Chapter 9
Bellamy wakes to sunlight streaming through tall windows and the unfamiliar sensation of being completely warm.
For a moment, he lies still, disoriented by sleep and the soft silk sheets that are nothing like the rough linen of his own bed.
Then awareness returns in a rush—where he is, what he's done, whose arm is wrapped around his waist like a possessive claim.
Ivah.
The name settles in his chest like a prayer and a curse all at once.
Bellamy turns carefully, drinking in the sight of the Barbarian King asleep beside him.
In the soft morning light, with his dark hair falling across his forehead and his breathing deep and even, Ivah looks almost peaceful.
The harsh lines of command and violence are smoothed away, leaving behind something that seems impossible for someone with so much blood on his hands.
Bellamy lets his hand drift across the expanse of Ivah's bare back, fingers tracing the scars and muscle with reverent touch.
He tries to tell himself this is a horrible mistake.
That he's been seduced, manipulated, brainwashed by a master strategist who sees him as nothing more than a political asset and source of military intelligence.
But even as the thoughts form, he doesn't believe them. The way Ivah had touched him last night—gentle and desperate and utterly without artifice—hadn't felt like manipulation. It had felt like worship.
"What are you thinking about so loudly?" Ivah murmurs without opening his eyes, his voice rough with sleep and faintly amused.
Heat crawls up Bellamy's neck at being caught. "I... I shouldn't trust you."
"You're absolutely right," Ivah agrees, opening one dark eye to look at him. "You shouldn't."
Before Bellamy can process that response, strong hands are pressing him back into the silk sheets, and Ivah's mouth is on his, hot and demanding and utterly thorough.
The kiss steals every rational thought from his head, reducing him to sensation and need and the overwhelming rightness of Ivah's weight above him.
When they finally break apart, both breathing hard, Ivah looks down at him with something like wonder. Bellamy's blonde hair is splayed across the dark pillow, his green eyes bright and dazed, his lips swollen from kissing.
"You need to go," Ivah says quietly, though his voice holds regret.
"Yes," Bellamy agrees, his heart hammering against his ribs.
But even as he says the word, he's surging upward to capture Ivah's mouth again, pouring all his confusion and desire and desperate longing into the contact. Ivah responds eagerly before pulling away with visible effort.
“I’ll never make it back to the border unnoticed,” Bellamy says, rubbing at where his wrists are still sore. “Your soldiers–”
"I will allow you safe passage through my kingdom," Ivah says, his forehead resting against Bellamy's. "Both to enable you to get home... and to enable you to return, if you so choose. I will make it known you are under my protection."
Bellamy's throat goes dry at the implications. "To return? Have you lost your mind?"
"For once in my life," Ivah says, his dark eyes intense and certain, "I feel like the sanest man in the room."
The conviction in his voice sends shivers through Bellamy's body. Slowly, reluctantly, they disentangle themselves from the sheets and each other. Ivah helps him dress with careful, intimate touches—fastening buckles, smoothing fabric, pressing soft kisses to newly covered skin.
The walk to the stables passes in tense silence. Bellamy is acutely aware of every servant and guard they pass, certain that their secret is written across his face for all to see. But no one meets his eyes, no one shows any sign of suspicion or interest.
Tempest whickers softly when she sees him, nuzzling his hand with obvious relief. She's been well cared for—groomed and fed and watered—though Bellamy can see she's eager to be gone from this place.
"This is dangerous," Bellamy says as he checks her tack, not looking at Ivah. "Nothing good can come from it."
"If you say so," Ivah replies, but there's amusement in his voice.
When Bellamy finally turns to face him, Ivah catches his hand and brings it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. The gesture is tender and possessive all at once.
"You know where I am," Ivah murmurs against his skin, "if you want to find me."
Bellamy mounts Tempest with hands that aren't quite steady, looking down at the man who has turned his world upside down in such a short amount of time.
"Goodbye, Ivah."
"Until we meet again, sweet Bellamy."
Bellamy spurs Tempest forward before he can do something foolish like dismount and kiss Ivah goodbye properly. He doesn't look back as they ride through the gates, though he can feel those dark eyes watching him until he's out of sight.
The journey home passes in a blur of conflicted thoughts and impossible longings. By the time he reaches Mirn's borders, Bellamy has almost convinced himself it was all a dream—the passionate night, the tender morning, the promise of safe passage that hangs around his neck like a secret.
Almost.
It's only when he's safely back in Mirn territory that the full weight of what he's done settles over him.
