The knock on the door, the butler's voice—they were a lifeline, a brutal but effective interruption to the humiliating torment. As Kyon stepped away, the air in the room seemed to rush back in, cold and sharp. Arion's body, which had been humming with a mixture of terror and shameful arousal, now felt hollow and empty.
Kyon, ever the master of facades, became the prince once more. His hand, which had just been roaming over Arion's body, now adjusted the sleeve of his tunic with a practiced ease. The intense, burning scent of amber that had filled the room dissipated, replaced by the soft, deceptive floral notes of white tea. He was a perfect portrait of a man, poised and unruffled, on his way to a political meeting. He looked at Arion, a final, chillingly serene smile on his face.
"Don't go anywhere," he repeated, his words a silk-wrapped threat. "I will be back."
And then he was gone.
The click of the door was a final, damning sound. Arion stood in the middle of the room, alone but not free. The shame clung to him like a second skin, a suffocating presence. He could still feel the phantom touch of Kyon's hands, the cruel memory of his words, the humiliating knowledge of his own body's betrayal. He looked at the clothes in the wardrobe, no longer a comfort but a symbol of his imprisonment.
He had to get out. He couldn't stay in this room, steeped in the scent and memory of his degradation. Driven by a primal need to flee, to escape the suffocating presence of Kyon, he grabbed a pair of the prince's trousers from the wardrobe. They were far too big, but they were a quick, silent escape. He pulled them on, the soft fabric a mockery of the dignity he had lost.
Peeking out into the hallway, Arion's heart hammered against his ribs. The corridor was empty, a lucky stroke. He moved swiftly, his bare feet silent on the polished floor. He felt like a criminal, a thief in the night, stealing a moment of freedom from his captor. Every shadow felt like a guard, every creak of the floorboards a shout. He reached his own room, a wave of relief washing over him as he slipped inside.
Once the door was shut, he shed Kyon's clothes as if they were poison. He didn't bother to dress himself; he ran to the bathing chamber. The sound of water filling the tub was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. He stripped, his eyes falling on the mark on his belly—a permanent, mocking reminder of the night he had been taken. With a sob, he plunged himself into the water, scrubbing his skin raw, desperate to wash away not just Kyon's scent, but the shame, the helplessness, and the sickening knowledge that part of him had enjoyed it.