull that threatened to drag her gaze back.

Behind her, Theodor gave a low, dissatisfied mutter and shut the door with deliberate slowness—as though sealing them inside the same charged space.

“No comment at all about how I look?”

“I’ve confirmed your meal portions remain consistent with your usual intake. Visually, there appear to be no significant changes either. You seem to have been managing quite well, Your Highness.”

Without once turning toward him, Renata placed the thick stack of documents on the table with a crisp, decisive thud.

“However, Your Highness.”

Her voice remained measured, almost clinical.

“The envelope on the side table shows no sign of having been opened. His Majesty the King personally urged participation in the hunt, and I specifically requested that you review the materials by today. Do you at least remember when I submitted them?”

At her words, Theodor’s gaze dipped—slowly, deliberately—tracing the vivid red of her skirt before sliding back up to meet her eyes.

A faint, knowing curve touched his lips.

“Let me think… you were wearing that same red skirt then too… So it was a week ago, wasn’t it?”

The casual precision of his recall felt like the lightest brush of fingertips along her spine.

He remembered. Not just the documents. Not just the deadline.

He remembered her.

The air between them thickened, heavy with everything unsaid, every stolen glance, every time their paths had crossed and parted too quickly.

Renata’s heart hammered against her ribs—once, twice—betraying the calm mask she wore so carefully.

And Theodor, damn him, simply watched her, waiting, as though he could already taste the moment her composure finally cracked.

Theodor remembered the exact shade of red she had worn that day because, to him, Renata’s wardrobe had long since revealed its secret pattern.

The cut and design of her skirts remained identical—elegant, severe, impeccable—but the color shifted with ruthless precision according to the day of the week.

Monday: crimson fire.

Tuesday: deep, molten chocolate.

Wednesday: bright, almost accusing gold.

And so on.

Theodor had noticed almost immediately.

At first he had mocked her for it, half-laughing, half-irritated, calling the habit deranged. He’d complained—loudly—that now even when he looked at flowers in the palace gardens, his mind supplied the weekday label instead of beauty.

“That red rose over there? Monday. That pale yellow one? Definitely Wednesday.”

He’d demanded she break the rule just once. Just to prove she was capable of spontaneity.

Just to give him one fewer thing to obsess over.

Renata had let the words slide past her ears like distant wind. If it bothered him so much, he could simply stop looking.

Stop noticing.

Stop cataloguing every detail of her like a man memorizing a map he refused to follow.

And yet here he was—still noticing. Still remembering. Still using it like a weapon wrapped in velvet.

“Correct?”

He prompted now, voice low and smug, the smile curling wider as he watched fury flash behind her carefully schooled features.

She had been scolding him—again—for procrastinating, for making her job harder, for turning every deadline into a private war of attrition.

And instead of looking chastened, he looked triumphant.

As though correctly recalling the color of her skirt from seven days ago was a victory more satisfying than any royal decree.

Renata’s temper flared hot and bright behind her ribs.

But she was too practiced to let it show.

Instead she curved her lips into the polite, razor-thin smile she reserved for him on days like this.

Then she turned, walked back toward the door with measured steps, bent gracefully at the waist, and gathered the two pillows he had so carelessly flung earlier.

One in each hand. She carried them to the bed and placed them with deliberate neatness, smoothing the fabric as though erasing every trace of his earlier chaos.

Theodor drifted toward the center of the room, watching her every motion with that lazy, predatory interest he never quite bothered to hide.

“…That’s not your job,” he said, quieter now. Almost gentle.

“Why are you doing even this?”

Renata paused mid-motion, fingers still gripping a cushion. She shook it once—hard—sending a faint puff of air between them, then flicked only her eyes toward him.

Inside, a sharp retort burned on her tongue, Yes, well said. Why don’t you tell me exactly where my duties end and your entitlement begins? Draw the line for me, Your Highness.

But she swallowed the words.

Arguing with someone who refused to speak the same language was a waste of breath.

So she gave him the only answer that ever disarmed him, delivered in a voice as clear and cool as morning light.

“If it is for Your Highness, then there is nothing I will not do.”

She punctuated the sentence by giving the cushion two brisk, decisive pats—almost slaps—before setting it neatly on the sofa. Then she crossed to the window to let fresh air in.

Her fingers brushed the latch.

She froze.

“…Why is the lock undone?”

The question slipped out before she could catch it—soft, surprised, almost intimate in the sudden stillness.

Behind her, Theodor went very still.

The room seemed to shrink around them, the faint scent of his soap still clinging to the air, the warmth radiating from his bare skin, the soft rustle of her red skirt as she turned slowly to face him.

Their eyes met.

And for one suspended heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Neither of them breathed.

The open window let in a cool current that stirred the edges of her skirt, lifted a strand of her hair, brushed against the exposed line of his collarbone—and neither of them looked away.

The lock had been undone.

And somehow, impossibly, that small, careless detail felt more dangerous than any half-open robe or knowing smile he had ever aimed at her before.