He's just spent the night with his kingdom's greatest enemy.
He's accepted a token of protection that could be seen as evidence of collaboration or treason.
He's compromised himself and possibly his people for the sake of feelings he can barely name, let alone justify.
The rational part of his mind knows he should throw the seal away, should ride straight to his mother and confess everything, should beg forgiveness and accept whatever punishment awaits him.
Instead, he presses his hand against his chest, feeling the warm metal through the fabric of his shirt, and urges Tempest toward home.
Harwick is waiting in the castle courtyard when Bellamy arrives, his weathered face set in lines of worry and suspicion. The general takes one look at Bellamy's travel-stained clothes and disheveled appearance and his expression darkens further.
"Where have you been?" he demands without preamble.
Bellamy dismounts and hands Tempest's reins to a waiting groom, buying himself a moment to compose his features. "Riding. I needed to think."
"For over a day? Without telling anyone where you were going?"
Has it been that long? Bellamy tries to calculate the time—when he left the castle, the night he spent with Ivah, the journey back—and realizes with a sick feeling that it's well past midday. He's been gone far longer than any casual ride would justify.
"I'm sorry," he says, which is true if inadequate. "I didn't mean to worry anyone."
"The Queen sent search parties to look for you. Half the kingdom is out combing the countryside because their prince disappeared without a trace." Harwick's voice is carefully controlled, but Bellamy can hear the anger underneath. "So I'll ask again—where have you been?"
Before Bellamy can answer, Harwick steps closer, his sharp eyes focusing on something that makes his frown deepen. "What happened to your face?"
Bellamy's hand moves instinctively to his cheek, where the guard's strike has left a purpling bruise. "Tree branch," he says quickly. "I was riding through the forest and didn't see it in time."
Harwick's eyes narrow. The lie is weak and they both know it—the mark is too precise, too clearly the shape of knuckles rather than wood. But he doesn't call Bellamy on it directly.
"I see," Harwick says slowly. Then, before Bellamy can react, the general's weathered hand shoots out and pulls aside the collar of Bellamy's shirt.
The exposure is brief, but it's enough. Harwick's eyes widen as he takes in the constellation of marks scattered across Bellamy's throat and collarbone—bruises of an entirely different nature, dark and damning and impossible to explain away as accidents.
Bellamy smacks Harwick's hand away with more force than necessary, yanking his collar back into place. Heat floods his face as he glares at the older man.
"I'm fine," he snaps. "It's none of your concern."
"Isn't it?" Harwick raises both eyebrows, his expression a mixture of alarm and something that might be understanding. "You often make your welfare my concern, lad. Especially when you come back from mysterious overnight trips looking like you've been—"
"There's nothing to be worried about," Bellamy interrupts, his voice sharp with defensive anger. "I told you, I went riding. I needed to clear my head after everything that's happened."
Harwick studies his face for a long moment, clearly weighing whether to push the issue. Finally, he nods, but the suspicion in his eyes hasn't dimmed.
"Very well," he says carefully. "But next time you feel the need for... extended solitude, you take an escort. I don't care what kind of thinking you need to do. The risk isn't worth it."
The way he emphasizes certain words makes it clear he doesn't believe a word of Bellamy's story, but he's choosing not to press—for now.
"Understood," Bellamy replies, relieved to be moving away from dangerous territory.
"Good. Now go clean up and report to your mother. She's been worried sick." Harwick pauses, then adds quietly, "And Bellamy? Be careful. Some mistakes can't be undone."
The warning sends ice through Bellamy's veins, but he forces himself to nod calmly. "Of course."
Bellamy heads for the castle, feeling Harwick's eyes on his back until he disappears through the main doors. Once he's safely in his chambers with the door locked behind him, he sags against the wall and lets out a shaky breath.
Harwick knows something. Maybe not the full truth, but enough to be suspicious, enough to be concerned. The general has known him since childhood, has watched him grow from boy to man, and is far too experienced in reading people to be easily fooled.
He's done it. He's lied to Harwick, to his people, to everyone who trusts him to put their welfare above his own desires. He's betrayed every principle he was raised to uphold, and for what? One night with a man who is, by every measure that matters, his enemy.
But even as self-recrimination floods through him, even as he hates himself for the lies and the deception, he can't bring himself to regret it.
Because beneath his shirt, something burns like a brand against his chest—not a physical token, but the memory of Ivah's touch, his voice, his promise of safe passage.
For the first time in weeks, the ache in his chest feels less like an open wound and more like hope.