Aurein's POV
I exhaled slowly, my breath trembling as my heart slammed violently against my ribs, my thoughts spiraling the instant my finger brushed against something warm.
I froze.
Carefully, I lifted my gaze to the General's face. He was still asleep—deep, unguarded, utterly unaware. I leaned closer and gently blew across his cheek, holding my breath as I watched for any reaction.
There was none.
He did not stir.
So he truly had no idea.
I'm not doing anything wrong, I told myself, swallowing hard. I just want to touch you. We are lovers... aren't we?
My throat tightened as I looked back down, realizing how far my hand had already slipped inside his trousers. I pushed a little deeper, until warmth enveloped my entire palm—and then my fingers finally closed around it.
The very thing I had been aiming for.
Hoping for.
My breath hitched. My heartbeat thundered in my ears as I gently pressed, testing, feeling the weight and heat of him. Tension, thrill, and raw excitement collided inside my chest. I had seen the General's manhood more times than I could count—but I had never dared to touch it.
Not until now.
Suddenly, I felt movement.
It shifted beneath my hand, and his hardness began to grow, slowly but unmistakably, as though responding to me alone. My fingers trembled.
I swallowed hard.
It felt alive—like a restrained beast with a will of its own, something powerful coiled and waiting. The more I held him, the more he reacted, swelling as if angered by restraint, awakened by contact.
Panic flickered through me.
I loosened my grip slightly, afraid I had gone too far—afraid I might have woken him. I lifted my eyes again, scanning his face.
His eyes were still closed.
"Are you awake?" I whispered.
There was no answer.
I released a shaky breath and let my attention fall back to him.
This time, I let my fingers move.
I traced it slowly, reverently, stroking his length with deliberate care. I felt the ridges beneath my fingertips, the subtle swell of veins—so different from my own. Where mine was smooth, his was carved with strength, wrapped in tense, pulsing lines that made my head spin.
I caressed him with all four fingers, slow and gentle, mapping every contour. The curve. The firmness. The undeniable power beneath my touch. Even the softened sensitivity of the tip made my breath catch.
Then my fingertip brushed something slick.
Warm.
Sticky.
Smooth.
I froze again.
There was only a small amount, but I could feel it—seeping, gathering, slowly slipping from the narrow slit at the head of him, as though his body had already begun answering a question I hadn't meant to ask.
My pulse roared.
An outrageous thought crossed my mind, so bold it made my stomach flip. I swallowed hard at the idea—but I wanted it.
I wanted to try.
There was no turning back now. I had already crossed a line I had never dared approach before, and my body burned with the need to know how it felt.
Slowly, I withdrew my hand from his trousers.
My index finger glistened in the dim light, damp with a faint whitish sheen.
I stared at it.
I remembered the things I had read—books I should never have opened, pages that spoke of intimacy in hushed, forbidden detail. I remembered a line about tasting... about curiosity... about desire crossing the final boundary.
My breath shuddered.
And this time, I didn't pull away.
As I slowly lifted my hand toward my mouth, my entire focus narrowed to my dipped finger—to the fluid clinging to it, the warmth that had come from the General.
My lips parted. I let my tongue slip out just slightly, and when my finger reached it, I licked the tip carefully, slowly, as though tasting something forbidden, something I was not meant to know.
I froze the instant the taste registered.
I stared at my damp finger.
I had imagined it would be sweet—just as the books described, as if it were some secret delicacy meant to be swallowed with desire. But the truth was different. It was faintly salty.
So this was what it tasted like.
I had done things alone before—things I barely admitted to myself—but I had never dared to taste my own. Yet somehow, tasting someone else's... tasting his... felt natural. Intimate. Acceptable in a way I could not explain.
Slowly, I lifted the opening of his trousers. Carefully, reverently, I peeked inside.
More of it glistened there.
My lips parted again, almost without my permission. I caught myself licking them, a sudden urge rising—an instinctive desire to clean it away with my tongue.
I had never imagined myself doing this. Never pictured craving something so raw, so unrestrained. And yet now, the want burned vividly inside me—an urge to explore something wild, something I had never dared before.
I had always known my own body. But wanting someone else like this—needing them—was new. Why did I crave on something that I already have in the first place? Why did my body ache for what was not mine?
The question barely mattered.
I wanted it. And that was answer enough.
I glanced back at the General. He was still asleep.
Or was he?
Was he allowing this? Letting me explore without embarrassment—pretending not to know?
I released a deep, trembling breath and looked back down. This time, I felt braver than I ever thought possible. My fingers lifted the fabric further, slowly uncovering him inch by inch, as though handling something impossibly fragile.
And when I finally revealed him completely, my breath caught in my throat.
The sight alone made me feel dizzy—overwhelmed—as though my mouth were already filled, as though my body had forgotten how to breathe.
