The Abandoned Princess’ Secret Bedroom - Chapter 2: Who Did She Sleep With?

The execution of Llewellyn’s mother, the late queen consort, was one of the kingdom’s darkest scandals. She had been accused of cursing and attempting to kill Bastian, the illegitimate son of Pamela, her husband’s lover.

As a child, Llewellyn had often witnessed her mother’s discomfort and anger toward Pamela, who was both her father’s mistress and the illegitimate daughter of a powerful noble family. Although she had grown up understanding her mother’s disdain, she never questioned its validity.

The once-noble Princess of Thessalia had been forced to endure humiliation from Pamela, a woman of dubious lineage. Llewellyn vividly remembered the moments when her mother’s dignified composure faltered, unable to hide the cracks in her resolve.

After her mother’s death, Llewellyn’s world crumbled.

“Who would dare disrespect a royal princess?” people claimed. But the queen’s disgraceful execution, coupled with the king’s cold indifference, left Llewellyn isolated.

The nobility, emboldened by the king’s tacit approval, began to mistreat her openly. Even her servants—a meager group of unskilled maids—neglected her, more concerned with currying favor with Pamela than fulfilling their duties. During her abduction at the hunting tournament, no one even noticed her absence for hours.

When her father died, the nobles unanimously crowned her half-brother Bastian as king. Pamela ensured Llewellyn had no power or voice.

Llewellyn dreamed of leaving the palace, abandoning her cursed royal life, and living as a normal person. But she knew Pamela would never let her go.

At twenty-five, Llewellyn decided she would enter a convent. According to temple regulations, anyone over the age of twenty-five could join without royal consent. It was the most effective way for a royal who renounced their claim to the throne to ensure their safety. The temple would protect her.

If all went well, she could live out her days at a temple in Thessalia, her mother’s homeland. Her mother’s family was there, and her exiled younger brother, Alphius, had sought refuge in that country.

Thessalia was Llewellyn’s only hope.

Perhaps, if fortune smiled upon her, she could even reunite with her beloved brother.

She could have entered the convent sooner if not for Bastian’s objections.

“Llewellyn, you were a princess even before I came to the palace. Though I share only half your blood and lack power, I don’t want to cast you out. I don’t wish for your unhappiness. You know as well as I do that the convent is harsher than you imagine. Have I ever threatened your life or forced you into marriage against your will?”

“…”

“When you turn twenty-five, you may do as you please. But until then, remain here and take time to think about your future.”

Bastian, usually indecisive, had spoken with rare firmness. His calm blue eyes and resolute tone made it clear: he didn’t want to be known as the king who exiled his sister. Llewellyn had initially scoffed at his words, suspecting his selfish motives, but deep down, she understood his sincerity.

She had always known her half-brother’s gentle nature. That same passivity was why Alphius, despite being a potential threat to Bastian’s rule, was still alive. Without Bastian’s intervention, Alphius might have met a different fate.

Thanks to Bastian’s reluctance to harm his bloodline, Llewellyn’s life in the palace, though cold and isolating, had never been outright threatened. She retained her title as a princess and avoided being forced into a politically expedient marriage.

Thus, she had agreed to stay in the palace until she turned twenty-five, as her brother requested. She had thought she could manage that much.

But now, everything had changed.

Waking up, Llewellyn was overwhelmed by a sense of filth. Her body was clean, yet there was a dull ache between her legs. The haze of lust that had dominated her mind was gone, leaving her thoughts unnervingly clear. Even the feverish sensations that had tormented her body had vanished.

Biting her lip, Llewellyn lifted her skirt. As expected, she wore nothing beneath. Memories of a man’s heated whispers flooded her mind.

“Princess.”

She clutched her head.

“Ha…”

Only now did she fully realize what had happened. She had slept with a man.

Her virginity wasn’t something she held sacred above all else, but the convent’s strict codes loomed heavily over her. The temple was conservative and rejected those deemed promiscuous.

Worse, she couldn’t remember who the man was.

She had no intention of blaming him; after all, she had lost control, seduced by her own uncontrollable urges. While the details were murky, she recalled his hesitation and discomfort vividly—likely because she had clung to him so desperately. She remembered how his rigid body had tensed under her touch, how he had hesitated even to place a hand on her.

Llewellyn pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to recall the night.

“It wasn’t… bad.”

Despite the humiliation, she couldn’t deny that the act itself hadn’t been unpleasant. Her discomfort with the idea of sex had stemmed more from societal taboos than personal aversion. In fact, she vaguely remembered asking him to touch her more, finding comfort in his respectful, tender gestures.

For a brief moment, she had felt full, as though she were truly loved.

