Chapter 3 #2
The sound of that voice is like rough silk over steel, cultured despite the barbaric reputation, and it sends shivers down Bellamy's spine. He tightens his grip on the torch, using the bite of the wood in his palm to ground himself in reality.
"I wanted to see for myself that you were being treated properly," Bellamy manages, proud that his voice comes out steady.
"How thoughtful." Ivah's smile is sharp as a blade, and when his gaze travels slowly down Bellamy's form and back up, the prince feels stripped bare despite being fully clothed. "Though I suspect that's not really why you're here."
The casual way that Ivah looks at him is disorienting.
It’s appraising, appreciative, possessive.
It makes Bellamy’s breath catch in a way he’s not used to.
No one has ever looked at him like that, as though he’s something worth seeing rather than simply acknowledged as royalty.
Truthfully, Bellamy’s status as prince seems to be of little or no value to Ivah at all.
"And what do you think brought me?" Bellamy asks, his voice steady despite his unease.
"Curiosity." The word hangs in the air between them like a veil, heavy with implication. "You want to know why I didn't kill you."
Heat flashes across Bellamy's face, but he forces himself to hold Ivah's gaze. "The thought had occurred to me."
"I imagine it has. You've probably spent the last three days thinking of little else." Those dark eyes narrow slightly, taking in details with unnerving focus. "Lying awake at night, replaying that moment over and over, wondering what stayed my hand."
The accuracy of that observation is unsettling, as if Ivah can see straight through him to thoughts he's barely admitted to himself. Bellamy shifts uncomfortably, the movement making his torch flame dance.
"Speaking of which," Ivah continues, his tone shifting along with the seamless change of topic, "how are your wounds healing? That was quite a beating you took."
The question catches Bellamy off guard. There is mockery in it, certainly, but it's almost performative. There’s the undeniable hint of concern in Ivah's voice that he finds difficult to ignore. Is this savage warrior… worried about the damage he caused?
"I'm fine," he says quickly, instinctively raising his chin in a gesture of pride that only serves to highlight the fading bruises on his throat.
Ivah's gaze tracks to those bruises instantly, and Bellamy feels exposed under that scrutiny.
Those dark eyes catalog every detail—the yellow-green marks where strong fingers have pressed into his flesh, the way his pulse beats visibly in the hollow of his throat, the slight stiffness in how he holds his shoulders.
"Are you?" Ivah asks. "That gash on your arm looked deep, and I don't imagine your ribs appreciated my attention."
The casual way he speaks of inflicting those injuries—not with satisfaction, just stating fact—makes Bellamy's pulse race. There's something unsettling about how Ivah can discuss violence with the same tone another man might use to comment on the weather.
"I said I'm fine," Bellamy repeats, his voice sharp and firm.
He crosses his arms defensively, then immediately regrets it when the movement pulls at his still-tender ribs.
The pain is sharp enough to make him wince, and he knows Ivah doesn't miss it.
"You will have to do better than some bruises and cuts if you wish to intimidate me. "
Ivah throws back his head and laughs—a rich, genuinely amused sound that echoes off the stone walls. "Oh, little prince, I'm more than aware of that. But I'm not looking for a repeat performance."
Bellamy blinks, completely thrown off balance by the unexpected response. "What do you mean by that?"
Something shifts in Ivah's expression, the amusement fading into something more serious, almost regretful. "The marks on your skin bring me no joy." His dark eyes travel over Bellamy's form, but his expression is unreadable. "I would undo them if I could."
The admission stops Bellamy cold, his breath catching in his throat. Of all the things he'd expected from the Barbarian King, genuine regret for defeating him in combat wasn't one of them. Heat floods his face as he struggles to process this unexpected gentleness.
Does Ivah think him weak? Fragile? Some delicate flower that can't handle the realities of battle?
"I—" Bellamy starts, then stops, completely at a loss for words. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water as he tries to formulate a response to something so far outside his expectations.
Instead of responding to the observation, Bellamy forces himself to move closer to the bars, partly because he needs to regain some sense of control over the conversation and partly because something magnetic about Ivah draws him forward despite every rational thought screaming at him to retreat.
Up close, the details are even more striking. He can see the intricate designs of those tattoos—not just barbaric script and wolves and ravens, but delicate knotwork and symbols that speak of a culture far more complex than the savage reputation suggests.
"Magnificent, aren't they?" Ivah says softly, noticing where Bellamy's attention has focused.
"The tattoos?"
"The marks of my people. Each one tells a story—victories won, enemies defeated, oaths sworn." Ivah shifts slightly, the chains clinking softly, and the movement makes the tattoos seem to writhe in the flickering light. "Would you like to see the rest of them?"
The question is asked innocently enough, but there's something in Ivah's tone that sounds like a husky promise that makes Bellamy's mouth go dry.
"I—that's not why I came here."
