Chapter 8 #2
"Tell me," Ivah continues, rising from his throne with fluid grace, "what exactly did you think you were accomplishing? Did you honestly believe you could ride into my kingdom undetected? Or perhaps you thought I'd be so charmed by your boldness that I'd simply let you walk free?"
Bellamy bites his tongue to keep his words safely in his mouth. He can’t say what he really thought, or what he really wanted. He can’t let this man know he came all this way drawn by his own traitorous heart.
“My guards tell me you came without a fight,” Ivah continues, descending the steps slowly. There comes more laughter from the assembled men, harsh and mocking. Bellamy's jaw tightens, but he forces himself to remain silent even as humiliation burns through his veins.
"Though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," Ivah muses, circling Bellamy like a wolf studying prey. "You weren't exactly impressive on the battlefield either. What was it—thirty seconds? A minute at most before you were flat on your back, completely at my mercy?"
The memory should fill him with shame, but instead it sends unwelcome heat through Bellamy's body. Even now, even convinced that Ivah sees him as nothing more than a convenient enemy, his treacherous body responds to the recollection of being pinned beneath that powerful frame.
"Of course," Ivah continues, stopping directly in front of him, "perhaps that was your plan all along? To throw yourself at my feet and hope I'd find you entertaining enough to keep?"
The words are a perfect echo of Bellamy's deepest fears—that he's nothing more than a plaything, a momentary amusement for the Barbarian King's entertainment.
"That's not—" Bellamy begins, then cuts himself off. Anything he says will only give Ivah more ammunition, more ways to twist the knife.
"No? Then please, enlighten us. What brings the precious Prince of Mirn to my doorstep, dressed like a common merchant and sneaking through my lands like a thief?"
The hall falls silent, every eye trained on Bellamy as they wait for his answer. He can feel the weight of their attention.
"As I told your men," Bellamy says finally, his voice steady despite the tremor he feels inside, "I was conducting reconnaissance."
Ivah throws back his head and laughs—a rich, genuinely amused sound that makes Bellamy feel smaller than all the mockery combined. The guards join in the laughter now, their amusement echoing off the stone walls.
"Either you're the worst spy in history," Ivah says, his voice still warm with mirth, "or you're lying through those pretty teeth."
The endearment sends another confused spike of heat through Bellamy's body, even as his heart continues to ache. How can Ivah call him pretty in that same tone he might use to describe a particularly amusing pet?
"Guards," Ivah says without taking his gaze off Bellamy's face. "Leave us."
"Your Majesty—" one of them begins, concern clear in his voice.
"Leave. Us." The authority in Ivah's voice brooks no argument, the words cutting through the air like a blade.
The hall empties quickly, boots echoing against stone as the soldiers file out. In moments, they're alone in the vast space, the sudden quiet almost deafening after the laughter and conversation.
Bellamy has a single moment to regret everything that has led him to this point, before Ivah moves closer to him. The sound of metal against leather makes Bellamy's heart stop as Ivah draws a dagger from his hip, the blade gleaming in the torchlight.
Bellamy flinches reflexively, his bound hands jerking against their restraints even though there's nowhere to go. But instead of raising the weapon, Ivah drops to one knee before him, bringing them to eye level. His movements are deliberate, careful, as he reaches for Bellamy's wrists.
The blade slides between rope and skin with practiced precision, and the bonds fall away in neat cuts. Bellamy flexes his fingers as circulation returns to his hands, the relief immediate and overwhelming.
Ivah sets the dagger aside and takes Bellamy's freed wrists in his hands, his thumbs tracing over the raw marks left by the ropes.
Then one hand rises to cup Bellamy's face, thumb brushing across the bruise blooming on his cheek where the guard had struck him.
The touch is so gentle, so reverent, that Bellamy forgets to breathe.
"I instructed them not to hurt you," Ivah says, and though his touch remains tender, there's iron in his voice—a promise of retribution for the men who had dared to harm what was his. The genuine anger makes Bellamy's heart stutter.
Bellamy inhales sharply, unable to come to terms with what's happening. The contrast between what he'd expected and this careful gentleness leaves him reeling, hope and confusion warring in his chest.
Ivah's thumb moves to brush across Bellamy's lips with the same careful reverence, and Bellamy can't stop himself from leaning into the contact, his face flushing with desperate longing.
