Chapter 6 Public Masks #2
“And what am I risking?” I pressed closer. Let him feel my cock hard against his hip. Let him know this wasn't one-sided. “My safety? My reputation? Or something else?”
“Everything.” His voice had gone rough. Strained. “You are risking everything.”
“Good.” I leaned in. Mouth near his ear. “Because everything is what I need to feel alive.”
His grip on my wrists tightened. Bruising. His cock was pressed between us now, thick and hard and impossible to ignore.
“This is dangerous,” he said.
“I know.”
“I could hurt you.”
“You won't.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you're too controlled. Too disciplined. Too afraid of making a mistake.” I pulled back enough to meet his eyes. Saw the war happening behind them. “So I'm going to make you make one.”
I rolled my hips forward. Deliberately. Pressed my cock against his. Felt him shudder.
“Stop,” he gritted out.
“You don't want me to stop.” I did it again. Slow grind that made his eyes darken. “You want me to keep going. Want me to push you until that control snaps. Until you stop thinking and start feeling.”
“You do not know what you are doing.”
“I know exactly what I'm doing.” My hand slid from his belt to his hip. Squeezed. “I'm showing you that I have power here too. That I'm not some helpless prince who needs saving. That I can make you lose control just as easily as you think you can control me.”
His hands released my wrists. Moved to my hips. Gripped hard enough to hurt.
For a second, I thought he'd push me away.
Instead, he pulled me closer. Yanked me against him so my cock ground against his through layers of fabric. Made us both gasp.
My hands found his hips, fingers digging in, pulling him tight, making sure he could feel just how hard I was. His hands clamped down on my waist in response, rough and unyielding, but I didn’t care. I wanted the fight. Wanted to see him unravel.
“You want to play this game?” His voice was lethal. “Fine. But understand that if I lose control, I will not be gentle. I will not be sweet. I will take what I want and you will have no one to blame but yourself.”
“Promises, promises.”
His hand moved to my throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. Claiming. “You think you are in control. Think you are pushing my buttons to prove a point. But all you are doing is showing me how much you want this. How desperate you are to feel something other than trapped.”
“Maybe I am desperate.” My hips rolled against his, slow and filthy, grinding my cock into the hard line of his, making both of us groan.
The friction was maddening—fabric dragging, heat building with every thrust. “Maybe I want you to lose control. Maybe I want to see what’s underneath all that ice. ”
His eyes burned with something wild, something raw and dangerous. “You will not like what you find.”
“Try me.”
His grip on my throat tightened, not cutting off air, just making every breath feel earned. My pulse hammered under his palm, but I didn’t pull away—I leaned into it, relishing the pressure, the proof of how close he was to snapping.
“You want to know what is underneath?” His accent sharpened, voice dropping to a growl. “Underneath is man who spent eighteen years turning himself into weapon. Who learned that feeling anything is liability.” His eyes were ice and fury.
I grinned, teeth bared, and rocked harder against him. The grind of our cocks, the rough drag of fabric, every pass getting filthier, more desperate. “Then break me. At least I’ll feel something.”
“You do not mean that.”
“Don’t I?” My hand slid between us, palm cupping him through his pants, squeezing, feeling the heat and the thickness trapped beneath layers of control. He shuddered, jaw clenching, a sound torn from his throat that made my whole body tighten.
I spat into my palm—deliberate, messy—then dragged my hand across his lips, smearing my spit over his mouth.
He caught my wrist, locked eyes with me, and spit back, hot and heavy, straight into my open mouth.
I swallowed it down, never breaking eye contact, the taste and the humiliation making my cock throb.
“Fuck, you’re so desperate for it,” I rasped, grinding into him, hips snapping, chasing the friction, the danger. His hand on my throat flexed, his other hand grabbed my ass, pulling me closer, rutting up into me like he couldn’t stop himself.
He didn’t. His breath hitched, control fracturing. The next roll of his hips was brutal, cock jerking against mine, and I felt the sharp, helpless pulse as he came in his pants, body shaking, a low groan tearing out of him.
That was all it took. My own orgasm hit, hot and overwhelming, cock pulsing, soaking the front of my jeans, pleasure flooding every nerve.
I gasped, head falling forward onto his shoulder, hips grinding through it, milking every last drop, both of us rutting helplessly, caught in the filth and the power.
Then Apollo barked. Sharp. Insistent. Someone coming.