But while the experience had been fleetingly fulfilling, she now felt foolish. Could she have ended Asmodeus’s curse long ago by surrendering to it? She had suffered so much, holding onto pride and fear, only to reach this point.

Now the real problem was whether the man would spread rumors.

“Let’s keep this a secret.”

Her head throbbed as fragmented memories surfaced. After they finished, as he helped her straighten her disheveled clothes, she had murmured those words as if entranced.

Her greatest fear had been gossip.

But how had he responded?

That part was still a blur.

“If that’s what you wish, I will keep it secret forever.”

The man had whispered those words while pressing a kiss to her cheek. Llewellyn remembered smiling at the warmth of his lips against her skin. Even when her anxiety led her to repeatedly plead for his discretion, the man had reassured her each time, promising her silence.

And yet, Llewellyn didn’t trust him. How could she? Her father had once sworn a sacred vow before the gods to love and cherish his queen, only to despise her to the point of execution. The face of her mother as the axe fell was not the serene visage Llewellyn had once known—it had been a mask of terror. That grotesque image had burned itself into her memory.

She had to prepare for the worst.

Her trembling hand pulled the bell cord, summoning one of her maids. Shortly, a young maid appeared and curtsied politely.

“What do you need, Princess?”

“When did I return?”

“I believe it was just before dawn.”

Llewellyn scrutinized the maid’s face, searching for any hint of ridicule, but found none. The girl didn’t even seem to find the question odd.

“How… did I return? Did I walk? What state was I in?”

She kept her tone calm, though her heart raced. It was fortunate that the maid, Rosalie, was young and terrible at hiding her emotions.

“Sir Tristan Jayard brought you back.”

“What?”

“You fainted, and he carried you.”

Tristan Jayard? Llewellyn’s eyes widened in shock. Why would he be involved? Sensing her confusion, the maid elaborated.

“They said you were found collapsed in the garden.”

“…”

“The knight instructed us not to summon a physician and to keep quiet. Did something happen, Princess?”

Her heart pounded furiously. Tristan had brought her back? He had told them not to call for a physician? Did that mean he was the man she had been with?

But Llewellyn knew Tristan well. He was renowned for his upright character and steadfast loyalty—a knight beyond reproach. There was no reason for him to engage in such an intimate encounter with her.

Yet the circumstances all pointed to him.

Llewellyn bit her lip. She needed to confirm it.

*

“The princess is truly something else. Summoning the commander during his working hours—how improper.”

“Paulo.”

“Couldn’t she at least come here herself?”

As Tristan polished his sword, the knights around him grumbled. His dark crimson eyes remained fixed on the blade, his silent focus making the complaints seem insignificant.

A man as steadfast and unyielding as the steel of the sword he held—Tristan Jayard was the First Knight of Brisende and the commander of the Emperor’s Red Knights. His presence alone carried the weight and chill of cold iron, a testament to his strength and discipline.

“Show respect to the princess. Mind your words.”

“Commander, you’re far too lenient. Don’t you remember how the princess insulted you when you first joined the order?”

Tristan raised his head, his gaze sweeping over the knights. There was no loyalty in their eyes—only insolence thinly veiled behind their words.

“She rejected you as her escort simply because you’re of Zakat descent. You were humiliated for no reason other than your lineage.”

“We’ve all heard stories of how rude she was to you, Commander,” another knight chimed in.

“I’m sure even the White and Black Knight Orders have heard of it.”

The rest of the knights, though silent, nodded in agreement. Tristan regarded them without a word, his steady gaze like a sharp rebuke that chilled the air.

“Is that why her escort duties have been neglected?” he finally asked.

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Never mind.”

Tristan donned the red cape symbolizing the Red Knights and rose from his seat, walking away with his usual unwavering composure. His movements were crisp and disciplined, devoid of any carelessness.

The knights sighed as they watched him go. Tristan Jayard wasn’t of noble blood, but he was the embodiment of knightly ideals—a paragon they all aspired to emulate. Still, his unwavering sense of duty sometimes felt excessive to them.

“He doesn’t need to bother with a cast-off princess like her.”

Yet, the way he meticulously adjusted his appearance made it seem as though he were preparing to meet someone of great importance. It was as if he were heading off to see a woman he cared deeply for.

That was exactly why Tristan Jayard commanded such respect. His dedication and sincerity in all matters set him apart—a true exemplar of chivalry. Even in a world where his origins were his greatest weakness, the nation’s foremost knight stood tall, earning admiration from all around him.

