A broken soul.
Arion's body was a landscape of betrayal. He was a warrior, a man of action and discipline, yet here he stood, trapped between Kyon and the cold, unyielding door of the wardrobe. The oversized tunic he wore was a shroud of shame, a stark reminder of his vulnerability. Tears, hot and silent, streamed down his face, a river of grief for the man he used to be.
Kyon's eyes, dark and knowing, followed the path of each tear. A slow, predatory smile spread across his lips. He leaned in, his tongue a warm, shocking touch as he licked a single tear from Arion's cheek. The action was so intimate, so possessive, that it stole the breath from Arion's lungs.
"Salty," Kyon murmured, his voice a low, dark rumble. "A taste of your sorrow. I find it… intoxicating."
Arion's hands, in a desperate attempt to push him away, found their way to Kyon's chest. But the contact only served to ignite the fire of Kyon's possessiveness. His hands, so gentle just moments before, now roamed with an infuriating purpose. One traced the line of Arion's jaw, then moved lower, his fingers tangling in the fabric of the tunic. He pulled the oversized garment taut, revealing the curve of Arion's waist, the soft skin of his belly.
His touch was an electric current, a jolt of pleasure and pain. He moved his hand lower, his fingers tracing the phantom ache between Arion's thighs, a silent acknowledgment of the lingering effects of the night before. Arion let out a choked gasp, his legs threatening to give way beneath him. The shame was a living thing, a coiled serpent in his gut.
"So sensitive," Kyon whispered, his lips brushing against Arion's ear. "It seems your body remembers every detail. Every thrust. Every moan. It remembers how good it felt to be used."
Just as the words hung in the air, a sharp, polite knock echoed through the room. "Your Highness?" a crisp voice called from the other side. "Pardon the interruption, but the Council awaits your presence. The meeting is set to begin in five minutes."
Kyon's head snapped up, the predatory gleam in his eyes replaced by the calm, serene mask of the prince. He took a single step back, releasing Arion from his grasp. The sudden absence of his touch was a cold, empty void. "Tell them I will be there shortly," he called out, his voice a perfect, unruffled baritone.
He turned back to Arion, the possessive smirk returning. "Duty calls," he said, the words a cruel mockery of their situation. He reached out and, with a gentle touch, smoothed the fabric of the tunic over Arion's body. "Don't go anywhere. I'll be back to finish our conversation. You'll be right here, waiting for me. And believe me, Arion, your body will have a lot more to say."