"Isn't it?" Ivah leans forward slightly, as much as the chains allow, and his voice drops to a whisper that seems to resonate in Bellamy's blood. "Then why did you come, little prince? Really?"
Bellamy’s attention shifts to the bandages on the floor.
"Your wound," he says suddenly, grateful for the distraction from whatever dangerous territory they were approaching. "Harwick's blade…is it healing properly?"
Something flickers in Ivah's expression—surprise, perhaps, at the genuine concern in Bellamy's voice. For a moment, the antagonistic mask slips, revealing something almost vulnerable underneath.
"Worried about me, little prince?"
The pet name should be insulting, but the way Ivah says it—with that low, rumbling voice—makes it sound like an endearment instead. Bellamy's cheeks burn as he struggles to form a coherent response.
"I... we don't want you to die from infection. You're too valuable a prisoner."
"Of course." But Ivah's smile suggests he doesn't believe that explanation any more than Bellamy does.
"The wound is healing well enough. Your castle physician does good work, though he was rather nervous about treating the 'savage barbarian king.
'" The last words are spoken with a mocking that makes Bellamy wince.
"He shouldn't have—"
"Shouldn't have what? Been afraid?" Ivah's laugh is genuinely amused. "He was wise to be afraid. I could have killed him before your guards could intervene, wound or no wound."
The casual way he speaks of killing still sends ice through Bellamy's veins, but underneath the fear is something else—fascination at this creature who wears violence like other men wear armor, yet chose to spare Bellamy's life for reasons that still make no sense.
"You seem to speak of killing very easily," Bellamy observes, trying to keep his voice steady.
"It's what I'm good at." Ivah's tone holds no boasting, just simple fact. "I've been at war since I was old enough to hold a blade. Death and I are old companions."
"I want to know what you're playing at," Belly says finally. "What kind of king known for violence spares an enemy prince’s life for no reason?"
"No reason?" Ivah's eyes glitter with dangerous amusement. "Who says there was no reason?”
"You wish to make me think you suddenly grew a conscience? That taking lives suddenly has meaning to you?"
Ivah considers the question seriously, his dark eyes thoughtful. "Some deaths matter more than others. A slaver who tortures children for sport? His death means nothing to me. A soldier defending his homeland?" Ivah's gaze finds Bellamy's. "That death might weigh more heavily."
There's something in his tone that suggests deeper currents, complexities that don't match the barbaric reputation. Bellamy finds himself leaning forward, drawn despite himself into this glimpse of the man behind the myth.
"Is that why you hesitated? Because you saw me as a soldier defending his homeland rather than just an enemy?"
"Perhaps." Ivah's smile returns, but it’s more genuinely amused this time. "Or perhaps I simply found you too beautiful to kill."
Bellamy flinches as though he’s been struck, the words sending heat flooding through his entire body. Beautiful? No one has ever called him beautiful before–and certainly not in that tone of voice, low and appreciative and unmistakably male.
"I'm not—" he begins, but his voice cracks embarrassingly.
"Not what? Beautiful?" Ivah's gaze travels over Bellamy's face with that same intensity from before that had taken him so off guard.
"Green eyes like spring grass, smooth skin that's never known real hardship, that proud little chin that lifts whenever someone challenges you—oh yes, sweet Bellamy. You're very beautiful indeed."
Bellamy's entire face burns with embarrassment and something else he doesn't want to name. No one has ever spoken to him like this, certainly not a man, definitely not an enemy who should be trying to intimidate him rather than... whatever this is.
"You are—" Bellamy struggles to maintain his composure in the face of Ivah's rapt attention. "Manipulative. You think you can confuse me, entice me into setting you free, is that it? Get me close enough so you can get your hands on me again?"
Something flickers in Ivah's dark eyes—dangerous amusement mixed with something hotter, more predatory. "Oh, little prince," he says, his voice dropping to that intimate whisper, "if I got my hands on you a second time, it would not be for a fight."
The words hit Bellamy like lightning, sending his imagination spiraling into dangerous territory.
He can picture it instantly—those strong hands that had so easily overpowered him on the battlefield now gentle, exploring, claiming him in an entirely different way.
The image is so vivid, so compelling, that it steals the breath from his lungs and makes his knees weak.
"I—" Bellamy starts, then stops, his voice cracking embarrassingly. His entire body feels flushed with heat, and he can't seem to form coherent thoughts. "I should go."
The words come out breathless and shaky, his hands trembling slightly as he grips the torch. He takes a step backward, then another, as if putting distance between them might somehow restore his ability to think clearly.
"Yes," Ivah agrees, and there's rich amusement in his tone, satisfaction at having so thoroughly won this engagement. "You probably should."
But even as Bellamy forces himself to turn toward the door, he can feel those dark eyes watching him, can hear the promise in Ivah's voice echoing in his mind.
And despite every rational thought screaming at him to run, part of him desperately wants to stay and find out exactly what the Barbarian King means.