Persistent knocks rapped at Harsh’s door as he twitched in sleep.

He tossed around in the bed, disoriented. "What the fuck..." He mumbled groggily.

His eyes fluttered to the dimness of the room, curtains drawn tight. His body was sore. For a moment, he just lay there, groaning to himself.

The knocks turned into loud thuds.

"Coming..." He croaked.

The knocking stopped.

He pushed himself up with effort. Wearily, his eyes landed on the paper. He grabbed it and tore it into tiny pieces before dumping them in the dustbin.

He trudged to the door, grunting, back hunched and eyes fluttering shut with sleepiness. He didn't care who was on the other side as he pulled back the latch. Whoever it was could deal with it themselves as he dragged his body back to the bed, and flopped on it on his back.

Kshitij entered the room, finding the boy passed out in bed. His hairs were sticking out in all directions, face blotchy with dry tear tracks.

He frowned, his chest tightening for a fraction of a second. What was this brat crying about now?

He shook off the feeling. Why did he care?

Crybaby.

With a smug smirk, he kicked the brat's dangling legs on the floor. Harsh frowned, weary eyed.

"So it's true," Kshitij said, eyes scanning him up and down. "Your instructors informed me that you skipped your classes again. I won't blame you for crying though. Becoming a royal is impossible for the likes of you."

Harsh groaned, curling on his side. He put an arm over his eyes, ignoring Kshitij. He just wanted to drift back to his memories. He missed them. He missed his mum.

"Brat?"

Harsh hummed, and sniffed a second later.

Something about his meek response irritated him. He grabbed his forearm and hauled him up. Harsh yelped.

"What?!"

"Apparently, I'm tasked with making you accomplish this impossible. C'mon, get up, get dressed. Catch up on your lessons briefly."

"Catchup and ketchup, I don't care," he sing sang. "I wanna sleep."

Harsh let his body weight drop. Kshitij, startled, held him up with effort. "Whore's son, what has gotten into you? I don't have whole evening to spare. Wake up." He lightly tapped his cheeks.

Harsh slapped his hands away, grimacing as he glared up at the buff guy standing over him. "Don't touch me."

Kshitij let him drop. Harsh flopped on his back and snuggled into the pillows, pulling up the blanket over his face.

Kshitij scowled, nostrils flaring. "This is your last warning, brat. Get. Up."

Harsh didn't even twitch. His body was a dead weight in the bed, barely reacting to anything. He had no fight left in him.

Next moment, Harsh felt himself being lifted off the bed and tossed into the air. He screamed. Kshitij tossed him onto the cold floor. Pain shot from his cranky muscles.

He looked up, round eyed as Kshitij cracked his knuckles. He reached down and yanked him up by his collar.

"To the shower. Go." Harsh was nudged towards the bathroom.

He groaned. "No." He didn't want to do anything right now. He was tired. So tired.

Next second, Kshitij had him by the scruff of his collar like a rag doll, dragging him forward. Harsh staggered, too slow, too exhausted to fight back properly.

"Let go of me!"

"You stink," Kshitij snapped, shoving him toward the bathroom.

When Harsh resisted, Kshitij grabbed him again, more forcefully this time, pushing him through the doorway of the ensuite and throwing him against the cold counter.

The cool surface pocked into Harsh's back after he landed against it.

"Don't make me strip you," Jay warned.

Harsh flinched with fear.

Instantly, he masked his face into a deadly scowl. He stomped to Jay's broad, muscled torso and punched it back. "Back off, perv!"

"What did you say?" Jay gritted.

"Pervert. Now, do you want to wipe my ass? Leave me. I need privacy."

"You're disgusting, do you know that?" Jay nodded with a gentle face, feigning sympathy.

Harsh rolled his eyes. "Then why are you helping me, princey? Are you obsessed with me?" He smiled provocatively, though it wasn't as sharp as it used to be.

Kshitij scowled, jaw twitching. "You're so, so dead..."

"Whatever." Harsh rolled his eyes and slammed the door on his face.

His limbs moved stiffly as he peeled off his clothes and turned on the water. Letting the cold spray prickle him like needles, he stood under it numbly, his back leaning on the cold tiles. With squeezed eyed, he stared up tiredly, water running into them and drumming over his ears. He craned his neck to the side, feeling so hollow.

He didn't know whether he was floating or drowning. Whether he was awake or he was stuck in a vivid dream. He wanted to wake up from this haze.