The amber glow of the lantern bathed him in warm light, turning him into something unreal—perfect. Like a painting crafted to be admired endlessly, something mesmerizing, something that demanded attention and rewarded it endlessly. I could have stared forever and never grown tired.
Underneath his clothes... only I could see this.
It shifted suddenly.
I flinched, heart lurching in panic, and immediately looked up at him.
But his eyes remained closed. His breathing steady. Peaceful. As though he were dreaming.
So I continued.
Using my thumb, I gently gathered the fluid beading there, scooping it up until a pearly white sheen coated my fingertip.
I tasted it again.
This time, I didn't hesitate.
My eyes closed as a strange, intoxicating rush washed through me. It felt as though a part of him had entered me—not just my body, but something deeper. Something that touched my soul.
I felt my own breath ghosting over my finger, shallow and unsteady.
The sensation built, unfamiliar and overwhelming—something I had never felt before, something that made my limbs weak.
Then I opened my eyes, suddenly aware of a sharp, insistent ache.
I looked down at 'mine'.
And froze.
I hadn't noticed—hadn't realized—but I had already released more than I thought possible. Heat spread inside my trousers, evidence of how far I had gone without even touching myself.
I had been so focused on him... I had forgotten my own body entirely.
My hand slipped inside my trousers, and the sensation startled me—it felt almost as though I had spilled something uncontrollably. But this was different. Warmer. Thicker.
When I wrapped my hand around mine, it felt different than I remembered.
Smaller.
Was it because I had just held him? Because after touching his, mine felt diminished in comparison?
I withdrew my hand quickly, breath shaking, and an uncontrollable urge surged through me. I pressed my hips together, harder, again and again.
Something spilled from me—something I hadn't meant to release.
"Mmfff—" I muffled a broken sound as my body twitched violently.
I clapped a hand over my mouth, panic flaring as I forced myself to stay silent, terrified I might have woken him.
My eyes dropped.
There it was.
A dark stain blooming across my trousers.
I dared to peek again.
More liquid had spilled this time—thicker now, undeniable. As though my body had betrayed me entirely, releasing itself without my hands ever truly guiding it.
The realization sent a shiver through me.
It was intoxicating. Addictive in a way I had never imagined possible.
My gaze drifted back to the General's manhood. In the dim light, I could see it clearly now—the fluid slowly slipping from the narrow slit, trailing down his skin in a thin, white line.
The sight alone pressed heat against my body, making my breath hitch.
I wanted to do it.
To truly do it—to take it into my mouth and taste it as a whole.
The thought alone made my pulse race, but fear followed just as quickly. I didn't know how. What if I did something wrong? What if I hurt him—bit him by accident?
The humiliation alone would destroy me.
No. Not like this. Not now.
For now, this was enough—to explore, to feel, to know the taste of him. I wanted my first time to be with him awake, with his guidance, with his voice steadying me. Not in secret. Not in fear.
So I chose restraint.
Carefully, I gathered what remained at the tip with my fingers, lifting it slowly, reverently, and drew my fingers into my mouth, sucking away every trace until he was clean again.
Only then did I gently cover him, restoring his trousers as though nothing had happened—careful, deliberate, respectful.
I released a long, unsteady breath and shifted closer, wrapping my arms around him, pressing myself against his warmth.
The fire inside me still burned fiercely, my body refusing to settle. I could still feel it—evidence of my arousal lingering, slow and uncontrollable—and I had no idea how to make it stop.
So I closed my eyes.
I focused on breathing. On calming myself. On grounding my thoughts.
I didn't even know how I would clean myself after this.
"I'm sorry for what I did, General Voltaire," I whispered softly into the quiet. "I didn't want to take advantage of you. I was just... curious. Please don't be angry with me. I love you," I said.
And then I held him tighter, hoping sleep would come before my thoughts did.
* * *
Voltaire's POV
I opened my eyes to a world returned to stillness.
The rain had long since faded, leaving only the soft chorus of crickets outside my hut, the cool breath of night slipping through the cracks in the wood, and the gentle flicker of the lantern casting gold and shadow across the walls. Everything felt hushed, reverent—like the world itself was holding its breath.
I turned my head slowly.
Aurein lay against me, his head resting on my chest, his breathing deep and even. Peaceful. Unguarded. The sight of him there loosened something in me I did not know how to name.
A smile curved at my lips as I lifted a hand and brushed my thumb along his cheek carefully.
"I'm not angry with you, Aurein," I whispered. "I love you too," I said.
The truth was—I had never truly been asleep.
I had felt everything. Every hesitant movement. Every pause where he had held his breath, afraid to wake me. Every gentle exploration he thought was secret. I had heard every word he murmured, sensed every curiosity he wrestled with, every boundary he tested with trembling restraint.
I chose not to wake.
