Chapter 5
Two weeks have passed since Bellamy's first visit to the dungeons, and his nightly conversations with Ivah have become as essential to him as breathing. He tells himself it's reconnaissance, that he's learning valuable information about his enemy, but the lie grows thinner with each passing night.
Tonight feels different somehow. There's an electricity in the air, a tension that has nothing to do with storms and everything to do with the way Ivah's eyes follow his every movement, the way his own pulse quickens when those dark eyes meet his.
"You look troubled tonight, little prince," Ivah observes from his usual spot against the wall.
"The council is pressuring my mother to execute you," Bellamy says without preamble. He's grown comfortable with honesty in this strange space between them, where titles and kingdoms seem to matter less than the truth in each other's eyes.
"And what do you think of this idea?"
Bellamy moves closer to the bars, close enough that he can see the intricate details of Ivah's tattoos in the lamplight. "I think it would be a waste."
"Of what?"
"Of... you." The admission comes out rougher than he intends, loaded with implications he's not ready to examine.
Ivah's smile is slow and knowing. "Careful, beautiful. You're starting to sound fond of your prisoner."
Heat floods Bellamy's face at the endearment, at the way it rolls off Ivah's tongue so easily. "Don't call me that."
"Why not? It's true." Ivah shifts forward slightly, the chains allowing him just enough movement to lean toward the bars. "You are beautiful, Prince of Mirn. Especially when you blush."
The observation makes Bellamy's cheeks burn even hotter, and he has to look away from those knowing eyes. This is dangerous territory—more dangerous than swords or armies or political intrigue. This is the kind of danger that could destroy him from the inside out.
"You're doing it again," he says quietly.
"Doing what?"
"Looking at me like..." Bellamy trails off, unable to finish the thought.
"Like what, little prince?"
"Like you want to devour me."
The words hang in the air between them, heavy with truth and desire. Ivah's eyes darken, and when he speaks, his voice is lower, rougher.
"Perhaps because I do."
Bellamy's breath catches. He should leave.
He should turn around right now and never come back, should forget these midnight conversations and the way Ivah's presence fills every corner of his thoughts.
But instead, he finds himself reaching for the key ring at his belt—the master keys that can open any lock in the castle, including the one that stands between him and the most dangerous man in three kingdoms.
"What are you doing?" Ivah asks, though there's no surprise in his voice, only a kind of satisfied anticipation.
"Something incredibly stupid," Bellamy admits, but his hands don't stop moving. The key turns in the lock with a soft click that seems to echo through his bones.
Bellamy pushes the door open and steps inside.
The cell feels different from within—smaller, more intimate, charged with Ivah's presence in a way that makes the air thick and difficult to breathe. Bellamy takes one step forward, then another, hyperaware of every sound, every shadow, every breath.
He moves toward where Ivah sits, reaching for the shackles around his wrists with trembling fingers. "Let me—"
The words die in his throat as his fingers find broken metal instead of solid iron. The shackles are split clean through, hanging loose around Ivah's wrists like decorative bracelets. Bellamy's eyes widen in shock as he looks up, meeting Ivah's dark gaze.
"Surprise," Ivah murmurs, and then he moves.
Strong hands catch Bellamy before he can even think to pull away, and suddenly he's being driven backward, his feet tangling as Ivah's full weight bears him down to the straw-covered floor.
The impact drives the air from his lungs, and for a moment he can only lie there, stunned, staring up into those burning eyes.
Ivah settles over him, one powerful hand braced beside his head while the other comes to rest against his throat, thumb finding the rapid flutter of his pulse. The touch is gentle but unmistakably possessive, a reminder of just how easily those hands could end him.
Terror and arousal war in Bellamy's chest, his heart pounding so hard he's certain Ivah can feel it thundering against his palm.
This is what the Barbarian King truly is—not the civilized conversationalist of their midnight talks, but something primal and dangerous, something that could break him without effort.
Bellamy breathes slowly, deliberately, trying to calm the frantic racing of his heart while Ivah studies him with those dark, considering eyes.
"I could kill you right now," Ivah says, his voice barely above a whisper. His thumb traces the line of Bellamy's pulse, a feather-light caress that makes him shiver. "Snap your neck. Take your kingdom from you in an instant."
