YESOL'S POV:

As if being abducted once wasn't painful and terrifying enough, I had to endure it again. The cruel irony wasn't lost on me—just when I thought I could finally adjust to the suffocating atmosphere of the Jeon Empire, just when I was learning to share the same air as that devil Jeon Jungkook, I was whisked away like some fragile doll in another cruel twist of fate.

Seriously, what have I done to deserve all this?

Was this my life now? A never-ending cycle of being thrown into carts and dragged to who-knows-where? Because it sure felt like it.

The situation was almost ironic if it weren't for my heart racing so violently it felt like it might burst any second.

I'm convinced, I was just a fvcking object—to be used against my will and then thrown away when they're done having their share of fun.

There I was, trapped with a stranger who seemed to care so little about the terror he was inflicting on me.

The royal cart rattled over the uneven dirt road, every jolt amplifying the ache in my wrists where the ropes had bitten too tightly into my skin. My hands burned from the friction, my mouth stifled by the coarse cloth tied around it, silencing my pleas for help.

I didn't stop struggling even for a second yet the man sitting across from me, my captor, seemed completely unfazed by my struggles. He had a silk mask covering half of his face so I couldn't quite point out what he was feeling or atleast what he looked like.

His indifference was maddening, It was as if I didn't even exist—like I was nothing more than a figment of his imagination. He hadn't spared me so much as a glance since forcing me into the cart.

He had kidnapped me, forced me, and now he was acting like I didn't even exist?

The audacity.

My heart pounded, fear wrapping itself around my chest like a vice. This couldn't be happening again, right? I had barely begun to recover from my last ordeal. I had already endured so much pain and suffering—surely, I didn't deserve more of it?

Yet, oddly enough, he hadn't hurt me-apart from the ropes and gag that robbed me of my freedom and voice. He didn't look particularly menacing either, but that only made it worse. I had learned the hard way that demons didn't always look monstrous.

After all, Jungkook didn't.

The more beautiful the mask, the sharper the pain they inflicted. And I had scars to prove it. They were far more terrifying when they were cloaked in temptation, wrapped in allure.

But this man wasn't Jungkook. He wasn't him. And somehow, that thought terrified me even more.

The thought flickered in my mind like a stubborn flame, one I wanted to extinguish but couldn't. I hated to admit it, even to myself, but Jungkook was at least familiar.

I hated him. God, I hated him to the moon and back. Yet, despite every fiber of my being screaming against it, he was the only one I had. Not because I wanted him by my side, but because he was already there-unmovable, unyielding, and refusing to budge even an inch.

It was maddening. The thought alone made me want to scream, but I couldn't deny the twisted truth of it. As much as I loathed him, I would rather face Jungkook's familiar wrath than the unsettling indifference of this new captor.

How pathetic could I get? To let myself weigh the options of which pain and humiliation I would prefer—disgusting, Kim Yesol.

And yet, the thought clung to me, like a stain I couldn't wash away no matter how hard I tried.

Jungkook was the only one I knew amidst this sea of unfamiliar faces and untrustworthy strangers. I told myself it didn't matter. That it was no consolation.

But deep down, a small, traitorous part of me whispered otherwise.

I shook my head, willing the thought away. This wasn't the time to entertain such foolish, self-destructive ideas. Fear gripped me too tightly, the ropes around my wrists and the cloth on my mouth serving as constant reminders of the very real danger I was in.

Jungkook was the last person I should be thinking about right now. But somehow, his shadow loomed larger than ever, refusing to let me go even in the hands of another.

I just wanted to go back.

To...him? Jungkook?

Damn. Of all people, him??

My stomach churned, equal parts fear and anger, as I clenched my fists against the ropes binding me. This wasn't about him. It couldn't be. It was about survival—about wanting something, anything familiar to hold on to in this sea of chaos.

After what felt like hours trapped in a relentless nightmare, the cart finally came to a halt. My body ached from the constant jolts and bumps, and as I was unceremoniously shoved back into the seat, I groaned in frustration.

The rough treatment only added to my growing resentment, but the man before me seemed utterly unbothered, his cold demeanor fueling my irritation.

I tried to shout at him, desperate to vent my panic and throw hands at him but the gag muffled my cries into nothing more than muted, pitiful sounds.

The cart door creaked open, and the guard stepped aside as the man dismounted with ease, he glanced back, meeting my glare with an amused scoff that only deepened my frustration.

What was his plan? Was he one of Jungkook's enemies, seeking revenge by using me as a pawn? But then, why hadn't he threatened me or delivered some villainous monologue?

