The throne hall shimmered like a reliquary stuffed with sin. Gilded sconces flung light across marble and up fluted columns, bright enough to blind—bright enough that no one could pretend not to see what happened next.
Lysander held the silver chalice in both hands. Wine clung to its rim in black-red sheets, bellvine leaves drifting on the surface like little green lures. One sip numbed the tongue, two stopped the heart. He swallowed once—heat, berries, distant copper—then walked the last steps to the dais.
Prince Dorian lounged on the throne as though it were a lover. Velvet fell open at one thigh; a single gloved finger crooked. When Lysander offered the chalice, the prince ignored it. He caught Lysander by the nape, tipped back his head, and poured the wine straight into his mouth. Red overflow dripped down both chins.
“Swallow,” he murmured.
Lysander obeyed. The hall gasped as the prince’s mouth sealed over his, tongue stealing back the poison in a kiss that tasted of crushed cherries and danger. When the prince released him, a thread of wine linked their lips.
“Still sweet.” A thumb stroked the pulse in Lysander’s throat—soft praise, sharper threat. “Kneel beside me. Dawn, my bed. Late, and I test bellvine somewhere tighter.”
Lysander knelt. The prince slouched deeper, hand buried in Lysander’s hair so that every courtier could study the hard bulge tenting the servant’s plain robes. Fear tasted of wine, metal, and command.