Rain tapped against the training hall roof in slow, irregular rhythm. Outside, the courtyard blurred in sheets of silver, torchlight flickering on the stone like something distant and dying.
Kael stood beneath the high windows, water dripping from his shoulders. He hadn’t left after drills. Neither had Ilyan.
The prince sat on the edge of the sparring platform, one boot unlaced, hair damp and curling at the edges, arms braced behind him.
They hadn’t spoken in almost ten minutes.
The air between them was tense. But not with anger.
Kael finally turned.
“You’ll tear that rib again.”
Ilyan rolled his eyes. “I’m not made of glass.”
“You’re made of recklessness.”
“And you’re made of stone.”
Kael approached slowly, each step deliberate.
Ilyan’s breath hitched, barely audible.
“You don’t listen,” Kael said.
“You don’t see me.”
Kael stopped two feet away. The silence stretched.
Then:
“Say it.”
Ilyan blinked. “Say what?”
“Call me prince again,” Ilyan said, eyes narrowing. “Say it like you mean it.”
Kael stepped forward.
One hand came up—slow, visible—and gripped Ilyan’s jaw.
Not hard.
Just firm.
He stared into the prince’s eyes, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.
“My prince.”
It didn’t sound sarcastic.
It didn’t sound mocking.
It sounded true.
Ilyan inhaled sharply.
Kael’s hand didn’t move.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
Ilyan didn’t speak.
Kael leaned in, so close their lips nearly brushed.
“Say no,” Kael whispered, “and I’ll leave this room and never cross this line again.”
Ilyan shook his head. Not in fear. Not in hesitation.
In surrender.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
Kael waited one more breath.
Then kissed him.
It was not soft.
Not frantic.
It was precise—controlled, deep, tongue sweeping in like he meant to claim space. Ilyan responded instantly, hands gripping Kael’s shirt, dragging him closer, tilting his head to deepen the kiss like he’d been waiting for this exact moment for years.
Kael growled against his lips.
“You’re trembling.”
“So are you,” Ilyan whispered.
Kael pushed him down onto the mat—gently. One hand caught the back of his head to keep it from hitting too hard. His mouth never left Ilyan’s.
When he pulled back, his eyes were darker than before.
“I’m not going to take you tonight.”
Ilyan’s breath caught. “Why?”
Kael looked down at him—at the prince’s flushed cheeks, the pulse at his throat, the full-body tension of a man who wanted to be devoured.
“Because you’re not ready to be fucked,” Kael said.
He leaned in close. Voice a low promise:
“Not the way I do it.”
He stood. Adjusted his belt.
Left.
And this time—Ilyan didn’t call after him.
He just lay there, chest rising, eyes closed.
And whispered, to no one:
“I’m ready when you are.”