Kyon's triumphant smile was a blade. He had just humiliated his brother and publicly claimed Arion as his, yet the younger prince offered a hand and spoke with a deceptive gentleness. Arion, however, was in no mood for gentleness. He was a pawn, a tool, and he was tired of being used. He flinched away from Kyon's outstretched hand, a silent but firm refusal.
"Don't," Arion said, his voice raw and filled with a profound weariness. "Don't pretend to care. You just used me to get back at your brother. Leave me alone."
Kyon's hand didn't drop. Instead, he took a step closer, his scent—a rich, intoxicating mix of white tea and burning amber—wafting over Arion, a suffocating, intoxicating presence. His hand, warm and strong, gently took Arion's arm. It wasn't a demanding grip, but a possessive, comforting touch that seemed to melt Arion's resistance. The subtle pheromones Kyon released were a silent command, a chemical message that Arion's body, despite his mind's fierce objections, was all too eager to obey.
Arion's breath hitched, and a wave of heat washed over him, a deep blush creeping up his neck and face. His body, bruised and battered by Cassian's brutality, seemed to crave the soothing presence of the very man who had caused this mess. He wanted to pull away, to scream, to lash out, but his limbs felt heavy, his will sapped by the overwhelming scent and touch.
Kyon, sensing his surrender, didn't smirk. He simply held Arion's arm and began to lead him away from the training yard, his movements a calm, possessive command. Arion followed, his head bowed in a mixture of shame and resignation. He had no control, no choice. He was a soldier, a warrior, but he was also a soul caught between two brothers who saw him as a prize to be won. He had faced down a dragon and emerged victorious, but he knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that this battle, this war of wills and manipulation, was a fight he was already destined to lose.