Bellamy swallows hard, feeling the motion against Ivah's palm. "You could do that," he agrees, his voice steadier than he feels.
"But you don't think I will."
"No. I don't think you will."
Ivah's head tilts slightly, predatory curiosity flickering in his expression. "You sound very sure of that, little prince."
"You promised," Bellamy says quietly. "You promised you wouldn't hurt me again."
Something shifts in Ivah's face at the reminder, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "No," he agrees, his thumb still tracing patterns on Bellamy's throat. "I don't want to hurt you. There's much more I want from you than that."
The admission hangs between them, loaded with promise and heat that makes Bellamy's breath catch.
"What do you want?" Bellamy asks, though part of him fears the answer.
Ivah leans closer, close enough that Bellamy can feel the whisper of breath against his lips. "What do you want, beautiful? What did you think you were doing, coming into my cell by yourself? Putting yourself within reach of my hands?"
Bellamy's mouth goes dry. "I don't know."
"Liar." The word is fond rather than harsh. "What did you think would happen when you stepped through that door? What did you want to happen?"
Bellamy draws in a sharp breath, his heart hammering against his ribs as he stares up into those dark eyes. The truth tears itself from his throat before he can stop it.
"I want you to take me apart."
Ivah's eyes go black with desire, and then he kisses him.
It's nothing like the chaste kisses Bellamy has received from suitable ladies at court functions.
This is fire and hunger and barely restrained violence, Ivah's mouth claiming his with devastating certainty.
His lips are warm and firm, moving against Bellamy's with a skill that speaks of experience and confidence.
When Ivah's tongue traces the seam of his lips, Bellamy opens for him without hesitation, a soft sound escaping his throat as Ivah deepens the kiss.
Ivah tastes like danger and dark promises, like ice and steel and something masculine that makes Bellamy's heart beat faster.
His free hand tangles in Bellamy's hair, angling his head to take the kiss deeper still, until Bellamy feels consumed by it, until every nerve ending is on fire and he can't remember how to breathe.
When they finally break apart, both gasping, Ivah's forehead rests against his, their breaths mingling in the space between them.
"You can still leave," Ivah says, his voice rough as gravel. "Walk away right now, and I won't stop you."
Bellamy stares up at him, at this man who could destroy kingdoms, who has destroyed kingdoms, who chose to spare one enemy prince for reasons he doesn't fully understand.
He thinks of duty and honor and everything he's supposed to be.
Then he thinks of the emptiness in his chest that only seems to fill when he's here, with this impossible man.
"I'm not going anywhere," he whispers.
The words seal his fate.
Ivah helps him up from the straw-covered floor, his hands gentle but sure as they guide Bellamy across the small space to where a simple cot lies against the far wall.
His grip on Bellamy's hips is possessive, directing him with quiet authority until Bellamy finds himself pressed down onto the rough bedding, knees meeting the straw-stuffed mattress.
A hand brushes down his side, coming to rest on his hip, while another traces a path down the center of his slender chest and over his belly before moving lower still.
Heat suffuses his skin from fingertips to ears when he feels Ivah's large hand cup his groin, applying only the lightest pressure, and Bellamy bites his lip to stifle the needy sound that winds its way up from deep in his throat.
He leans into the touch, chasing the heat of the king's broad palm.
Ivah makes a sound of his own that falls somewhere between amusement and surprise. "I didn't expect you to be so eager for it," he says.
Bellamy doesn't have a chance to object; without any warning he's pushed down the rest of the way, the position forcing him to grip the sides of the cot in order to remain standing.
The hand that has been between his legs moves to the catch of his trousers and pulls hard, nearly jerking him off balance anyway.
Bellamy yelps before he thinks better of it and claps a hand over his own mouth.
He knows what's coming next, and while the thought of it terrifies him, it also fills him with a wild thrill that he can't ignore.
Sparing a hand, he hurriedly pushes at his trousers until they're gathered around his thighs.
A heartbeat later he hears the answering rustle of cloth and the creak of leather ties being pulled from their bindings behind him, and he swallows hard.
His fingers dig into the wood and he braces himself.