His silence was almost worse-it left my imagination to conjure horrors that grew darker with every passing second. Well, atleast Jungkook talked—he talked shit but atleast he said something.

The fear in my heart swelled, gnawing at my resolve. The cart had reached its destination, and I still had no idea where I was. The unfamiliarity of it all was suffocating.

Maps and roads were things I could master if given the chance, but the whole way I was forced to sit silently as the world passed me by. Every turn, every sound was unknown, and the weight of my helplessness pressed down on me like a suffocating fog.

And amidst the chaos, my thoughts betrayed me, dragging me back to Jungkook.

Did he know I was gone? Was he searching for me? Would he even care enough to try and find me if he discovered my abduction?

He wouldn't, would he?

Why would he? He had taken me from my home, stolen me from my life. Wasn't I just a pawn to him too—a toy he could use and discard at will? My heart clenched at the thought, bitterness mixing with the rising tide of fear.

But another voice whispered in my mind, quiet and traitorous: But he wouldn't let you go, Yesol—not after all those promises.

I shook my head again, trying to banish the thought. It didn't matter. None of it mattered right now. What mattered was surviving—surviving long enough to understand what this man wanted from me and whether I had any hope of escape.

The man yanked me out by my wrist, his grip firm and unyielding. I fought against him, twisting and pulling, but my resistance was laughable in comparison.

With an infuriating ease, he shoved me out and hoisted me over his shoulder like a sack of only few potatoes, completely ignoring my flailing legs and muffled shouts.

I tried, I really tried—I kicked and writhed, my tied hands clenched into fists as I pounded uselessly against his back. My muffled cries for help dissolved into the still air.

He strode confidently down a clean, polished aisle that cut through an immaculate garden. For a moment, I stopped struggling and took deep, laboured breaths to calm my panic and observed the surroundings, so when I try to escape I know where I am moving.

The vibrant array of flowers and the grand expanse of the castle glowed under the bright sunlight, the opulence of the place was overwhelming, the pristine hedges, the sparkling fountains, the unnervingly organized rows of guards—it was a picture of power.

Was he another king?

"Who the hell are you?!" I shouted, my anger clear, but my voice was muffled by the cloth gag, so I don't know if he even heard me.

He didn't bother asking me. Instead, his stride remained steady, almost nonchalant, as if he were enjoying this. "Wait a bit. We're almost there," he finally said, his voice laced with mockery.

There was a cruel playfulness in his tone, like he was savoring every second of my confusion and fear. But beneath that, I sensed something darker, something unsettlingly sharp and calculated.

It reminded me of Jungkook. That same air of authority and danger, that same maddening ability to treat everything as if it were a game.

But this wasn't a game to me. This was my life.

What does he even mean by 'we're almost there'?"

His cryptic words sent a fresh wave of panic surging through me. My heart pounded so violently I thought he could probably feel it through my trembling frame.

Enough was enough. I was fed up of his nonchalance.

I twisted my body to one side, putting all my weight into the motion in an attempt to throw myself out of his grip. For a fleeting moment, it worked. I felt myself slip from his hold and braced for the harsh impact of the muddy ground.

But before I could land, he caught me effortlessly, cradling me in his arms. The sudden shift left me breathless as my wide, glistening eyes met his sharp, masked gaze.

For a moment, neither of us moved. My face was damp with sweat, strands of hair clinging to my skin as I stared at him, chest heaving. He, on the other hand, looked calm—too calm, though there was a flicker of annoyance mixed with boredom in his dark eyes.

With an exasperated sigh, he broke the silence. "Do you see any blood on you? Any scratches? Anything that hurts?!" he asked, his voice level, as if trying to reason with a petulant child.

I blinked, utterly baffled. Was he serious? Did he think his restraint somehow justified this abduction? Did he expect me to be grateful that I wasn't bruised or bleeding?

He must have caught my disbelief, because he continued, unbothered by my gagged silence. "I'm not going to kill you, so stop struggling, little one"

His tone was firm but strangely gentle, as if trying to reassure me, but it only made me angrier. This man thought my terror was something trivial, something he could wave away with words.

Before I could think too much, he shifted me in his arms and started walking again, carrying me like I weighed nothing. Now, I was face-to-face with him—close enough to notice the pale hue of his skin behind the mask, the calculated calmness in his gaze.

He wasn't going to kill me. Relief. But that didn't mean I was about to go quietly.

So, I did the only thing I could. I started to struggle again, twisting and squirming with all my strength. If he thought I was going to make this easy for him, he was sorely mistaken.

He stepped inside the lavish castle, a grand spectacle of wealth and elegance. Guards bowed respectfully, court ladies carried out their duties with practiced poise, and maids busied themselves cleaning the ornate hallways.