I let him believe I slept because I knew—if he realized I was watching—embarrassment would claim him. Fear would close him off. He would retreat from discovering himself, from understanding what his body and heart were trying to tell him.
From my side of that silence, it was my first time as well.
To be held by another man.
To be held by a prince.
The thought alone was enough to send a slow, dangerous thrill through me—exhilarating and frightening all at once. Exhilarating because it was uncharted territory. Frightening because I knew myself well enough to understand this truth: if either of us lost control, restraint would become impossible. We would be reckless. Endless. Unable to stop.
I swallowed as I stared up at the ceiling, my fingers threading gently through Aurein's hair.
How had it come to this?
I had never loved a man before him. I had never even allowed one to touch me. Women, yes—those I desired, those I chose. But men? Never. And yet here he was, exposed to me in ways no one had ever been, and instead of discomfort, I felt awe.
I did not want to claim him.
I did not want to cage him with want or make it seem as though I had taken a prince prisoner beneath my roof. I wanted this to be simple. Honest. Warm. Mutual.
Nothing more.
I was relieved he had not dared to go further—to cross a line neither of us was ready to cross. If he had tried, I would have stopped him.
Not because I did not want him.
But because I wanted it to mean something.
I had already told him—I did not want our first time to be here, inside this humble hut. I wanted a place untouched by memory. Somewhere unforgettable. Somewhere beautiful. Somewhere I had never taken anyone before.
Somewhere meant only for him.
I wanted him to be different from all the rest.
With that thought, I exhaled slowly—and my gaze drifted lower.
There were faint stains on his trousers.
Understanding struck me instantly.
The heat. The confusion. The unfamiliar intensity his body had endured. He must not have been able to help it.
Carefully, I shifted him, easing him down onto the woven mat so I could move without waking him. I cradled his head, setting it down gently, then reached for a basin and cloth, pouring water with practiced quiet.
I loosened his trousers slowly, deliberately, mindful of every breath he took.
And then I paused.
It was more than I expected, as he couldn't contain it anymore and exploded it inside of his trousers—evidence of how overwhelming the experience had been for him, even without intention.
"Is this how your body reacted?" I murmured, barely above a breath.
A faint smile touched my lips.
"I'm sorry you had to hide it," I said softly.
I dipped the cloth into the water, wrung it out, and cleaned him with care—unhurried, respectful, gentle. His body remained slack, surrendered fully to sleep.
His manhood was smaller than mine, but there was something undeniably endearing about it. Like the rest of him, it looked untouched, delicate, almost fragile—soft in tone, warm in color, flawless in its innocence.
I did not touch more than I had to.
If he woke to see me doing that, he would panic. Flustered. Mortified.
I would never do that to him.
Though the thought did make me smile.
Once I was finished, I dressed him in clean clothes and settled him back into place, my movements slow, deliberate—each one an unspoken promise.
And in the stillness, I understood this truth with perfect clarity.
From this moment on, as we dive deep into that, I would have to guide him carefully.
Protect him.
Love him without ownership.
Because even if there would never be a child born from this bond, the responsibility—the weight of it—was entirely mine.
And I would not fail him.
After everything that had happened, I stepped outside alone, stopping near the spring.
I needed air.
I needed silence.
I needed release.
I could not touch him—not yet, not the way I wanted, not the way my body demanded—so this would have to suffice. This would have to burn away the heat he had unknowingly forced me to swallow, coil by coil, until it threatened to tear through restraint.
The night had already swallowed the camp. The moon hung high, pale and watchful. No torches burned. No voices stirred. Everyone slept.
Good.
I lowered myself against a massive stone warmed faintly by the spring's breath, leaned back, and loosened my trousers. I let myself breathe. I let instinct take over. I let control slip—just enough.
My eyes closed as my hand found 'it'.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
In my mind, it was not my own touch I felt—but his.
Aurein's fingers.
The way I had glimpsed him earlier.
The way his gaze lingered when he thought I was not looking.
The way I imagined him tasting it from his finger is what he had drawn from me, curious and unguarded.
The thought alone was enough to make heat surge violently through me.
I could still feel him—his hand brushing mine, each innocent contact striking harder than any blade. The way he pressed lightly, unaware of what that gentleness did to me. The way I memorized the weight of his presence as if it were a weapon aimed straight at my restraint.
My grip tightened. My pace quickened.
I imagined him beneath my hands—those flushed cheeks, those parted lips, the softness he tried so desperately to hide beneath steel and pride. I imagined easing myself into him slowly, reverently, watching that smile tremble as his body betrayed him.
I imagined touching him with care my rough hands, tracing the smooth lines of his skin, the delicate tension of muscle and bone, every place aching to be discovered.
The sensation built fast—dangerously fast.
I was right there.
On the edge.
"Ngghh..."
I wad ready to spill everything onto the cold earth—
When a sound cut through the night.
