Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight!
Chapter 160: ’Something’s Wrong With The Prince...Again!’

Chapter 160: ’Something’s Wrong With The Prince...Again!’

Lucius realized Florian had slipped away when he overheard hushed whispers from the nearby nobles.

"Did you see how elegant the prince was with Princess Athena?"

"Yes, if we weren’t aware of the rumors, I’d say he’s quite the gentleman."

Lucius stiffened. ’Florian danced with Princess Athena?’ His gaze swept across the ballroom, but neither of them was in sight.

Before he could dwell on it, Lancelot, ever oblivious, opened his mouth to speak. Lucius raised a hand, cutting him off.

"What the fuck—?" Lancelot scowled, irritated.

"His Highness is gone," Lucius said flatly.

"What?" Lancelot’s head snapped around, only now realizing Florian was no longer beside them. His brows furrowed. "Where is he?"

Lucius didn’t answer immediately. His eyes flickered across the ballroom, searching for a familiar head of soft lilac hair amidst the sea of nobles.

But there were too many people. Too many emotions.

His temples throbbed. The air was thick with an overwhelming tangle of feelings—excitement, boredom, envy, intrigue. It pressed down on him like a crushing weight.

Lucius inhaled sharply, adjusting the thin-framed glasses perched on his nose. They helped dull the sensory overload, but not completely. And right now, it was too much.

He forced himself to focus, scanning the crowd for several agonizing seconds until—

’There he is—wait.’

Lucius froze.

A wave of emotions hit him all at once, making his breath catch.

Fear.

Dread.

...Lust?

A massive, suffocating surge of it.

His stomach twisted. The unnatural intensity of the emotion made his skin crawl. It clung to the air around Florian, thick and cloying, like an invisible poison.

"Lancelot," Lucius said, voice low, urgent. "Something’s wrong with His Highness."

Lancelot immediately stiffened. "What?"

Lucius didn’t answer. There was no point in speculating—not when every second counted. "No point discussing what we don’t know. Let’s go."

Without another word, he strode forward.

’This isn’t right. This isn’t like him at all.’

Lucius kept his gaze locked on Florian. The prince was beginning to stumble, his movements sluggish and unsteady. A thin sheen of sweat clung to his skin, his breaths uneven, chest rising and falling too quickly.

Lucius was about to call out to him—

Then he saw them.

Women.

A cluster of noblewomen surrounded Florian, their bodies forming a loose semi-circle, their postures flirtatious and inviting.

Lucius took a step back, instinctively recoiling.

’Fuck.’

His pulse spiked. Florian was vulnerable, and these women—whether they realized it or not—were only making it worse.

"What are you doing? Keep walking," Lancelot muttered, already pushing forward.

"There. He’s there." Lucius pointed ahead, keeping his voice steady. "You go ahead."

Lancelot shot him a sharp look before following his gaze. His expression darkened. "Don’t tell me... you’re still afraid of women?" he asked, voice laced with mockery.

Lucius grit his teeth. "Stop fucking talking and go grab His Highness."

Lancelot blinked at the venom in his voice.

Lucius didn’t care. His pulse was pounding, his skin crawling with the sheer force of whatever the hell was affecting Florian. He didn’t have time for Lancelot’s teasing.

"I wasn’t joking when I said something was wrong," he snapped. "Now, go."

For once, Lancelot didn’t argue. His expression hardened as he turned and strode toward the gathered women.

Lucius stayed back, watching.

Lancelot moved with practiced ease, seamlessly inserting himself between Florian and the noblewomen. A few let out surprised gasps, but he ignored them.

"Apologies, ladies," he said smoothly, "but His Highness is needed elsewhere."

Florian barely reacted as Lancelot wrapped a firm hand around his wrist and pulled him away.

Lucius exhaled, finally stepping forward.

The moment he got closer, he knew—

’This isn’t just sickness. It’s something else.’

Florian’s emotions were painfully clear to him now.

Fear.

Desperation.

And beneath it, an overwhelming, unnatural lust.

’Lust?’ Lucius clenched his jaw. ’No. This is wrong. This isn’t him.’

"Prince Florian," he murmured, stepping in front of him. "You don’t look well."

Florian swallowed thickly. His throat bobbed. His lips parted.

"I..."

Nothing else came.

Lucius waited, watching. But Florian didn’t speak.

Even Lancelot was starting to look truly worried now.

Lucius was about to press further when Florian’s fingers curled tightly into Lancelot’s sleeve.

A silent plea.

And then, in a voice barely above a whisper—shaky, desperate—

"Lancelot... Lucius... please. Get me out of here."

A beat of silence passed.

Then, without a word, Lucius and Lancelot exchanged glances.

They understood.

Lancelot shifted his grip, keeping Florian steady, while Lucius scanned the ballroom. They needed to be discreet. If anyone noticed something was wrong with the prince, the rumors would spread like wildfire.