Everything was so calm and composed, as though their master bringing a bound and gagged woman into the castle was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Or perhaps they had seen this before, so often that it no longer warranted a second glance. The indifference was almost cruel, and it sent a shiver down my spine.

We stopped in front of a set of grand sliding doors, where maids quickly opened them with precision. Without hesitation, the man stepped inside, and the doors closed firmly behind us.

I panicked. What was this? Why were we in a room? What was he planning to do with me?

Before I could spiral further, he sat me on an opulent silk chair, the softness beneath me starkly contrasting the fear gripping my chest.

With a dramatic huff, he untied the cloth gag around my mouth. "Stop struggling for once. I told you, I'm not going to kill you," he said, his tone laced with boredom.

As he unmasked himself, I froze. His face was sharp, with feline—like round, doe eyes that gleamed with a mix of mischief and cool detachment. Pale skin and jet-black hair framed his striking features, and his gummy smile curved into an easy smirk.

This man looked as if he had walked straight out of a painting—a dangerous, untouchable beauty.

He was so pretty...

Stop. It.

I shook my head and finally managed to speak. "Then why did you bring me away from the castle?!"

He chuckled, a low, melodic sound that sent chills down my spine. "I just want to test Jungkook, that's all. Don't panic. Feel home."

My jaw dropped. "Are you ALL mentally challenged? THIS IS CALLED KIDNAPPING!"

Kneeling down, he began untying the ropes binding my wrists, "Are you a kid?" he teased, his tone light and condescending.

I glared at him, deeply offended. "I'm turning 21 this year!" I snapped.

If I thought his silence was unbearable, his voice was proving to be far worse. Was everyone in Jungkook's circle emotionally unhinged?

Did they all look this alluring only to engage in cruel games to satisfy their sadistic whims?

"Relax here," he said casually, rolling his neck as if this whole ordeal had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience for him. I bit back the urge to roll my eyes at him.

"I might be back when Jungkook arrives," he added with a smirk.

His words hit me like a lightning bolt. My eyes flickered with something I didn't want to name as I stood abruptly, grabbing his wrist. "Jungkook is coming?"

He tilted his head, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips. "Do you already miss him?"

Hell no!

I quickly dropped his wrist, avoiding his gaze. "No!" I denied, my voice betraying the emotion I was trying so hard to suppress. "I mean—did he plot this with you?!"

The man's smirk widened as he crossed his arms. "Do I look like someone who follows orders?" His playful tone made me grit my teeth. "Jungkook's probably losing his mind by now," he mused, more to himself than to me.

I looked down, trying to mask the wave of relief that washed over me.

So, Jungkook is coming...

"What are you to Jungkook?" I asked, biting my lip softly as I looked up at him, my curiosity momentarily outweighing my fear.

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head as though amused by my audacity. "So, you can be bearable?" He nodded to himself, as if concluding some inner thought.

"Well, I'm Min Yoongi. Jungkook's friend—though, considering I'm older, you might call me his brother. Not by blood, though."

Min Yoongi. Lord Min Yoongi?

The name hit me like a thunderclap. I had heard of him. Wasn't he one of the most powerful monarchs of this century? His dominion spanned more than one territory, each more lavish and prosperous than the last. He was the epitome of wealth and strength, his name whispered with awe and fear across kingdoms.

My disbelief was palpable. I couldn't believe I was standing in front of such an esteemed—and powerful man. His introduction alone sent my head lowering in respect, and a wave of guilt washed over me for the casual tone I had used with him earlier.

"If I knew my name carried such weight, I would've introduced myself sooner," he said, huffing dramatically, his hands clasped behind his back.

He tilted his face down instead of demanding I look up at him, his tone laced with subtle mockery. "That way, I could've saved some energy. Right, Princess Yesol?" His lips curved into a soft smile.

Obviously, he already knew my entire history and geography.

He leaned back, exhaling another sigh of boredom, as though the entire interaction was beneath him. Was he always this indifferent to human existence, or was it just me who bored him this much?

"You must've had a rough time," he started, idly stroking a small, ornate hand fan against his palm. "Would you like a spa treatment? Or perhaps a royal massage?" He trailed off.

Before I could muster a response, my stomach betrayed me with a loud grumble. My face burned with embarrassment as I looked up at him, horrified.

Lord Yoongi chuckled softly, the sound surprisingly warm despite his composed demeanor. "Oh, you must be hungry."

__________________________

I sat at the dining table, staring at the steaming bowl of soup before me. He sat across, his presence as casual and composed as ever, while I ate in disbelief.

