It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. To be tethered by ink and parchment, to let a soldier’s words undo him more thoroughly than any blade.
And yet, when he lay down that night, Clyde’s letter stayed beneath his pillow.
As if the knight’s eyes might follow him into sleep.
The letter had taken a month to reach him. By then, the edges were frayed, the parchment softened by too many hands, the wax cracked and barely clinging. The faint trace of Aerion’s perfume—sweet, sharp, decadent—was nearly gone. Clyde held it to his face anyway, breathing deep, searching for what lingered.
He waited until nightfall to read it.
The camp had gone quiet, fires low, men lost to dreams or drunk on them. His tent glowed dim with a single lantern, smoke and frost thick in the air. He sat on his cot, sword balanced across his knees, and unfolded the page.
Aerion’s voice leapt up from the ink with every line. Sharp, mocking, too much collarbone, not enough shame. But beneath it, threaded through every word, was longing so raw it bled through like spilled wine.
Clyde read it once. Then again.
By the third time, his hands shook.
He pressed the parchment to his mouth, against his cheek, down the length of his throat. He lay back on the cot, the letter held above him and closed his eyes. Aerion’s words slid through him like heat, like hunger, and he let them strip him of control.
His free hand went to his cock, already hard, straining against his breeches from the first reading. He tugged the laces loose with rough fingers, breath coming harsh, and wrapped his fist around himself.
The first stroke wrenched a groan from his chest—raw, low, too loud in the stillness. He bit down on his lip, then shoved his arm between his mouth and the crook of his elbow, muffling the sounds before they could carry through the camp.
He worked himself with merciless efficiency, palm dragging over the swollen head, the slick slide of precum easing his grip. His hips bucked into his hand, rough, needy, every movement sharper as Aerion’s words replayed in his head.
You’d hate the cut. Too much collarbone. Every lord stared. I imagined they were you. It didn’t help.
Clyde gritted his teeth and stroked harder, faster, imagining Aerion in that damned robe, smirking at him from across the hall, vibrant blue eyes daring him to look away. He pictured Aerion’s lips, mocking, wrapped around him instead of his own hand, that sharp tongue dragging over his cock, those venomous words turned to whimpers.
His breath broke. His fist tightened, rhythm faltering as pleasure coiled low and unbearable. He ground his teeth, arm pressed so hard against his mouth he tasted blood.
When release came, it tore through him brutal and unstoppable. His whole body shuddered, hips jerking up off the cot, seed spilling hot over his stomach and chest. He bit down hard to stifle the cry, strangled it into the fabric of his sleeve, but the violence of it still wracked him, left him trembling.
The letter was still clutched in his hand, crumpled, damp now with sweat where his fist had clenched it tight. He pressed it against his chest, holding it there like it was Aerion himself, like he could keep him in his arms through ink and paper alone.
The silence after was worse.
He had thought it would ease him, burn the ache from his blood, quiet the drumbeat of want. Instead, it left him emptier, hollowed out, body shaking as his throat closed around something too sharp to breathe.
Tears stung his eyes, spilled hot down his temples into his hair. Harsh, soundless sobs tore through his chest until his ribs ached with the effort.
For Aerion’s voice. For his absence. For the agony of wanting what he had sworn he could never take.
He did not write back. Not that night, nor the next.
Better silence than truth too heavy to send across the miles.
So, he folded the letter with care despite the wrinkles, tucked it beneath his pillow, and lay back on the cot, eyes burning, heart raw.
And he dreamed—dreamed of sapphire eyes, a venomous smile, and a hand that had somehow become his only salvation.
Chapter ten
A Soldier by Any Other Name
The snow hadn’t lasted. By dawn it was turning to slush, sinking into the trampled ground until the whole of camp smelled like damp leather and woodsmoke. Men moved through the fog like ghosts burdened with too much flesh—armour creaking, breath steaming. Somewhere a horse coughed; somewhere else a man laughed too loudly to convince anyone he wasn’t afraid.
Clyde made his rounds quietly, helm under his arm, gloves tucked into his belt. He liked the mornings before the drills began, when the world was half-asleep, and the noise of livinghadn’t yet drowned out the silence that came after battle. The silence that clung to him still.