He didn't know when the knocking began again.

"Are you not done shower yet? What are you doing, cleaning the whole city? Get out now."

Harsh sighed wearily, resentment simmering in him. He couldn't hate Agney more for assigning him to this bull. He pushed himself off the wall and turned off the shower with his cold, numb fingers.

By the time he came out, damp and changed, hair dripping water on his forehead and swollen eyes, Kshitij was inspecting Tina's urn.

"What are you doing?" Harsh asked sharply. He didn't want him near her.

Kshitij rolled his eyes, glancing at him with crossed arms. He nudged his chin towards it. "That whore?"

Rage turned his vision red as Harsh glowered. Something about this guy calling her whore right before her ashes triggered him.

He smiled, strained. "Wanted to fuck her, whore's step son?"

A dark look crossed Jay. "What did you just say?" He turned to face him fully.

"I said, whore's step-son. Did you want to fuck her too like your dad? I'm sorry. You can't. Unless you're into ashes."

Revulsion contorted Jay's face, lips curling. "You are gross."

Harsh shrugged. He wondered if every time calling someone a whore wasn't disgusting too? But he knew it was the truth. So it shouldn't hurt.

But sometimes it did.

Kshitij scoffed. "This is impossible," he muttered to himself, raking a hand through his hair as he paced before Harsh.

Harsh sighed and sat down on the bed. Maybe he could sleep.

"Don't!"

He flinched, staying upright. "What then? Go over it already. Just like you said, you don't the whole evening to spare," he retorted.

"Rule number one. A Prince doesn't slouch. Sit straight. No, stand straight."

Harsh sighed wearily and stood up slowly.

"Rule number two. Don't speak unless you're spoken to. Especially not when you sound like an uneducated street rat," Kshitij jabbed and turned back to pacing.

"Then don't speak to me," Harsh muttered.

Kshitij halted mid step, his dark eyes narrowing.

"Repeat again."

Harsh met his gaze, shifting on his other leg as he crossed his arms. "Do you have hearing ailment or what? I said stop speaking to me. If you don't want me to respond, then don't ask."

For a second, everything stilled.

Kshitij approached him slowly and menacingly. Suddenly, Harsh wanted to shuffle back as his heart began to hammer loudly in his chest. His breathing picked up. Something about the bull's calm, calculated anger scared him.

Kshitij tilted his head. "What are you planning to achieve?"

Harsh frowned. What?

"All this... rebellious streak, main character energy... Do you think we will give you some special privilege because you're some... broody, angsty teen?" The older prince chuckled. His smirk dropped. "I know your kind. Attention is your currency, right? Stop seeking it. Don't try so hard to be chased. It won't yield here."

Harsh's heart spasmed as he stumbled back, biting down on a scream he didn't know why.

Yes, he had tried. Yes, he tried to be noticed. Tried to be liked. Chased. Desired.

But now...

Now it wasn't clever. It wasn't power. It was pathetic. Something to look down with pity or boredom.

His face flushed hot with shame.

Was these from whom he expected a little bit of acceptance? These, who considered him a stain.

Filth.

And here he was... wanting. 

As if he had the right.

After last night he had hoped, that maybe, he wasn't a mistake willingly ignored. That maybe, the least they could do was acknowledge him.

He wanted to laugh now. But he couldn't. Not when his throat closed up and every breath hurt like hell.

In their eyes, he was just seeking some sort of attention, like leftovers tossed to some dog.

This was how pathetic he was. Had always been.

He was disgusting.

His hand immediately shot to his wrist, pressing on his pulse.

He bit the inside of his cheek, throat closed up. He didn't speak. Couldn't. When everything hurt.

He had a sudden urge to cry, but his eyes didn't tear up.

What the fuck had he been hoping for?

Stupid.

Kshitij paused, eyes narrowing as Harsh stood still, unreadable. His crestfallen, young face tugged at his heartstrings, so broken in the moment.

It was the first time he had seen the brat quiet.
He almost said something, almost.

But he didn't. He couldn't.

They needed results. Not sentiments.

If breaking him made him a prince. Then Kshitij would gladly do it twice.

This was the price of power.

Besides, why did he even care? He had to leash the brat, not coddle him.

Jay just clicked his tongue and went back to pacing.

"Fine. Rule three. Royals never cry in front of others. Especially not when insulted," he educated, side eyeing him.

