The Dragon's Heart: Unspoken Passion-Chapter 121: Sweetness In His Hands

He crossed the threshold quietly. The kitchens froze, spatulas mid-air, a hush falling over the room as every servant instinctively bowed in respect. No announcement had come to tell them that the Crown Prince would be here, so they were startled by the suddeness.

Levan lifted a single hand, a subtle command that needed no words. And slowly, the kitchen resumed its rhythm, though glances still flicked toward him as he moved with measured steps toward the woman behind the counter.

"You know," he said, his voice even, carrying a familiar warmth as he watched his wife fussing over the batter, "someone’s been looking for you everywhere."

Her head snapped up, eyes lighting like sunrise like they always did whenever she looked at him. A laugh burst from her lips before she could stop it. "Husband!" 𝓯𝓻𝒆𝙚𝒘𝓮𝙗𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝒍.𝙘𝓸𝙢

He allowed himself the barest smile, the kind that softened the angles of his face and made the room forget the prince for a moment, leaving only the man who cherished his wife utterly.

"Hello there," he said, his tone carrying a fondness so deep it could have been a caress.

"I was wondering when you’d find me," Ilaria beamed, words tumbling over one another as she rounded the table in tiny run, careful not to fling flour everywhere.

"You missed the gardens by this much," she added, holding her fingers a fraction apart. "And the library too, but I only stayed there for a little while because it was too quiet and then I thought—oh!—I should make something sweet because you must be tired after training and—"

She stopped herself abruptly just before she collided with him, glancing down at her hands.

"Oops," she laughed, lifting them slightly, palms dusted white. "I would hug you, but I think you’d survive a battle better than you’d survive this."

Levan’s gaze dropped to the flour coating her fingers, the faint smudge on her sleeve, and the glow in her face that no courtly finery ever managed to outshine. How could she be thinking of that right now? She could throw an entire sack of flour at him and he would still be looking at her like she was the only thing in the world worth noticing.

"I don’t mind," he shook his head calmly. "I’ve faced worse."

Her smile widened at that, unabashed and tender, like she had won something precious without trying. She leaned closer anyway, bumping her shoulder gently into his arm instead, causing the ever composed prince to waver completely.

Levan reached up with deliberate gentleness, brushing a stray streak of flour from her cheek. His hand lingered for just a moment before he glanced at the mess on the counter. "What are you making?" he asked, his voice threaded with curiosity.

Ilaria’s eyes sparkled as she stepped back to show him the large bowl she had been stirring. "Ta-da! I’m trying a new batch of macarons," she said, gesturing to the colourful little piles on the counter. "I thought maybe you’d like to taste them later."

Levan crossed his arms, leaning a bit toward the counter, head tilting as he inspected her work with a mirthful, almost impish smile tugging at his lips. "Hm," he said slowly, eyes narrowing playfully, "You thought of me while making these?"

"Of course!" she said, clapping her hands lightly, "You love macarons, don’t you? I wanted to make some that are perfect for you. Don’t worry, they’re not too sweet. I already trimmed the sugar level just how you like it." Ilaria’s hands hovered over the batter.

"You see," she continued excitedly, "I even checked the texture. Look!" She tapped the lavender shell gently while looking at him like a proud Chef. He almost laughed. "Not too soft, not too hard—oh—you have to taste it, husband. There’s no cream yet because it’s still cooling, but just to make sure I didn’t ruin it—"

Before he could say a word, she scooped up a shell and practically thrust it toward him.

"Here, try it!" she insisted, nearly bouncing in place. "I need your honest opinion."

Levan’s arms crossed loosely now, watching her with that quiet amusement that made her grin all the wider. "You’re very insistent."

She nodded eagerly. "Come on, just one bite."

Levan’s calm gaze softened just a fraction. With measured patience, he leaned down, tilting his head and took a delicate bite straight from her hand. His lips grazed her fingers, causing thr princess to still, eyes widening like he had just handed her the world itself.

The moment was suspended, only broken by the faint crunch of the macaron and her muffled, delighted laugh as she hovered him, waiting impatiently for his comment.

"?" Ilaria’s voice wobbled with anticipation, each note so achingly eager that Levan had to pause mid-chew simply to take her in. The way she leaned forward, eyes sparkling and flushed with excitement, made his chest tighten with a quiet, domestic kind of awe.

It hit him all at once. This sudden, unreasonable urge to lean in and kiss her. Not out of desire in its sharpest form, but because she looked like this over something so small. Because her happiness came so honestly and somehow landed straight in his chest. He swallowed, forcing himself to breathe through it.

"It’s perfect," he said simply.

Ilaria’s eyes went wide like a child who just got the best present. "Is it? Really really?"

"Mm, really."

Her relief burst out all at once.

"Ah, okay, okay good," Ilaria breathed as she turned back to the counter, reaching for the piping bag. "I was so worried because the humidity was a little off this morning and the oven ran hotter than I expected, but I adjusted it halfway through—oh my, I think the pistachio batch is cooling properly now—"

She talked as she worked, words spilling freely whilst hands moving with familiar confidence as she fussed over trays and bowls. She wiped her fingers on a cloth, only to immediately dust them white again, humming under her breath as if the kitchen were her own private world.

Levan stayed silent, watching her lean over the counter, inspecting shells with a seriousness usually reserved for court matters. When one turned out just right, she muttered triumphantly. There was just something about watching her like this... happy, absorbed, and alive while doing something she loved.

