“Going to fill you up, going to own you, going to make you remember every second,” Akintola snarled, hips hammering in. “Take me. Take it all.”
A final, brutal thrust, Akintola shuddered, jaw clenched, voice ripped from his chest as he spilled inside the king, cock jerking, flooding him with heat, pinning him to the wall, the two of them locked together in a violent, tender tangle.
Nothing existed outside that moment. Sweat, spit, cum, and worship—all of it real, all of it written on our bodies, in the trembling limbs, the ruined voices, the bruises and the love burned bright as fire.
The heat still pulsed between my thighs as I sagged against the king, sweat cooling, muscles trembling from release and exhaustion. Akintola’s hand slid over my spine, grounding me, a silent pulse of solidarity in the silence. The three of us stayed pressed together, tangled in breath and heartbeat, bodies marked by sweat, spit, and the holy filth of what we’d made.
Eventually, reality crept back in—the icy touch of stone beneathbare feet, the sound of water dripping somewhere in the darkness, the distant threat of discovery. The king sagged, letting out a quiet laugh, half-shattered, half-dazed, and I caught the ghost of a smile on Akintola’s lips. No words, just the understanding that none of us would ever be quite the same.
Warm water steamed through the little marble shower tucked behind a velvet curtain—a luxury forgotten until now. We crammed under the spray, bodies bumping, elbows colliding, trading places as sweat and come washed from skin. Akintola kept his eyes half-lidded, rinsing streaks of white from his chest and jaw with a snort, “You owe me a new shirt, Majesty.”
The king grinned, cheeks flushed and open. “Send the bill to the palace. Mark it as ‘hazard pay.’” He raked his hair back, water streaming over his face. “Christ, I haven’t been used like that in years. Remind me to lose control more often.”
A bubble of laughter escaped my chest, rough and surprised. “Don’t get used to it. I have a reputation to keep. Stoic, brooding, deadly.” I pinched his ass, earning a yelp and a shove that almost knocked him into Akintola. Akintola caught him easily, arms steady, voice low and teasing. “You keep making noise like that, the entire palace will know what we did.”
“We did nothing,” the king shot back, a wicked gleam in his eye as he soaped down his arms. “You’re both figments of my overworked imagination.”
“Your imagination leaves bite marks,” Akintola deadpanned, running a thumb over a bruise blooming on his neck.
My own reflection flickered in the fogged glass—a man remade by hunger and need, eyes bright, body humming. No shame, just the quiet thrill of having broken every rule, then stitched them together into something sacred and raw.
Water cooled, so we dragged towels from a hook, wrapped ourselves in a hush of cloth and stolen time. The king lingered, his expression suddenly serious. “No one can know. Not a word—not to Adrian, not to the guards. I have enough rumors to last a lifetime.”
“Cross my heart,” Akintola murmured, the faintest smile curvinghis lips. “If you ever want to do this again, I’d prefer not to be exiled for treason.”
My fingers brushed the king’s jaw, thumb tracing the swollen curve of his mouth. “Your secrets are safe. So are you. But next time, you’re the one cleaning up the rug.”
He laughed, tension slipping from his shoulders. “Deal. Now get out before I start making promises I can’t keep.”
Akintola winked, slinging his shirt over one bare shoulder. “Don’t start what you can’t finish, Majesty.”
A final squeeze to the king’s hip, a shared glance with Akintola—one of those wordless exchanges that meant more than any vow. Then we slipped back into the winding corridors, one after another, hearts steady, skin still tingling with memory.
No witnesses. No confessions. Just three men and a night no one would ever speak of, sealed by sweat, worship, and the unbreakable hush of dawn.
8
THE NIGHT BENEATH THE CROSS
SEBASTIAN
I'd been lying in bed for three hours, staring at the ceiling, watching shadows from the rain-streaked windows crawl across the plaster like living things. My mind kept circling back to the chandelier. To Viktor's hand fisted in my jacket. To the weight of him covering me, protecting me without hesitation.
I scrubbed my hands over my face, trying to logic my way out of this. It was just novelty. That's all. Viktor was different from the parade of guards who'd come before him. Different from the nobles who fawned. Different from the staff who bowed. He looked at me and saw a job. A variable. A liability to be managed.
That should've been insulting.
Instead, it felt like the first honest thing anyone had offered me in years.
But it was more than that, and I knew it. Knew it in the way my pulse had kicked when his hand had covered mine in the workshop. In the way I'd caught myself watching him during the meeting, tracking his movements like they mattered. In the warmth that had bloomed in my chest when he'd thrown himself between me and death without a second's hesitation.
Like I mattered.
Not the crown. Not the title. Me.
I sat up, chest tight, breathing harder than I should've been. This was dangerous. This feeling. This pull toward someone who was paid to be there, who'd leave the moment the contract ended, who probably saw me as nothing more than a pampered prince playing at rebellion.
I'd worked too hard to let my guard down now. Had spent eighteen years making sure no one got close enough to hurt me the way my mother's death had hurt. Had turned myself into something sharp and untouchable because soft things broke and I refused to break again.
