The sheets stuck to their bodies in tangled folds.

Ilyan lay on his back, chest rising in slow, steady pulls. His thighs trembled faintly. Sweat cooled in the hollows of his hips. Kael didn’t move for a long time. He stayed above him, half buried, one arm braced beside his head, the other cradling Ilyan’s cheek.

The crown prince—king in all but title—had his eyes closed, lips parted.

And he looked peaceful.

Not worn. Not ruined.

Just quiet.

Kael exhaled.

He pulled out gently, careful not to draw a sound from the man beneath him. Then rose from the bed, naked, scarred, steady. He soaked a cloth in warm water from the washbasin and returned without a word.

Ilyan opened his eyes.

“You don’t have to—”

Kael silenced him with a look.

He pressed the cloth to Ilyan’s thigh, dragging it slowly upward, wiping away the mess of sex with reverent care. The gentlest pressure. No rush.

“You don’t have to be strong now,” Kael said.

Ilyan blinked. “I’m not trying to be.”

Kael’s hand lingered.

“You never let anyone hold you.”

Ilyan reached up, brushed his fingers along Kael’s jaw. “Then hold me.”

Kael did.

He slid into bed beside him, wrapping one arm around Ilyan’s chest, their legs tangling instinctively. Ilyan pressed his face into Kael’s shoulder, breath syncing to the slower rhythm of trust.

Not heat.

Not lust.

Just presence.

“I thought you’d leave after,” Ilyan whispered.

Kael made a low sound in his throat. “Then you don’t know me yet.”

“I know you better than anyone.”

“Then you should know I don’t fuck people I plan to walk away from.”

Ilyan’s breath caught.

Not from fear.

From relief.

He curled tighter into Kael’s chest.

“I didn’t want to be king alone,” he said.

“You’re not,” Kael murmured.

His hand trailed up Ilyan’s back, palm wide, steady.

“I’m not just your blade. Not anymore.”

Ilyan didn’t answer.

Just held him.

And let himself be held.

The palace was quiet that night.

Too quiet.

No guards at the door. No courtiers whispering in corners. No scrolls to read or blades to polish. Just the dim crackle of a fire, the soft hiss of rain sliding down stone, and Ilyan standing by Kael’s chamber door with his hand on the handle.

He didn’t knock.

He opened it slowly and stepped inside.

Kael looked up from where he sat at the edge of the bed, shirt unbuttoned, a scarred hand wrapped around a cup of untouched wine.

Their eyes met.

Neither spoke.

Ilyan moved toward the hearth—toward the light—until the flames painted his skin in shadow and amber. He turned, shoulders square, chin lifted.

“You don’t look away when I undress.”

Kael set the cup down.

“I never have.”

Ilyan reached for the sash at his waist.

Untied it.

Let the robe fall.

It slipped from his shoulders like water and pooled at his feet, leaving him bare. Bare in a way no court had ever seen. Not vulnerable. Not nervous.

Offered.

Kael stood slowly.

Approached.

He didn’t touch him at first. Just circled him—one step, then another. His breath roughened. His eyes dipped down, hungry but held tight under control.

Then his fingers brushed Ilyan’s ribs.

Light.

Testing.

Ilyan didn’t flinch.

Kael stepped behind him, hands ghosting along his hips, mouth near his neck.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

“No.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“You.”

Kael’s hands flattened against his stomach.

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

Kael turned him with a firm hand on the shoulder and kissed him. Deep. Long. No teasing. Just yes.

And Ilyan moaned into it—body arching, mouth parting, arms wrapping tight around Kael’s neck like he never planned to let go.

They moved to the bed together—Kael lowering Ilyan down gently, spreading his thighs, kneeling between them with something almost reverent in the way he looked at him.

“You’re sure?” Kael asked.

Ilyan reached down.

Gripped his cock.

Lined it up.

And whispered:

“Take me. Now.”

Kael entered him slow.

A single push.

One deep, breathless stroke that made Ilyan gasp and dig his fingers into Kael’s forearms.

Kael held there, panting.

His voice cracked. “Fuck—you feel like you were built for this.”

Ilyan laughed. Then moaned. Then said, softer:

“I was built for you.”

Kael moved.

Not rushed.

Not delicate.

Certain.

His thrusts were deep and even, cock dragging along Ilyan’s walls, pressure perfect, pace timed to each drawn-out gasp from the man beneath him. Their bodies met in quiet rhythm. Sweat built slow. The sheets twisted. Ilyan wrapped his legs around Kael’s hips and pulled him deeper.

Kael groaned.

“You’re taking me so well.”

“You’re filling me so fucking deep,” Ilyan breathed.

Kael reached down, wrapped a hand around Ilyan’s cock.

“Come for me.”

Ilyan did.

Hard.

All over his stomach and Kael’s hand, his back arching, mouth falling open in a shudder that looked like worship.

Kael followed seconds later, spilling deep inside him with a raw sound, burying his face in Ilyan’s neck, body trembling.

They stayed like that.

Connected.

Breathless.

Kael didn’t pull out.

Ilyan didn’t ask him to.

And when the fire dimmed, when sleep tugged at them, Kael whispered into Ilyan’s hair:

“I won’t ever take less than all of you.”

Ilyan smiled.

“Good. I don’t want to be spared.”

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.”