The lock was never left open—except when she herself pushed the window wide each morning to let in the dawn.

Security demanded it. And yet now the latch hung loose, and worse, the window stood ajar by the barest inch, letting in a thin, persistent current of cool morning air that tasted faintly of dew and distant pine.

Something was wrong.

Deeply, quietly wrong.

Renata felt the shift like a finger tracing the nape of her neck, but she said nothing.

She simply moved to the next task with the same unflinching diligence she always showed—because that was how she survived him: by refusing to let chaos dictate her rhythm.

She stepped toward the bed to straighten the tangled sheets when Theodor suddenly stepped into her path.

“I’ll only tidy the bedding,” she said evenly.

“Excuse me for just a moment—”

“I don’t recall ever giving you permission to touch my bed.”

His voice was low, almost playful, but the way he blocked her—broad shoulders filling the space between them, the faint tremor in the hand that hovered near her arm—felt anything but casual.

And then she saw it: the edge of fabric peeking from beneath the rumpled duvet, a sliver of cloth that did not belong to his robe or the palace linens.

Everything about him screamed concealment.

This prince had done something catastrophic.

Renata met his gaze without flinching.

“Then consider it permitted, starting today.”

She reached for the duvet.

In the same heartbeat, Theodor’s hand closed around her wrist—firm, warm, unyielding.

“No,” he murmured.

“You’re moving too fast.”

She arched a brow, letting her eyes flick deliberately down the length of his still-bare torso, the robe hanging open like an invitation he refused to withdraw.

“Says the man who greets his aide half-naked at eight in the morning.”

“I was about to dress. You’re the one who barged in.”

Renata tried to free herself with her other hand. He caught that wrist too—effortlessly—pinning both her arms between them so she could neither advance nor retreat.

Their bodies were suddenly too close; she could feel the heat rolling off his skin, smell the clean trace of soap still clinging to his throat.

She lifted her chin, forced her gaze upward—only to collide once more with the stark, sculpted expanse of his chest.

Heat flooded her face. She jerked her eyes away and down to the duvet, using the motion to hide the sudden, traitorous skip of her pulse.

“I waited,” she said tightly.

“As instructed. Whatever kept you from dressing is your own doing, not mine.”

Theodor’s mouth curved—slow, dangerous, delighted.

“My aide really does notice everything. How about using that sharp perception to pretend you didn’t see anything… just this once?”

“Cleaning up after Your Highness’s disasters is literally my job,”

She answered, voice steady even as her wrists flexed uselessly in his grip.

“But if this spirals out of control—if whatever you’ve hidden under there becomes a scandal that reaches the King—I’ll be the one left to answer for it. Not you.”

She twisted again, harder this time, pouring every ounce of strength into breaking free.

He didn’t budge.

“Let go.”

“Promise you won’t lift that blanket.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Then neither can I.”

For a long, suspended moment they stood locked together—her wrists captive in his hands, his bare chest rising and falling mere inches from the crisp red fabric of her blouse, the open window behind them whispering cool air across both their heated skin.

Neither moved to break the stalemate.

Neither looked away.

The duvet waited between them like a secret neither was willing to surrender—and the silence that followed was louder than any confession, thick with the unspoken knowledge that whatever lay hidden beneath those sheets was no longer the only thing threatening to unravel them both.

She realized brute arm strength alone would never win this tug-of-war.

So she threw her entire body into the struggle—shoulders, hips, the desperate twist of her torso—crashing against him again and again in a frantic, breathless tangle of limbs.

Something slipped free.

A soft thud against the floor.

Renata’s head jerked downward on instinct. There, lying innocently between their feet, was the thin silk cord that had once held his robe together.

Which meant—Her breath seized.

“I’m so sorry!”

The words burst out before she could stop them.

Theodor’s grip faltered—just for a heartbeat—in genuine surprise. That single second was all she needed.

She dropped to one knee, snatched the fallen belt, and thrust it toward him without looking up. Her face burned; she turned her head sharply to the side and squeezed her eyes shut so tightly stars burst behind her lids.

A low, amused chuckle rumbled from his chest—close enough that she felt the vibration of it against her skin.

“Ah… I’m dying of embarrassment here. Can’t you just leave me alone for five minutes?”

His tone curled playfully at the end, teasing. Then his hands settled lightly on her shoulders, nudging her toward the door with the gentlest pressure—as though he truly meant to usher her out and spare them both.

If she left now, the paperwork would pile higher.

The hunt invitation would go unanswered. The King’s personal request would be ignored yet again.

No. He has to participate in the hunt. No matter what.

Renata snapped her eyes open. Lifted her chin. Squared her shoulders.

She would not retreat. Not today. She would claim this small battlefield, ride the momentum straight through to his signature on every last document, and walk out victorious.

Theodor tilted his head, studying the sudden steel in her expression.

“What’s that look? Why do you suddenly look like you’re about to storm a fortress?”