We broke apart like we'd been burned. Put three feet of distance between us in half a second.
Viktor turned away, adjusting himself with shaking hands. His face was flushed. His breathing harsh. His cock still obviously hard.
I wasn't much better. My heart was hammering. My own cock aching. My throat still tingling where his hand had been.
Footsteps in the corridor outside. Getting closer.
“You have meeting in thirty minutes,” Viktor said. Voice rough. “I suggest you make it.”
“And if I don't?”
He looked at me. Something dark and dangerous in his eyes. “Then I will drag you there myself. And we will both regret what happens if I touch you again.”
He left. Door closing with a quiet click.
I stood there in the workshop, hands shaking, cock aching, knowing I'd just crossed a line I couldn't uncross.
Knowing I'd do it again.
Apollo padded over, whined softly. Worried.
“I'm okay,” I told him.
Lie. I wasn't okay. I was playing with fire and loving the burn.
The dining hall was already half full when we arrived.
Sunlight poured through tall windows, catching on crystal chandeliers and turning everything gold. The long marble table gleamed under carefully arranged place settings. Nobles and diplomats clustered in small groups, their laughter polished and their smiles sharp.
I hated these events. The performance of it. The way everyone said one thing while meaning another. The fact that I had to smile and charm and pretend I didn't see through every calculated gesture.
But I was good at it. Years of practice had made me very good at it.
I slipped into my public persona like putting on a second skin. Easy smile. Confident posture. The golden prince everyone wanted me to be.
Viktor peeled off toward the wall, taking up position near the exit. I watched him go, saw the way he positioned himself for maximum sight lines, and felt oddly reassured by his presence.
At least someone here was exactly what they appeared to be.
“Sebastian!” My father's voice carried across the hall, warm and relieved. He stood near the head of the table with several advisors, looking every inch the king despite the exhaustion I could see in his eyes.
I crossed to him, accepting his embrace. “Papa.”
“You're late.”
“I lost track of time in the workshop.”
He smiled, but there was worry underneath. “You spend too much time out there.”
“It's where I think best.”
“That's what concerns me.”
Before I could respond, another voice cut in. Smooth. Cultured.
“Your Highness, you look well.”
I turned to find Duke Marcel standing beside us, glass of wine in hand, silver hair perfectly combed. He smiled like we were old friends. Like he hadn't been pushing my father toward increasingly restrictive security measures for months.
“Duke Marcel.” I kept my voice polite. Neutral. “Thank you for joining us.”
“I wouldn't miss it. These things are so important for maintaining connections.” His eyes flicked to Viktor, still and watchful near the wall. “I see you've acquired new protection. The Sentinel Network, yes? Adrian Calloway's operation.”
“My father's idea.”
“A wise one.” Marcel raised his glass toward my father. “Your son has your gift for diplomacy, sire. Though I worry he's inherited your stubbornness as well.”
My father laughed, but I saw the way his hand tightened on his own glass. The way his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.
“Stubbornness keeps us alive,” I said lightly.
“Or gets us killed.” Marcel's smile never wavered. “Depending on the situation.”
The staff began ushering everyone to their seats. I ended up between my father and some foreign diplomat whose name I immediately forgot. Marcel sat across from us, perfectly positioned to monitor the entire table.
Viktor remained standing. Watching.
I tried to focus on the dinner. The speeches. The toasts. The carefully choreographed performance of royal hospitality. But I kept finding my eyes drifting to Viktor.
The way he stood, absolutely still, like he'd forgotten how to fidget. The way his gaze swept the room in constant motion even as his body remained motionless. The intensity of his focus.
It was magnetic in a way I didn't want to examine.
Someone proposed a toast. Glasses raised. Crystal chimed against crystal. I lifted my own glass, smiling at whatever bullshit was being celebrated.
That's when I heard it.
A faint creak. Subtle. Wrong.
My eyes flicked up automatically, and I saw Viktor's do the same. We both looked at the chandelier directly above the table's center.
It trembled. Just slightly. Just enough.
Everything happened in slow motion after that.
The support bolt snapped with a sound like a gunshot. The chandelier lurched, cable singing as it gave way. Crystal and gold and iron came crashing down in a shower of glass and screaming metal.
Viktor moved.
I didn't even see him leave his position. One second he was by the wall. The next, his hand was fisted in my jacket, yanking me backward out of my chair so hard I felt my teeth click together.