Chapter Two — “Do you always stare when I sweat, old man?”
The training tent was too warm.
Canvas walls trapped the heat from the morning sun, the scent of sweat and steel hanging thick in the air. Kael moved through a familiar drill, bare to the waist, blade in hand. Every motion fluid. Precise. Efficient.
He didn’t need to think about the forms anymore. His body remembered them better than it remembered sleep.
He heard the footsteps before he saw the shadow.
Ilyan.
Of course.
The prince stood just inside the tent flap, sweat already clinging to the collar of his linen shirt, hair a damp mess, eyes hungry for something he hadn’t yet admitted he wanted.
Kael didn’t stop moving.
Didn’t greet him.
Didn’t acknowledge him at all.
Until—
“Do you always stare when I sweat, old man?”
Kael finished his form with a sharp twist, blade lowering.
He turned.
Slowly.
“You came here to provoke me.”
“I came here to train.”
“You’re not holding a sword.”
Ilyan stepped further into the tent. The flap swung shut behind him, casting the interior in dim orange light. Only the two of them now. No witnesses. No guards. No court expectations.
“I don’t need a sword to beat you.”
Kael’s eyes narrowed. “Then by all means. Try.”
Ilyan lunged without warning.
Not with technique—just momentum. Kael caught him with ease, turned his weight, and slammed him flat onto the padded floor with a loud thud that rattled the support poles.
Ilyan grunted. “Fuck—”
Kael straddled his hips before he could rise. Sword tossed aside. Hands flat on Ilyan’s chest.
“You done?”
Ilyan didn’t answer.
Just stared up at him—sweat sliding down his cheek, pupils blown wide. His hands clenched in the fabric of Kael’s pants. Kael’s thighs pressed to the outside of his.
The silence grew thick.
Kael didn’t move.
And neither did Ilyan.
“Are you going to get off me?” the prince asked, breath uneven.
Kael leaned in. Not far.
Just enough that Ilyan could feel the warmth of his breath against his jaw.
“I don’t think you want me to.”
Ilyan’s chest rose.
Once.
Then again—higher.
His lips parted.
Kael shifted—just slightly—and Ilyan shivered beneath him.
Kael’s voice dropped. Low. Controlled. Brutal.
“You come in here every damn day, swaying your hips like it’s a test. Trying to make me react.”
Ilyan’s voice was hoarse. “It’s working.”
Kael grabbed both wrists and pinned them above Ilyan’s head.
Hard.
“Then say what you really want.”
Ilyan stared up at him—face flushed, sweat pooling at his throat, thighs twitching.
“I want you to lose control.”
Kael bent lower until their mouths were nearly touching.
“You couldn’t handle it.”
Ilyan surged up, kissed him—sloppy, hot, angry.
Kael didn’t pull away.
He pressed down harder, grinding his hips into the prince’s.
The heat between them ignited—swords forgotten, names meaningless. Just teeth, breath, hands grasping at skin like the body knew something the mind refused to admit.
Kael pulled away first.
Breath ragged.
“Not here,” he said.
“Why not?”
Kael stood.
“Because I don’t fuck brats in training tents.”
Ilyan stayed on the floor, chest heaving.
“You’re lying.”
Kael walked out, grabbing his sword on the way.
He didn’t answer.
But he was hard.
And he didn’t touch himself that night.
Because he already knew who he’d be thinking about.