It felt strangely overwhelming. He had not known that joy could look so ordinary. Or that it could settle so deeply in his chest. With every laugh, every small triumph over the stubborn batter, he felt it ignite something in him, a steady fire that made his own heart lift in tandem, as if her delight were sustaining him as much as it delighted her.

She glanced at him mid-sentence, catching him watching.

"Husband?" she asked lightly. "Why are you smiling like that?"

Oh?

He had not noticed he was.

Levan shook his head, his expression softening rather than disappearing. "Nothing," he said. "Continue."

She did not. Ilaria turned fully to face him, studying him with a knowing little smile. She set the piping bag aside deliberately, wiping her hands quickly on a cloth as if this were suddenly far more important than macarons.

"Nothing?" she leaned on the counter towards him, close enough that he could smell sugar and warmth and something unmistakably her. "You’re not allowed to say nothing when you look at me like that."

Levan’s brow lifted faintly. "Like what?"

She smiled wider, pleased and giddy. "Like I’m your favourite thing in the room."

He did not deny it.

Her laughter softened, turning fond as she reached up to brush her knuckles against his sleeve, leaving a faint dusting of flour behind on purpose this time.

"You can just say you’re proud of me," she teased gently. "Or that you like watching me. I won’t laugh."

That was a lie. She absolutely would.

Levan’s hand came to rest over hers, stilling it before she could pull away. His voice dropped, quiet and honest in a way he rarely allowed anyone to hear.

"I like seeing you happy," he admitted. "It suits you."

Her movements slowed instinctively.

"And," he added, his thumb brushing lightly against her knuckles, "I would appreciate it if I could borrow your attention."

He met her gaze, and this time there was no attempt to hide it. The longing sat openly in his eyes, unsteady and bare, as though he had stopped guarding it altogether.

"Just you," he whispered, almost gravelly, like a confession meant only for her. "If I don’t take this moment now, I’ll spend the rest of the day wishing I had."

Ilaria’s lips parted, caught between surprise and something dizzyingly warm. Her fingers curled instinctively, only then fully aware of the way his hand still held hers. His grip was not tight, but it was so certain that it sent a shiver through her, one she did not bother hiding.

"...Oh," she said, breathless and smiling all at once. "You could’ve just said that, husband."

The way she said it... soft and indulgent, made his usual restraint falter, leaving only the raw pull of magnetism in his gaze.

Ilaria glanced back at the counter, at the bowls and shells and the waiting batter, then to one of the nearby maids who had been pretending very hard not to watch. "Could you help me finish these?" She asked gently. "They still need filling once they cool."

The maid, startled, bowed quickly. "O-of course, Your Highness."

Satisfied, Ilaria turned back to Levan. She carefully brushed the flour and sugar from her hands, dusting them away against her apron, then smoothed it down with a small, decisive pat as if closing one Chapter before stepping into another.

She then removed the apron and set it aside before rounding the corner again, noticing the way his eyes practically tracing her every move. A small, fluttering thrill ran through her at being so openly watched.

"Let’s go," she said lightly, her fingers slipping back into his with familiar ease. "You interrupted me, so you don’t get to vanish now."

Levan allowed himself to be led, his hand tightened in hers as they moved. Desire coiled in his chest, so sharp and unrelenting that he could barely restrain himself. The sudden need to be alone with her pressed against his chest like wildfire that he almost felt guilty for wanting it so badly.

Behind them, the kitchen resumed its rhythm, though whispers followed in their wake as servants bowed low while the Crown Prince passed with his wife so close at his side, her laughter quiet and bright.

Ilaria did not notice the whispers. Her entire focus was on talking, gesturing with her free hand as she recounted every little misadventure of her baking experiment, from the stubborn lavender shells to the one macaron that had nearly collapses.

Their steps fell into an easy rhythm as they moved away from the kitchens, the sounds of clinking bowls and murmured voices fading behind them. The corridor was quieter here, cool marble stone beneath their feet, light spilling in through tall windows as they passed.

Levan found himself watching her mouth when she spoke. It unsettled him how easily she filled the silence. How naturally she existed in it. How the palace, for all its stone and steel and watchful eyes, seemed to bend around her presence instead of swallowing it whole.

His eyes tracked her effortlessly, taking in every detail, his focus so complete it left him nearly breathless. He noted the tiny specks of sugar still clinging to her hair, the faint dusting of flour across her sleeve, and the smudge along her cheek where a little had escaped her careful brushing.

"Still a little sugar here," he uttered quietly, pointing with a finger as his other hand gave her hand a gentle squeeze if only to get her attention. "And there’s flour on your sleeve."

Ilaria glanced down at herself. "Well, I really need to go back and change," She cooed, brushing at her sleeve. "Vivi is going to scold me for getting in the flour again."

Levan let out a teasing hum that always made her heart skip. "Or," he said smoothly, tilting his head toward her, "I could help you instead, save you from angry maids and misbehaving pastries alike."

Ilaria laughed softly, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Really? What kind of help are we talking about?"

He smiled. "The kind where I get to keep you entirely to myself... at least until you’re out of flour."

She glanced up at him then, catching the way his gaze lingered. Her steps slowed without her realizing it, and he matched her pace instinctively, making the space between them taut with a tension neither spoke aloud but both felt like a spark beneath their skin.

As they walked, their joined hands shifted naturally. His fingers loosened only so he could lift his arm to rest around her shoulders instead. She fit there without hesitation, leaning into his side as if it had always been her place.

When they reached the doors to his chambers, Levan’s hold tightened just a little. "Come," he murmured, voice thick with a warmth that made her pulse catch. "Before the evidence follows you everywhere."