She refused—absolutely refused—to glance below his collarbone. If her gaze slipped, fine. It was only anatomy.

Flesh and muscle. He was an adult. She was an adult.

A glimpse meant nothing.

“I’m going to help you get presentable first,” she said, voice calm, decisive.

“Your hands are going—where exactly…?”

“Hold still.”

Her fingers brushed skin—warm, taut, impossibly smooth beneath the accidental graze. The contact sent a silent shock through her nerves.

It’s nothing, she told herself fiercely. Just surface. Like the shell of an egg.

Smooth. Impersonal. Forgettable.

She seized the edges of the robe and tugged them closed with ruthless efficiency. Then, before he could protest, she stretched the silk cord wide and stepped forward—closing the final distance—sliding her arms around his waist to loop the belt behind him.

In an instant she had him caged within the circle of her embrace.

“…Renata.”

Her name on his lips sounded different this time—lower, rougher, stripped of mockery.

She ignored it.

Fueled by single-minded determination, her hands moved with merciless purpose: cinching, pulling, smoothing.

They swept over the dip of his waist, skimmed the hard ridge of his hipbones, traced the carved planes of his abdomen as she drew the cord tight.

Every pass felt like dragging fire across her own palms.

“Renata,” he said again—this time almost a warning, almost a plea.

“I’ll do it.”

But she didn’t stop.

She couldn’t.

Not when his heartbeat thundered against her knuckles through the thin silk.

Not when every accidental brush of her fingertips against his bare skin made the air between them crackle like dry lightning.

Not when the heat of him surrounded her, pressed in, filled every sense until there was nothing left but the frantic rhythm of her own pulse and the unbearable nearness of the man she was trying—so desperately—to keep at arm’s length.

She knotted the belt with one final, decisive tug.

And for one endless second, neither of them moved.

Her arms were still loosely encircling him. His chest rose and fell against hers in shallow, uneven breaths.

The open window let in a faint breeze that stirred the edges of her skirt and lifted the damp ends of his hair—and still they stood locked together, caught in the fragile, electric silence that follows the moment restraint begins to fracture.

The playful, teasing smile that had clung to Theodor’s lips until this moment vanished completely.

In its place was raw, unguarded tension—his jaw locked, eyes wide and dark, voice rough with sudden urgency.

“Wait—just a second…!”

Every tiny, restless movement of her fingers against his skin sent fine tremors racing through his much larger frame. Then his hand came down over the back of hers, warm and heavy, stilling her completely.

Renata tilted her head downward, confused—wondering what could possibly have gone wrong—when Theodor’s other palm swept up to cover her eyes.

But eyes are faster than hands.

She saw.

And in the split second between sight and comprehension, instinct took over, she flung the silk belt away from her as though it burned.

“Kyaaah!”

The robe—previously draped with modest precision over the full length of his thighs—had somehow parted.

Just enough.

And through that narrow, treacherous gap she glimpsed what should never have been seen.

No—correction. Every man possessed one. It was simply biology.

The problem was the sheer discrepancy, the incongruity between his refined, almost crystalline beauty and the raw, imposing reality now partially unveiled.

She had seen men’s anatomy before—twice, perhaps three times in her life.

Drunken merchants staggering home after too much wine, young noble sons careless on their way to relieve themselves, letting everything hang loose without a thought.

Those sights had been grotesque, limp, forgettable monstrosities. She had always averted her gaze the instant she sensed danger.

But this…

This was different.

This refused to be ignored.

It didn’t droop. It stirred—subtly, insistently—with every heartbeat, every shift of breath, as though it lifted its head the longer she looked.

The size alone defied reason; she couldn’t fathom how he carried such a thing concealed beneath silk and decorum day after day.

…It must look different because I’ve never been this close before, she told herself desperately. That’s all.

Perspective. Nothing more.

Then realization crashed over her like cold water, she was staring.

Openly. Hungrily. With the kind of focused, shameless scrutiny that no aide should ever direct toward her prince.

“I didn’t see anything!”

The lie exploded from her lips as she spun away—only for her heel to catch on the edge of the bed. She toppled backward with a muffled cry, landing deep in the feather mattress.

The fall was soft. No injury. A small mercy.

Until she pushed herself up, twisting to rise—and found herself once again at eye level with the very thing she had just sworn she hadn’t seen.

It seemed… larger now.

No—no, impossible. That was her imagination. Her traitor mind measuring, cataloguing, comparing against the memory of mere seconds ago.

Horror at her own thoughts jolted her upright. She snapped her gaze skyward.

And met Theodor’s face.

For perhaps the first time since she had known him, the Prince looked genuinely, helplessly flustered.

Cheeks flushed. Eyes wide. Lips parted on a breath he couldn’t quite catch.

No smirk. No mockery. No lazy charm to hide behind.

Just a man—stunned, exposed in every sense—staring down at the woman who had accidentally stripped him bare in more ways than one.

The silence between them stretched taut, humming.

The open window breathed cool air across fevered skin.