Chapter 10
He had fucking done it.
He’d managed to get Moargan to agree he’d take Mirel home.
He probably shouldn’t have. No, scratch that, it was a bad idea.
A terrible idea. Every decision he’d taken from the moment he’d chased Mirel through the city down to the graveyard had been reckless.
Maybe that’s why it felt so good. Kylix hadn’t done anything reckless for years.
His heart pumped faster, fire licked through his veins.
Even his mind was sharper, and that all because of his little ghost.
The kitchen still echoed in his head. Yure’s voice over the static, the black door pulsing on the screen, that impossible signal rewriting itself.
Whatever it was, it hadn’t left his nerves.
It hummed beneath his skin like an aftershock.
The image of those crossed lines in a circle kept flickering behind his eyes, a reminder that something was watching them back.
“Up here.” He motioned for Mirel to follow him through the dimly lit house. Somewhere in the background, music played. Kylix liked it for company. He thumbed the brass puffer on low. One breath at a time. Scent, not sleep. The faint hiss followed them up the stairs.
“Wh-where are we?” Mirel asked when they reached the landing.
“My bedroom. Now it’s your new bedroom too.” He closed the door behind them and let Mirel take in the space.
The quiet hit first. After the noise of the kitchen, the silence felt almost alive. The faint hum from Yure’s screens still rang somewhere behind his temples, but here it met the hush of flame and iron.
Like every room in Kylix’s house, this one was cut for control.
The air was alive with the hiss of the hearth and a faint bite of metal that stung the back of the throat.
The black-glass wall turned the city into weather.
At the center stood a low ironwork bed, broad and built for command, its frame forged black with seams of gold running through the metal.
Leather lashes coiled at each corner, worn smooth from use.
The mattress was deep, draped in dark linen that caught the light like oil.
A narrow hearth burned clean and obedient beside it.
Near the hearth sat a small brass puffer, a delicate device shaped like a serpent’s coil, exhaling slow ribbons of sweet opium that softened the air.
Mirel looked around with parted lips, clearly in awe. “U-us?” he stammered.
“That’s right. You heard the Imperial heir before, didn’t you? Moargan allows you to stay with me. Do you understand what that means?”
Mirel’s cheeks flushed. He quickly looked away.
Kylix grinned. “I thought you would. I’ll take good care of you.” He shrugged off his jacket and slung it over a chair. “So you’re Cyprian’s brother. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Mirel shrugged. Like this, with his shoulders sagged, his blond hair a mess, and those hypnotic eyes, he looked fragile.
Which he wasn’t. Kylix knew that. Mirel was Dariux.
Engineered to be loved and adored by the Helion population.
Ice could spill from his hands. He was determined too.
Years of surviving the graveyard had taught him that.
And Kylix would teach him the rest, to use his voice, to yield, to give Kylix what he needed.
The thought made the room feel warmer. Blood slid south, hardening him. He’d been aroused from the moment he first saw Mirel. But patience was a virtue, even for Kylix. Especially for Kylix.
“Drink the water, Mirel. Do you think I didn’t notice? You need it.”
Mirel dropped into the chair across from him and wrapped a hand around the glass. Long, slender fingers, perfect for rings. Kylix swore under his breath at the thought.
His little ghost hadn’t touched a drop all evening. Kylix hadn’t wanted to make a scene back there, not with tempers high, but here Mirel wouldn’t stand a chance. He’d see him fed. He’d get more flesh on those bones.
Mirel lifted the glass and took a sip. A drop escaped, sliding down his chin to his throat. Kylix followed it with his eyes, the urge to taste it sharp as hunger. His fingers reached out to the delicate skin and swiped the drop away.
“More. Finish it.”
Mirel hesitated, then obeyed. Another drip ran down his throat. A tremor passed under Kylix’s thumb where it rested at the pulse. He could smell his own soap and linen still clinging to Mirel, threaded with his scent from the clothes. The mix hit something deep and territorial.
“Now look at me.”
Golden eyes rose. Brighter than the lamp. Brighter than he deserved.
“Why didn’t you tell me? That he was your brother.”
Mirel’s mouth worked, then stilled. He looked away, to the floor, the corner of the rug, then back again, as if the truth had weight he could only lift in short pulls.
“Shame,” he finally said, little more than breath. “Dirt. I-I can’t.”
Kylix felt something mean and tender move through his chest. “You can now.” His tone stayed soft, the command underneath unyielding.