Lucius turned back to Florian, his voice quieter this time. "We’re taking you out of here."

Florian barely managed a nod.

And together, they led him away.

✧༺ ⏱︎ ༻✧

The moment Florian stumbled out of the ballroom and into the dimly lit palace hall, he shoved both Lucius and Lancelot away with what little strength he had left.

A mistake.

His legs immediately gave out beneath him. The world tilted, his vision spun, and before he could stop himself—

He collapsed.

The cold marble floor met him with a sharp, echoing thud.

"Your Highness!"

Lucius and Lancelot’s voices rang out in unison, alarm laced in their tones. Their footsteps rushed toward him, but Florian barely managed to shoot out a trembling hand, stopping them in their tracks.

"No! Go away—please, go away!" His voice came out raw, breathless, each word dragging over his tongue like gravel. His chest heaved with every erratic gasp, his body locked in a desperate battle against itself.

He burned.

A feverish, unbearable heat curled under his skin, licking at his spine, pooling low in his abdomen like molten fire. His clothes clung to him, suffocating, every thread of fabric an unbearable weight against his body. His pants felt tight—too tight. He could feel it.

He wasn’t an idiot.

Whatever had been in that drink—whatever had tainted his blood—it was working its way through him like poison.

No. Not poison.

Something worse.

An aphrodisiac.

The realization struck like ice against fire, a chilling contrast that sent his mind spiraling into a fresh wave of panic.

’No. No, no, no.’

He couldn’t let them see him like this. Couldn’t let them stay.

Not when this would push him—force him—to do something unspeakable.

To beg. To plead. To submit.

To—

’No.’

Florian clenched his jaw so tightly his teeth ached, his nails digging into the fabric of his lap as if sheer willpower alone could suppress the unbearable ache clawing at him from the inside.

Lucius’ voice cut through the haze, low and tense. "Your Highness, what’s happening? Tell us—"

’Lucius probably already knows what I’m feeling...’

A sickening realization twisted in his gut. If Lucius could see lust, if he could sense it, then he knew. He knew what Florian was going through.

Shame coiled in his stomach, thick and suffocating.

"L-Lancelot... Lucius..." His voice shook, uneven, unsteady. He swallowed against the dryness of his throat, struggling to form words—coherent, necessary words—before he lost himself completely. "Earlier, I—I spoke with a man. A noble."

He shifted slightly, his arms trembling as he adjusted himself on the floor. He could feel it—Gods, he could feel it. His body betraying him. His mind unraveling.

Lancelot frowned, stepping closer. "What?"

"I didn’t recognize him," Florian forced out, panting through the unbearable heat. "He wouldn’t tell me who he was... And a servant—I didn’t recognize them either—gave me a drink."

The memory surfaced, blurry at the edges, tainted by the sickening need taking over his body. He forced a breath into his lungs, but it did nothing to quell the fire spreading beneath his skin, licking up his throat, crawling lower.

His fingers curled against the fabric of his pants, pressing down, pressing hard, desperate to suppress what was quickly becoming impossible to hide.

His breath hitched.

His vision blurred.

’Tell them. Tell them to warn Heinz. Tell them—’

"Tell His Majesty..." Florian squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the words past trembling lips. "Tell him—this drink—it’s doing this to me. It could—"

Then—

A sudden, sharp pulse of pleasure shot through him, his entire body jolting at the sensation.

His mind went blank.

’Touch me.’

His breath came out in a shudder.

’No.’

’No, no, no.’

He could feel it. The unbearable ache. The dizzying, pulsing need curling into his bones, whispering—no, screaming—for something. Someone.

His skin tingled, unbearably oversensitive, every nerve alight with wicked, insidious hunger.

’Someone, please, touch me.’

’No.’

He bit his lip, stifling the whimper threatening to spill free. The shame, the mortifying heat in his core, was almost too much to bear.

Lucius and Lancelot were watching him. He knew they were. He could feel their eyes on him, filled with concern, confusion, something else—something he refused to acknowledge.

If they stayed—if they got too close—

He might break.

His voice came out weak, barely above a whisper, but desperate. "Go. Tell Heinz something’s wrong... L-Leave me here. Just—" He swallowed, forcing down another betraying sound clawing its way up his throat. "Just tell Cashew to find me. Bring me back to my room."

His hands trembled where they pressed against his lap, gripping onto himself like a lifeline.

’Stay here. Touch me. Touch my—’

’NO.’

His body fought him at every turn, muscles tensing, trembling, begging for relief. But he wouldn’t give in. He refused to give in.

His entire being screamed at him to submit.

But he wouldn’t.

He was Florian—the main character of this world.

This world’s plot wouldn’t take him. Wouldn’t win.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

His voice, hoarse and broken, left him in one last desperate plea.

"Please."

He didn’t look up.

He couldn’t.

Because if he did—

He wasn’t sure what he’d see.

And worse—

He wasn’t sure what he’d do.