“While you avoid fucking me,” Pip muttered, but he was smiling as he said it, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I get it. You’re responsible. You have duties. You’re very, very important and you can’t just go around fucking adorable twinks who show up out of nowhere.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But just so we’re clear, the next time we’re alone and there’s no imminent danger of maid-based interruption, I give you my full and unwavering consent to penetrate one or both of my holes in any way you see fit.”
I blinked, fighting the things his filthy words did to me. “Both holes?”
“One.” He pointed at his mouth. “And two.” He turned and arched his back, and I quickly turned away. I was losing my goddamn mind. His outrageous flirtation would not make me smile, not even a little.
“Wash up,” I said. “I’ll let you know when the floor is clean of glass.”
“I’ll be ready,” Pip called as I pulled the door shut between us.
I stood with my back to the door, shoulders rigid, and waited for my pulse to slow before answering the door. My cock was still aching, my hands still shaking with the effort of restraint.
This was dangerous. My own magic, an extension of my will for centuries, now answered to his scent, to the memory of his mouth. It leapt to attention when he was near, a betrayal I hadn’t experienced since I was a raw youth, all power and no discipline.
I pushed away from the door, straightened my uniform, and stalked through the apartment, adjusting my trousers to hide my erection. I opened the outer door to admit two palace maids and a footman, who swept in with brooms and a cloth without comment or eye contact.
“Sorry for the delay. I was tending to the young man’s injuries. The glass is in the spare bedroom,” I said, forcing my hands to go steady. “Be careful—there’s blood.”
The older of the two maids nodded, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere to the left of my shoulder. “Yes, Commander. We’ll be thorough.”
They were palace staff, trained to see nothing. I stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a pathetic attempt to look commanding. My uniform was a mess, my cock was half-hard, and the iron in the room was humming a low, traitorous song of my arousal. I prayed they were as well-trained as their reputation suggested.
I pressed my palm flat against the doorframe, feeling the iron bracket beneath the wood, and pushed my magic back. It resisted, but I had centuries of practice. The humming dropped by half a tone, then another.
A human with a pretty smile and clever hands had me vibrating like an untrained apprentice. I needed to leave. I needed to get out of this room, away from these women, away from the memory of Pip’s body against mine, of Pip’s smiles, of Pip’s ability to see joy in the smallest of things.
“Thank you for your assistance,” I said. The formal words felt foreign, ill-fitting. “Please knock on the water closet door when you are finished. Mr. Crane is inside, washing up after his injuries.”
Shaking myself, I retreated to my bedroom and dropped into the chair at my writing desk, pulling a fresh sheet of parchment toward me and uncapping my ink. I had a report due on the status of the Pip investigation. The Queen would want to know what we’d discovered at the field in Clovermere, whatconclusions we’d drawn about his appearance, what threat—if any—he posed to the realm. All perfectly reasonable questions that I should have been able to answer without my cock hardening at the memory of his mouth.
I dipped my quill and began to write.
To Her Majesty Queen Delsynarea, Sovereign of Feravael, Warden of the Seven Counties, etc.
Regarding the investigation into the appearance of Pippin Crane, human male, in Clovermere County:
The iron lamp bracket above the desk hummed. A low, persistent vibration that I hadn’t invited and couldn’t seem to suppress. I kept writing.
The humming got louder. The flame in the lamp flickered, dancing with the vibration of the bracket. I set down my quill and pressed the heel of my hand flat against the desktop, feeling the cool wood beneath my palm. I pushed my iron magic outward deliberately, focusing it on the bracket, and forced it silent. The lamp stabilized, the flame burning steadily once more.
I picked up the quill and continued.
The subject continues to maintain that his appearance was accidental, the result of a stumble during a performance at an establishment called “Club Vortex” in his homeland. He claims no knowledge of Qoksmere, the Farewild, or any magicalability. His behavior is consistent with this claim—he shows no awareness of court protocol, no familiarity with our customs, and no ability to conceal his reactions.
There is no threat to the peace.
Everyone looked at him and saw a potential danger. I saw a boy who had no armor at all. Spies controlled their faces, their desires, their very breathing. Pip wore every feeling on his skin. When he wanted something, the entire room vibrated with it.
The bracket began to hum again.
I believe the risk is minimal. He has no magical ability, no combat training, and no apparent agenda beyond basic survival and comfort. Minor disruptions such as Pip’s are simply small mysteries to be solved, and I have every confidence that the Great Peace is stronger than ever.
Did I truly feel that confidence? I chewed on my bottom lip, staring down at the report. It had been thirty years of peace, but I had been born of war. I had buried more friends than I could name. Thirty years was not long enough to unlearn the weight of that.
Or was it?
I heard the soft pad of bare feet on the stone floor and looked up to find Pip standing in the doorway to my bedroom, freshly washed, pink-cheeked, hair damp at the temples. He was wearing nothing but those ridiculous undergarments—the thinghe called a jockstrap that covered the absolute minimum of his body and left the rest gloriously, devastatingly bare.
He crossed the room without hesitation, and stood before me for a long moment. “They’re done in my room,” he said, his voice carefully casual.