A small, stubborn shake of the head. “Not much.” He swallowed.
“Enough.” Kylix’s hand closed around his chin, forcing his gaze up. “You’ll eat what I give you. You’ll sleep where I sleep.” His grip lingered a second too long, thumb pressing at the hollow beneath Mirel’s jaw until the pulse beat hard against it. The sound pleased him. He hated that it did.
He should be out there hunting whoever had breached the prison.
Was it Attica, or something worse? Whoever it was had freed Bekn from walls believed unbreakable for centuries.
Yet Mirel’s trembling anchored him. One heartbeat under his thumb and the world went smaller, quieter, and unbearably focused.
You’re wasting time, reason whispered. This time is mine, he answered.
“Tell me what today did to you.”
Silence balled tight in the room. Finally, Mirel said, “Light in chest. Loud.” He touched his sternum. “Hurt. Good hurt.” A swallow. “Afraid. Happy.” His lashes flickered once.
Kylix’s mouth curved. “Both are true.”
“Yes.”
Pretty choice. Fire deserves ice.
Kylix thought of Aviel’s earlier words, half-mocking, half-knowing.
You never knew with that man. He had laughed it off, calling Aviel a fool for reading destinies where there were none.
Now, with that heartbeat under his palm and those gold eyes fixed on him, laughter felt like a lie.
Fate was for storybooks, yet the pull in his chest felt older than reason.
The odds of a fated bond were numbers, not miracles, but if it was real, he’d burn for it.
Kylix hovered over Mirel’s seated frame and began unfastening the buttons of his suit one by one, slow and steady until the panic eased. “My clothes look good on you.”
“Y-yes.” At least they agreed on something.
Kylix’s lips tipped up. Each fold revealed a new stretch of pale flesh, smooth and tight over bone, a body built for movement, for running, for being caught. “You’re trembling,” he murmured, dragging his knuckles down the exposed line of Mirel’s chest. “Beautiful when you’re scared.”
The suit slid from his shoulders like spilled water, pooling at his elbows. Kylix let his hands wander, thumbs grazing collarbones, palms flattening to ribs. “You were made too fine for this world,” he whispered, voice heavy with want. “Mine to ruin, if I want.”
His knuckles grazed hipbone, thumb circling a bruise until his little ghost gasped. “That’s it. Let it sting.” Kylix’s smile flickered sharp, pleasure of control humming through his chest. “Good.”
The sight of Mirel bare beneath his hands fed a dark satisfaction.
Power had a taste and he wanted to bite down on it.
The bruises on Mirel’s wrists were already fading to violet.
The bites along his throat had darkened in the lamplight.
Heat prickled across Kylix’s skin as he studied him, curiosity threading with hunger.
The rhythm between dominance and fascination steadied his breath, keeping the balance exactly where he wanted it.
The bed looked too clean for him. Kylix liked the thought of soiling it with this.
And yet, he should have walked away hours ago. This was supposed to be about control, not need. But the longer Mirel stayed silent, the more Kylix’s restraint frayed. He told himself he wanted obedience, not warmth, but the lie thinned with every breath.
His multi-slate dinged. He opened the door, took the hot tray from the hall, and nudged it shut with his boot before setting it on the table. Mirel hadn’t moved from his seat, his suit half open, cock still painfully hard under the garment and his protected hand.
“I don’t know if you have always had trouble talking, or if it’s something that has grown over the years.
You won’t tell me anyway, and I’m guessing it’s the latter.
I wasn’t lying when I told Cyprian I’m having something made for your throat.
You’ll get it soon.” He sat down across from Mirel.
“They’ll make your throat feel better. Now, eat. ”
Mirel hesitated before diving in. He still ate like a starved man.
Part of Kylix felt annoyed because he should have kept a better eye on him.
He’d never ask him for anything, not even when he was hungry.
Especially when he was hungry. And while a good chase was in Kylix’s DNA, something about Mirel broke that rule.
Especially not when his little ghost was hungry.
So he watched as Mirel ate. He rolled a red-cinder between two fingers, lit it, and set it in the tray without drawing.
A small red eye watched the room. He reached for the brass puffer, let it hiss softly to life, exhaling ribbons of sweet opium that coiled toward the ceiling as he leaned back and hummed to a tune that sat somewhere in the background.
His erection didn’t fade. Nor did Kylix’s. He was hungry for his little ghost, and soon he’d have him just the way he wanted. Of that he was sure. Kylix Zephyranth always got what he wanted.