Harsh barely heard a word. He couldn't feel his hands.

Kshitij turned to the door when the brat didn't reply. He had enough.

"That's all. Your instructors can deal with the rest. Just... try not to embarrass us tomorrow."

Then he left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Harsh didn't know why he couldn't fight him. He was emotionally drained.

***

Harsh quietly played with the napkin. He sat near the end at the dining table, trying to shrink into himself. The distance between him and everyone else didn't hurt him this time.

There was a faint pressure against his chest, slowly crushing him. He didn't know why he was hurting, but he was. He understood nothing except the hurt and it made him so lonely.

His eyes ached while blinking, his wrist burning from where he had dug his nails into the skin hours ago.

He looked up after unfolding the napkin for the fourteenth time. Prithvi who was seated across from him, gave him a part-apologetic look.

Harsh stared back blankly, before looking down. He caught Shay's gaze, and ignored them all. He stared at his stiff fingers from writing haphazardly hours ago. He didn't move an inch, even when he heard a powerful stride across the dining hall.

Must be Agney.

"Where's Yuvaan?" Prithvi asked.

His ears perked. He peeked a glance.

Agney didn't even look up from draping the napkin over his lap. "I've sent him to our Delhi Branch," he said, briskly. "They're finalizing a defection agreement at our hotel. Need us to sign off on a confidentiality pact.

He frowned. Defection agreement... He had read that term somewhere before, but it didn't strike anything right now. Anti-defection law. So, defection would be... when MPs leave their party to join another?

Prithvi nodded at Agney, and turned straight. His eyes caught Harsh's face crinkling with confusion. He smiled, unable to help himself when the words slipped. "Do you want to ask something?"

Jay scoffed instead. "Bet he is wondering why horses are traded at hotels."

Ah, horse trading... Harsh blinked.

Shay coughed, smiling.

Prithvi stared at them pointedly.

"Political defection is also known as horse trading. A defection agreement is when elected officials, MPs or MLAs,  agree to switch sides," Agney informed, and pressed on the bell.

Harsh nodded subconsciously. 

However, the spark of interest vanished as soon as it roused. He tuned the conversation out. His spoon scraped against the plate as he mindlessly pushed around the food. He couldn't care less about politics or property or whatever power game they were all part of. His chest still felt tight.

The sound of his own heartbeat, thudding hard. The clink of forks. The faint chime of someone's glass. The staff, the smells, the noise. Everything was loud.

He missed Tina again.

"—Harsh won't be attending school," Prithvi's voice broke through his fog.

Harsh looked up sharply, eyes narrowing on him. No.

"He completed his secondary education two years ago. Neelakshi forwarded the records to me. Surprising, right? So, I've enrolled him in college with the twins."

The table went quiet.

Harsh's heart pounded miles per second. No. No. No, not with them.

Agney blinked once, face unreadable. "Remarkable," he relented finally, after a thought, tearing a peace of roti. "I wasn't made aware about it. Keep it up, Prince Harsh."

"It's not a big deal," Harsh repeated again. He immediately wished he hadn't said anything as all eyes shifted to him.

He clenched his jaw, looking down at his plate instead. Thursdays were Indian cuisine.

Kshitij smirked coldly, feigning innocence. "How lovely. People want their achievements randomly dropped at dinner, hoping for an applause."

Harsh flinched, fingers tightening around the spoon he was scooping his rice with.

"Kshitij..." Prithvi warned.

"What? Now we will have to babysit him even at college," Jay complained, and resumed eating.

Harsh's throat closed. He stabbed a piece of meat and forced himself to chew it, even though he didn't like meat much. He could feel Prithvi's gaze on him.

But he was tired of reacting.

He was dumb.

His hands trembled slightly. He curled them under the table, pressing them hard into his thighs as though someone was stealing oxygen from his body. He panted.

"Harsh?" Prithvi's voice was low.

He blinked up at him, lips parted like he had forgotten how to breathe.

"Are you okay?"

Everyone's attention returned to him. Again.

He nodded quickly. "I'm fine," he whispered, and forced himself to eat even though it nauseated him.

He couldn't let them see his weakness as they were all waiting to pry him open.

Maybe they didn't hate him. But they were still predators. Even fact, apex predators. He wouldn't be more torn than he already he was.

He wasn't going to show them his neck.

That was his mantra since he was nine. No weakness shown. No weakness exploited.