None of this made sense. How was I eating food at the house of someone who kidnapped me? I was just one breath away from having a heart arrest earlier but now I was having a meal like it was the most normal thing in the world.

I lifted a spoonful of soup to my lips, tasting it cautiously. The flavor hit me like a wave of nostalgia, dragging me back to my childhood. My throat tightened, and before I realized it, tears pricked my eyes.

"Why are you crying?" His voice broke through my thoughts, as uninterested as if he were discussing the weather.

I sniffled, embarrassed. "The taste reminds me of my mom," I mumbled, trying to compose myself.

He tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "I thought you hated your family."

My eyes flicked up to meet his. "I do," I admitted. "But that doesn't mean all the moments I spent there are erased now"

He shook his head, his disbelief almost palpable. To him, my emotions were probably just an over-the-top drama. "This is how you cope? Crying, seriously?" He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, his scoff dripping with mockery.

I glared at him, irritated. "You're irritating," I muttered under my breath. He was respectfully savage—he annoys, but, nicely.

He smirked, enjoying the situation far too much. "Why don't you just hit him instead of crying?" His tone was laced with a self-satisfied amusement, as if he'd just come up with the ultimate solution to all my problems, when this wasn't even the topic.

My brow furrowed, my voice rising in disbelief. "Are you seriously suggesting I hit your friend every time I feel like breaking down?"

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "I mean, he did make your life like that. The least you can do is hit him as a coping mechanism."

I squinted at him, trying to decide if he was serious or just being his usual infuriating self. This coping mechanism thing felt more like a satisfaction for him than me.

"You're all a bunch of lunatics," I muttered under my breath, shaking my head.

I leaned back in my chair, folding my arms tightly over my chest, my brows furrowed in thought. "Why is Jungkook treated like that if he's the crown prince?" I asked, my voice carrying the weight of confusion and unease that had been gnawing at me all morning.

Min Yoongi looked at me seriously, his usual teasing demeanor replaced with a sharp focus and a knowing hint, "Treated like what?"

He might know about this, right? Afterall, he said he's like an older brother to Jungkook.

I hesitated, the vivid memory of the morning flashing in my mind. "Isn't the Empress his mother? I saw him washing her feet and then drinking it..." I halted, the disgust holding me back.

This morning felt like a blur, but that image burned in my mind. I was just walking out of my quarters after getting ready for breakfast when I passed by the Empress's quarters. The door was slightly open. I don't know why I stopped, but I did. Maybe I was curious. Maybe I should've kept walking.

Through the small gap, I saw him. Kneeling. My curiosity peaked. His head lowered, hands steady as he washed her feet in a bronze bowl.

At first, I thought... maybe it's love. Maybe he just loves her too much, so much that he treats her like a gold statue of a goddess. A duty, perhaps? A way to honor her?

But then she grabbed his hair. Not gently. It wasn't tender. It wasn't affectionate. Her nails dug into his scalp like claws, and her eyes... dark, cold, suffocating.

It wasn't love.

It wasn't duty.

It felt wrong.

Why would a mother do that to her son? And why would he let her?

"He isn't her son," Yoongi said, shaking his head as if the truth itself was exhausting to bear. His tone was calm but carried a weight, somewhere between seriousness and subtle disappointment.

My brows furrowed. "He isn't?" I repeated, hoping I had misheard him. But Yoongi's slight nod made it clear—I hadn't.

My thoughts began racing. If he isn't her son, then why is he the crown prince? Why does everyone treat him as if he is? Why would he even be considered royal? And if he's not truly her son, then why do people fear him so much? A flood of questions clogged my mind, leaving me more confused than ever.

Yoongi sighed, the sound heavy with a mixture of pity and frustration. "He's adopted."

That single word hit harder than I'd expected. Adopted? My heart sank as my mind tried to process it. Lord Yoongi wasn't just peeling back layers of Jungkook's life; he was dropping bombs, one after the other, without any effort to soften the blow.

His tone was laced with sadness, almost as though he hated telling me this story. It wasn't gossip to him. It wasn't something he enjoyed. There was disappointment, yes, but also anger—anger simmering just beneath the surface as he revealed this dark truth about Jungkook.

I was still reeling from the shock of what Yoongi had told me—that Jungkook's real parents were killed in a war when he was only a few days old and that the Empress adopted him, not out of kindness, but to make him her slave under the guise of a son.

There were gaps in the story, large, yawning voids that I knew Lord Yoongi wouldn't bother filling. Maybe I shouldn't have been so curious about Jungkook or his life. It wasn't like I cared, but something about knowing this felt... necessary.

