— [Warning: This chapter includes sensual scenes and intense romantic tension. Reader discretion advised.] —
The torchlight flickered against the marble pillars of the royal bathhouse, casting warm golden hues across the carved stone walls. Steam curled from the surface of the water, thick and fragrant with herbs—lavender, sage, something sharper Caelan couldn't place. He hadn't meant to be here. Not tonight.
But he couldn't sleep. Not with Elion in his mind.
Caelan had tried every means of distraction—training in the courtyard long past sunset, drowning himself in reports and intelligence scrolls, even pacing the moonlit hallways of the palace until his footsteps echoed like whispers. None of it worked.
So now, standing by the edge of the private bath where the warm air kissed his skin and mist rose like breath from the gods, he found himself hesitating.
A ripple stirred the water.
"Elion," Caelan said, voice lower than he intended.
Elion sat halfway submerged in the water, steam clinging to his bare skin like silk. His silver hair was wet and slicked back, exposing his elegant neck and high cheekbones. His golden eyes locked onto Caelan's like a spell.
"I thought you'd come," Elion said softly, almost like a challenge.
Caelan took a breath and stepped closer. "You were expecting me?"
"No," Elion murmured, "but I hoped you would."
Their eyes didn't break. Something taut twisted between them—like a thread that had stretched for too long and was ready to snap. Caelan unbuckled the top layer of his armor without a word. The metal clinked softly as he set it down.
"You're not afraid someone might see you?" Elion asked, his lips curving just slightly.
"I'm the prince," Caelan said, voice steady. "Let them watch."
Elion's gaze flicked lower, to Caelan's hands, his chest, the subtle tension in his shoulders as he pulled off his tunic. "Brave words," he said. "But I know what fear smells like."
Caelan stepped into the water. Heat enveloped his body, made his skin pulse with awareness. He settled across from Elion, far enough to maintain control, but not so far that it could fool either of them.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was thick, charged, breathing.
"You left in the middle of the council meeting," Elion said finally. "You never do that."
Caelan's jaw flexed. "They were talking in circles. And I was... distracted."
"By me?" Elion asked. He already knew the answer. His eyes gleamed.
"Yes," Caelan said, blunt.
The air in the bathhouse grew hotter, the silence more dangerous.
"You shouldn't say things like that to me," Elion murmured.
"Why not?" Caelan leaned forward slightly, water lapping at his chest. "Because you'll pretend not to want me? Or because you'll stop pretending?"
Elion stilled.
The moment hung—then snapped.
Elion moved first, water shifting around him in quiet waves. He crossed the distance between them, slowly, deliberately, until he was in Caelan's space. His hand came up, fingers brushing the edge of Caelan's jaw.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Your Highness," he whispered.
Caelan's hand caught Elion's wrist, holding him there. "I've been trained for war since I was seven. I know danger."
"This isn't war," Elion said. His voice had gone softer now, almost raw. "This is surrender."
Caelan's breath hitched.
"You're not the only one who's been distracted," Elion continued. His thumb brushed the hollow of Caelan's throat. "I see you watching me in the strategy chambers. I feel it when I pass you in the halls. The restraint. The tension. You think I haven't noticed?"
Caelan didn't answer. He couldn't.
Elion leaned closer, their foreheads almost touching. "Say something."
"You drive me mad," Caelan said hoarsely. "Every time I look at you, it's like something inside me slips. I don't know what it is. But it's not going away."
Elion's lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, he closed the distance.
The kiss was slow—hot and consuming, like something long denied finally allowed to breathe. Caelan pulled Elion closer with a sharp, needy grip, hands sliding down the curve of his back. The water between them sloshed, forgotten.
Elion's mouth was soft but insistent. Caelan tasted mint and magic and something wild beneath it all. He felt the moment Elion let go, when the careful mask cracked and the truth bled through.
Want.
Elion pushed Caelan back against the stone edge of the bath, straddling his lap. Their bodies collided, slick and heated from the water, and the sound that escaped Caelan's throat was almost a growl. Elion responded with a bite to his lip—sharp, teasing.
"Tell me to stop," Elion breathed.
"No," Caelan said.
Elion smiled.
Their hands roamed. The kiss deepened. Tension unwound like a knotted rope finally released. Every inch of skin burned. Every breath shared was fire and ice.
But then—
Footsteps. Voices echoing distantly beyond the stone doors.
Elion froze. Caelan's arms tightened instinctively.
"Elion—"
"I know," Elion whispered. He rested his forehead against Caelan's. "Not now. Not like this."
A heartbeat passed. Then another.
Caelan exhaled, chest rising and falling. He let Elion slip back into his side of the bath. The moment broke, but it didn't shatter. It was only postponed.
"This isn't over," Caelan said.
Elion's golden eyes met his again, and this time there was no teasing, no mask.
"I know."