A footstep.
I froze.
"Damn! Why now!"
The sudden stop sent a sharp, punishing ache through my core, stealing the breath from my lungs. The pain burned, sharp and immediate—but that was not why I stopped.
I did not care if I was seen.
Footsteps at this hour were wrong.
Instinct snapped into place, cold and lethal.
I adjusted my clothing with a clenched jaw, forcing control back into my body despite the unbearable pressure still coiled tight within me. Few more strokes and I would lose it—but I swallowed the urge whole.
Silently, I glanced back toward the hut.
Aurein was still asleep. Peaceful. Unaware.
Good.
I reached for my sword, careful not to make a sound, and slipped back into the darkness.
Every sense flared to life. The night spoke in whispers now, and I listened.
When the footsteps sounded again, I followed—moving with practiced silence, letting the shadows claim me.
That was when I saw someone.
A lone figure wrapped in black, hood drawn low, face completely hidden.
That person paused, scanning the surroundings, testing the air as if it sensed pursuit. I did not move. I became part of the dark itself.
Then that person walked faster.
So did I.
Until it stopped before an old, forgotten chamber—abandoned, decaying, a place no one dared approach because it promised nothing but dust and rot.
It slipped inside.
Moments later, so did I.
I moved like a ghost through the entrance, pressing myself against the stone just as voices echoed from within. I hid where no eyes would find me—close enough to flee if needed, close enough to see what they are doing.
Six figures stood inside, all dressed in black, hoods masking their identities.
A secret meeting.
Behind them, spread across the wall, was a detailed map of Ardentia—marked, studied, violated by familiarity.
The figure at the front stood like a commander, every line of his posture screaming intention.
I did not know their faces.
But I knew one thing with absolute certainty.
These people were enemies.
So I listened.
"So," the leader asked, his voice calm and commanding, "what information have you gathered?"
My breath stilled.
That voice—
I've heard him somewhere before. I know I did, I just can't recall who was it.
I narrowed my eyes, every muscle in my body tightening as I pressed myself deeper into the shadows and listened.
"I observed them," the man I followed replied. "It was just ordinary training today."
My brow furrowed.
I knew that voice.
There was no mistaking it.
"What about Prince Aurein?" the leader asked. "What was he doing?"
My jaw clenched hard.
Aurein.
The moment his name entered the conversation, something cold and vicious coiled in my chest. Every instinct screamed that this was going somewhere I would not like.
"I saw it clearly," the man continued. "General Voltaire handed him a sword—one made specifically for him. A gift from the king himself. The prince is improving rapidly in swordsmanship. If we do not act early, he will become dangerous. General Voltaire is personally training him, so there is no doubt the prince will learn to wield it properly. He is a fast learner, sharp-minded. Before long, he will be able to fight—and protect himself."
The leader scoffed, irritation bleeding into his tone. "That prince is starting to get on my nerves. I thought he would be insignificant, but Voltaire is turning him into a weapon."
"Then should we expose their relationship?" another voice suggested. "If we do that, the general will be punished. Exiled. Possibly executed."
My eyes widened.
They know.
THEY KNOW ABOUT ME AND AUREIN.
"Wait," the man I had followed interrupted sharply. "We cannot do that."
"Why?" one of them asked.
"We cannot kill the general," he said firmly.
"And why not?" the leader snapped. "He is the greatest threat to our rebellion against this kingdom."
With every word, the truth became clearer—and far more terrifying than anything I had imagined.
"If he dies, yes, we may conquer Ardentia," the man said. "But remember—Ardentia is not the only powerful kingdom in this world. Other realms are waiting, watching for our defenses to weaken. If we kill him now, our chances of conquest will be compromised. We still need him. General Voltaire is the one holding those kingdoms at bay. We need him to fight for us—until we are certain no other kingdom can challenge us. Only then can we destroy him, using the charge of treason for his relationship with the prince."
Silence followed.
Then the leader exhaled slowly. "You are right. I was too focused on Ardentia alone. I forgot the others circling like wolves, waiting for an opening. Then we must act carefully. We need the king to wage more wars—to weaken rival kingdoms and reduce our threats."
"There is something else," the man added. "Something I am not sure we should ignore. It may interfere with our plans."
"What is it?" the leader asked.
"I heard it directly from the prince himself, but the general cut him off when he spoke about it. I feel like they are keeping it as a secret," he said. "It's about the Moon Dancers. They are trained. They know how to fight."
"Moon Dancers?" the leader echoed.
And in that instant— everything became clear.
The pieces slammed together in my mind with horrifying precision.
The spy.
The watcher in the shadows.
The one who moved unnoticed.
Out of everyone I trusted—
"Dante." I whispered.
My grip tightened around the hilt of my sword.
And more importantly, why are they planning this rebellion from the start.
End of Chapter 28