I kept telling myself it wasn't my concern. That whatever horrors he endured shouldn't make me feel anything for him. But my heart had other plans. Despite everything, I couldn't help but pity him, just a little. To survive under the guise of being a "son" while truly being a captive—it must have been unbearable.

If only his parents hadn't died, if only he hadn't been taken by that witch of an Empress... Would he have been different? A better person?

Or maybe not. Maybe he would still be the cruel, broken man he is now.

The thought of him as a kind, good-hearted man was almost laughable, a fantasy that stung bitterly. A part of me hated how my mind even entertained such an idea. Because no matter what his past held, it didn't erase the reality of what he'd done to me.

Jungkook was still the cruel beast the Empress raised him to be. A man forged in shadows and shaped by pain. My small moments of pity didn't change the nightmare of his current existence—or the hell he'd put me through.

He did the same to me, didn't he?

I scoffed bitterly, my gaze fixed on the dish in front of me, my mind swirling with the chaos of everything I'd just heard.

"You want me to pity him?" I asked, my tone dripping with sarcasm and bitterness.

Yoongi chuckled, but there was something sharp in it. His eyes met mine, unflinching. "Pity? No. Why would I want you to pity that beast? You're supposed to hate him, continue that." he said with a mocking smirk.

He leaned back slightly, as if choosing his next words carefully. "I'm just suggesting—to survive, you have to be cruel, even a little bit"

His voice softened, yet the weight of it hung in the air. "You don't understand how survival can shape a person, Yesol. I don't judge him for what he's become. This world doesn't protect the vulnerable ones, so it's okay to be cruel."

I didn't like the direction this conversation was going, but my response was firm, cold. "I won't," I stated, my words cutting through the thick air.

Yoongi's eyes squinted coldly, trying to understand my resolve.

"The world already is," I continued, my voice steady, "so I won't be cruel. Not to the innocent ones, at least."

"If I'm cruel just like everyone else, what's the difference between me and the world?" I said, my voice thick with bitterness.

Lord Yoongi's expression remained unreadable, but I could tell my words had struck something inside him. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself.

"I understand," I continued, my tone more controlled now, "Sometimes, you have to act nonchalant and selfish in order to survive"

The words came from a place deep within, and I meant every single one of them.

"I have a past too. But I will never use that as an excuse to be cruel, that's not who I am"

I clenched my fists tightly under the table, my heart aching for those like me, "I would never want anyone to go through what I've faced"

Finally, I looked up at him. His gaze was fixed on me, his hands resting on the table. There was something unreadable in his expression—judgmental, yet serious.

He raised his brows, a hint of amusement flickering across his face. "Nice," he said, nodding slightly as if congratulating me. "Heroic much," he added with a scoff, his tone laced with sarcasm.

To him, humanity-something as simple as that, something I valued deeply—was no more than a fairytale. A pure fiction which only existed in books.

"But," he leaned forward slightly, his smirk widening, "you wouldn't hate me just because I do things the opposite way, right, Yesol?"

His gummy smile accompanied the smirk, an accessory to the cruel humor in his voice.

A huff escaped my lips, amusement mixing with disbelief. He had heard me, understood the depth of my words, yet still chose to remain the person he was. As if everything I said was a fleeting breeze, incapable of shifting him even a fraction.

Lord Min Yoongi was a strange man. Unpredictable and unreadable, he had an aura that kept you guessing. One moment, he could be gentle, almost considerate, and in the next, his sharp tongue would cut through the air, overshadowing any trace of kindness.

From what I knew, Min Yoongi was a highly respected and secretly admired king. He was ruthless, yes, but he was also reliable when it mattered. His methods were unconventional, sometimes even frightening, but they always yielded results.

Fear and respect intertwined when it came to him, and despite his reputation for cruelty, I had never heard a single insult spoken about him. He was a paradox—a man feared by many yet loved by those who mattered most.

And for some inexplicable reason, I felt safe around him.

He yawned, feigning disinterest as he stood, stretching his arms and rolling his neck lazily. "Is Jungkook even coming today?" he muttered with exaggerated drama, though this time, his antics didn't irritate me as much as they should have.

He walked around the table, his movements casual yet commanding, heading toward the door as if he had more important matters to attend to. Just as he passed me, something compelled me to act. Without thinking, my hand reached out, and I gently caught the corner of his hambok.

"Orabonim..." The word slipped from my lips, soft and unplanned. I didn't know why I addressed him as my older, but it felt natural.

_____________________________

A/n:- Why tf Yesol trusting everyone?

P.S: Jk is 24 in korean age system and Yesol is 21, while in international age they're 22 and 19.

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