Frost silvered the palace loggia. Lysander arrived wearing nothing but a travel cloak and the sting of memory. Prince Dorian reclined on a chaise, robe parted, cock half-hard against a belly lined with lean muscle. He dangled the tasting cup by its chain.

“You’re late by three heartbeats,” he said. “Mouth.”

Lysander crawled. The first lick traced the prince’s slit; Dorian poured honey-wine over his head so warm syrup ran down his spine. “Suck.” Tongue circled velvet crown, taking each inch until nose pressed dark curls. The cup balanced on his nape—one spill would cost skin.

When Dorian groaned, Lysander swallowed him deeper. Wine and pre-come slicked his throat; sticky warmth slid between his cheeks. “Don’t spill,” the prince warned, then bit his lip and emptied down his throat. He swallowed every drop.

Dorian smeared leftover wine across the collar’s pomegranate stain. “Court opens in an hour. Trousers, nothing else.” Honey glistened on Lysander’s shoulders as he bowed out, pulse loud as bells.

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.