"Now then," Ivah says softly, his voice intimate and warm in a way that makes Bellamy's knees weak. "What do you think you're doing here, little prince?"
The pet name is spoken with such tenderness that Bellamy feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He wants to believe it means something, wants to trust in the gentle touch and warm voice, but he's been so wrong about everything else.
"I... I don't know," he whispers, because it's the only honest answer he can give.
"Liar." But there's no heat in the word, only fond affection that makes Bellamy's heart race with impossible hope.
Ivah's hand slides from his face to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair as he pulls Bellamy closer. Kneeling on the cold stone floor of the throne room, they're finally at the same height, and Bellamy can see nothing but the depths of those dark eyes.
"Try again," Ivah whispers, his thumb still tracing patterns across Bellamy's lips.
The gentle command, the warmth in those eyes, the intoxicating proximity—it all combines to shatter the last of Bellamy's defenses. If this is manipulation, if this is all part of some elaborate game, then he's already lost completely.
"I couldn't stop thinking about you," he admits, the words steadier than he feels. "I know I shouldn't have come, I know this is madness, but I couldn't stop thinking about you. I had to see you."
"Good." Ivah's smile is soft, genuine, completely unlike the sharp grins he'd worn in front of his guards. "Because I haven't been able to think about anything else."
When their lips meet, it's with desperate hunger and overwhelming relief.
Bellamy responds eagerly, his freed hands fisting in Ivah's tunic, pulling him closer despite their awkward position on the stone floor.
All his fears, all his doubts, all his terror that he'd been played for a fool—it all melts away under the fierce certainty of Ivah's kiss.
It was real. Whatever this is between them, however impossible and dangerous and utterly insane—it's real.
When they finally break apart, both breathing hard, Ivah's eyes are dark with desire and something deeper, something that makes Bellamy feel like he might actually matter to this man.
Ivah pulls back and rises to his feet, then reaches down to help Bellamy up.
But when Bellamy tries to stand, his legs are unsteady—whether from the long ride, the emotional turmoil, or the overwhelming relief of Ivah's presence, he can't tell.
He sways forward, pressing against Ivah's solid warmth, almost unable to remain upright without the support of that strong body.
Ivah's arms come around him immediately, steadying him, holding him close.
"Follow me," Ivah says, his voice rough with emotion as he keeps one arm around Bellamy's waist.
This time, Bellamy follows without hesitation.
He's crossed the line now, committed himself completely to whatever this is between them.
He doesn't need to catalog guard positions or note potential weaknesses—all he needs is to stay close to the man who just proved that his heart hadn't led him astray after all.
He doesn't dare breathe properly until they reach a heavy wooden door and Ivah ushers him inside, closing and barring it behind them. Bellamy turns around before Ivah can get any further into the room and crowds into his space, backing him against the door they just closed.
Ivah's back hits the wood and his eyes widen slightly in surprise, but then his hands are coming up to cup the sides of Bellamy's face, thumbs brushing across his cheekbones with infinite gentleness.
Before either of them can say anything, Bellamy is pushing up on his toes and licking his way into Ivah's mouth.
He's never had anyone kiss him the way Ivah does.
Like he can take him apart piece by piece with just the gentle slide of his tongue, like he has all the time in the world to learn exactly what makes Bellamy gasp and melt against him.
Ivah cradles his face like he's something precious, something that might break if handled roughly, and opens up against him like he's welcoming every breath Bellamy takes.
Ivah's body is a hard line against Bellamy's softer one—all muscle and strength and barely restrained power that Bellamy can feel thrumming under his skin.
Bellamy rucks up Ivah's tunic with shaking hands and finally, finally gets to touch the skin he's been dreaming about since the first time.
Ivah's body is a work of art, handcrafted by countless hours on the battlefield, and Bellamy wants to worship it with his hands for as long as Ivah will let him.
Ivah makes a soft sound against Bellamy's mouth when Bellamy's fingers trace the defined lines of his stomach, and the sound goes straight to Bellamy's head like the strongest wine he's ever tasted.
Ivah leans forward into the kiss, pushing off against the door, and then his hands are on Bellamy's shoulders, strong and sure, guiding him until their positions are reversed.