*

The location Llewellyn had chosen for their meeting was her tearoom. For someone who had always disregarded Tristan’s presence, extending an invitation to tea was highly unusual. Tristan’s life was far removed from the leisurely custom of sharing tea with others; he had even declined Queen Dowager Pamela’s famed tea parties in the past.

He ignored the curious glances of the maid guiding him and narrowed his eyes as he observed the princess’s quarters. Situated in the most isolated part of the imperial palace, her secluded residence remained eerily quiet. As Tristan walked to the tearoom, he noted the absence of visible guards and clicked his tongue in irritation. The Red Knights were not tasked with royal escort duties, so he had no authority to intervene in such matters.

“This way,” the maid said, stopping before a plain wooden door.

For a room meant for casual conversation, the door was excessively modest—almost starkly so. It stood in stark contrast to the opulence of Queen Dowager Pamela’s chambers. After a knock, the maid called for the princess, and a delicate voice answered from within. The voice carried a quality that seemed as fragile as a flower yet resonated with a subtle strength like the rustle of leaves.

When the door opened and Tristan stepped inside, Princess Llewellyn was standing by the window, her gaze fixed on the outside world. Her reddish-brown hair, tied with a dark navy ribbon, cascaded down her back, revealing the pale line of her neck. Her expression, lost in deep thought, was a far cry from the disheveled image he had seen the night before. Yet, it was also the face he had long associated with her—a figure remote, contemplative, and enigmatic.

“Your Highness,” Tristan greeted, bowing respectfully.

She exhaled softly, pulling her gaze away from the window to meet his. Her amber eyes locked with his, calm yet probing. She was dressed in a pale sky-blue gown, which made her slender frame seem all the more delicate.

“Welcome, Sir Jayard.”

She didn’t bother with the ‘socially polite’ smiles that most nobles employed. Without preamble, she gestured for him to take the seat opposite her. Tristan obeyed, lowering himself into the chair. The moment he sat, Llewellyn spoke directly.

“I heard you carried me back after I fainted yesterday.”

“That is correct,” Tristan replied.

He glanced at the tea set before him. Despite his title and rank, Tristan had never grown accustomed to the refined rituals of nobility, such as tea drinking. As he reached for the cup, he felt Llewellyn’s unwavering gaze on him, as though she were studying him—perhaps even testing him for signs of coarseness.

“First, I’d like to thank you,” she said, her voice steady.

“I simply did what needed to be done.”

“…….”

“Are you well? Are you still in pain?”

“My body is fine.”

“I have also upheld your request to keep this matter a secret.”

“A secret?”

Tristan noticed how Llewellyn stiffened, her eyes widening in surprise.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, his tone steady. “If anything has happened, please let me know.”

Llewellyn’s fingers clenched around the teacup. Her gaze fixed on Tristan. The fact that he used the word ‘secret’—could it mean he was the man from last night?

She sipped her tea slowly, her mind racing as she scrutinized him. Yet Tristan, the ever-resolute knight, betrayed nothing in his expression. His face was unreadable, even more so than most nobles, who at least offered subtle clues through their expressions.

How could she decipher a man whose face was as stoic as stone? Frustration welled within her, but the words she wanted to speak stuck in her throat.

“Princess, I am a knight. A sword of the royal family, sworn by blood to loyalty.”

“…….”

“A sword has no tongue.”

Llewellyn felt a twinge of confusion. Aside from one notable moment in the past, they had barely interacted. Their last encounter had been fleeting, and her treatment of him had been far from kind.

Why, then, would he speak of oaths now?

It was unmistakable—this must have been about last night.

“You’re not a sword; you’re a person,” she said, her tone sharp. “How can a person call themselves a sword?”

“…….”

“And I’m curious—why are you doing this? Surely you don’t think much of me. Is it a base curiosity about my secret? Or perhaps…”

Their words overlapped.

“Do you want me to say it aloud—that you and I slept together?” Llewellyn demanded.

“To acknowledge the grace, not insult, Your Highness bestowed upon me…” Tristan began, but his words faltered.

He froze, his mind struggling to process what she had just said.

“Grace? Are you saying that sleeping with me was a grace?”

Llewellyn couldn’t help but scoff. To her, the idea that a knight would consider sharing her bed a favor was absurd. It struck her as almost humorous.

“Let’s just say we both enjoyed ourselves. You seemed to quite like it, after all. And I’m relieved you intend to keep it a secret.”

For the first time, Tristan’s stoic façade cracked. He looked visibly startled, his dark crimson eyes widening in shock.

Llewellyn bit her lip, hiding a faint smirk as she noted his reaction.

“Your Highness,” he said firmly, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You and I have not shared a bed.”

Her breath caught.

She had guessed wrong.

She had chosen the wrong man.

A fatal mistake.