Lost Girl In Neverland

Panic hit like ice water. He sat up, his heart hammering against his ribs. Moonlight barely touched the empty space beside him.

"Ilya?" His voice came out hoarse, still thick with sleep.

No answer. Just the soft creak of the cottage settling around him.

Shane threw back the covers, his bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor. He moved through the dark bedroom, his hands finding the doorframe. The hallway stretched before him, shadows pooling in the corners.

"Ilya?" he called again, louder now.

The cottage remained silent. Shane's pulse thundered in his ears as he moved from room to room. Bathroom. Empty. Kitchen. Empty. Living room, fireplace unlit. Empty.

The back door stood slightly ajar.

Shane's breath caught. He crossed the living room in three quick strides, pushing the door open wider. The night air rushed in, cool against his skin.

Ilya stood on the deck, his back to Shane. He wore only the T-shirt and sweatpants he’d slept in, arms crossed against the chill. The lake stretched before him, its surface still and dark under the moon.

Relief washed through Shane, so intense it made his knees weak. He leaned against the doorframe for a moment, just watching. Ilya hadn’t run. Hadn’t disappeared.

He was just standing there.

Shane stepped onto the deck, the wood cold beneath his feet. He moved slowly, not wanting to startle Ilya. When he reached his side, he saw the lake reflected in Ilya's eyes—dark water, endless and still.

"Couldn't sleep?" Shane asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ilya didn't respond immediately. When he did, his words seemed to come from somewhere far away. "Too many thoughts."

Shane nodded, though Ilya wasn't looking at him.

Up close, Shane saw what five days had done to him. Ilya's cheekbones stood out more sharply than before, the hollows beneath them deeper. The sweats hung loose on his frame, evidence of how little he’d been eating. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, proof of nights spent staring at ceilings instead of sleeping.

Shane wanted to pull him close and hold him until something in him softened. But he’d learned over the past few days that Ilya needed space as much as comfort. The balance was delicate, impossible to predict.

"It's cold," Shane said instead. "You'll freeze out here."

Ilya's gaze remained fixed on the lake. "Is fine."

Shane stepped closer, letting their shoulders touch. The contact was small. Still, Ilya leaned slightly into him.

Shane went still, afraid that if he acknowledged it too quickly, Ilya would disappear again.

They stood together in silence, watching the moonlight dance on the water's surface. The trees moved around them, a sound that had once been comforting and now only reminded Shane how far they were from everyone else.

Shane counted his breaths, giving Ilya time. The seconds stretched into minutes, the cold seeping into his bare feet and arms. He didn't move, didn't speak. Just stood beside Ilya, a silent presence in the darkness.

Finally, Ilya turned his head. In the moonlight, his face looked carved from stone. Beautiful and remote.

"Let's go inside," Shane said softly.

Ilya nodded once. He turned from the lake, and Shane followed him back through the door.

Shane closed the door behind them, shutting out the night. Ilya stood in the middle of the living room, looking lost in the familiar space. Shane moved to the kitchen. He filled the kettle and set it on the stove. Making breakfast had become a small comfort over the past few days. He pulled eggs from the refrigerator, bread from the cabinet. His movements were automatic, practiced through repetition. This was how mornings went now.

He cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking them with a fork. The yellow mixture spun in lazy circles. Shane added a splash of milk, salt, pepper. The same way he’d made them every morning since they arrived. The same way he would make them tomorrow, and the day after.

Ilya wouldn't eat if Shane didn't prepare something. Wouldn't think about food at all. The realization had hit Shane on the second day, when he'd found Ilya sitting in the same chair at noon, still in his pajamas, staring at nothing. No breakfast. No coffee. Just existing.

Shane poured the eggs into a pan, watching them sizzle and bubble. He buttered bread and placed it in the toaster. The kitchen filled with familiar smells: butter, eggs, coffee brewing in the pot. Comforting scents that meant nothing to Ilya now.

He plated the food without asking what Ilya wanted. There was no point. The answer was always the same.

"Breakfast," Shane called, his voice carrying through the small cottage.

No response. Shane waited, spatula in hand. Thirty seconds. A minute. Then he heard the soft pad of bare feet on wooden floors. Ilya moved to the table and sat, slow and deliberate, like a man underwater. His eyes were focused on something far beyond the kitchen walls.

Shane set the plate in front of him—scrambled eggs, toast with butter, a glass of orange juice. Ilya picked up his fork. Held it. Didn't move.

Shane sat across from him, watching as Ilya stared at his food. The eggs steamed gently, but Ilya made no move to eat them.

"Try a bite," Shane said softly.

Ilya's fork moved, pushing the eggs around the plate. Separating them into smaller piles. Rearranging them without purpose.

"Just a little," Shane added, keeping his voice gentle. He'd learned the hard way that pushing too hard only made Ilya withdraw further. On the second day, he'd insisted Ilya eat, and Ilya had stood up, walked to the bedroom, and closed the door. Hadn't eaten at all that day.

Ilya speared a small portion of eggs and brought it to his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. The motion was mechanical. Devoid of purpose.

"Good," Shane said, though the word felt hollow. He ate his own breakfast, trying not to watch Ilya's progress too obviously.

Ilya took another bite. Then another. Each one seemed to require conscious effort, as if eating had become foreign to him.

"Not hungry," Ilya murmured, setting his fork down after barely a quarter of the food was gone.

Shane looked at the mostly full plate. "Just a few more bites?" he asked, keeping his tone light. "You barely ate yesterday."

Ilya picked up his fork again. Took two more bites. Set it down.

"Thank you," Shane said, though his chest ached. Ilya wasn't eating because he wanted to. He was eating because Shane asked. The distinction mattered, even if the result was the same.

Ilya stood, taking his glass of juice with him. He drank half of it, then set it on the counter. Another small victory. Shane would take what he could get.

They moved to the living room. Shane grabbed the remote and turned on the television, more for background noise than anything else. The morning news filled the room with weather, politics, and too-bright voices. Neither of them watched it.

"Dad texted," Shane said, settling onto the couch beside Ilya. “The board meeting went okay yesterday. They’re giving us space.”

"Mm," Ilya responded, his eyes fixed on the television screen without seeing it.

“The weather’s supposed to be nice today. Maybe we could sit outside later.”

"Okay."

"Did you sleep any better last night?"

"Little."

Shane nodded, though Ilya wasn't looking at him. The conversation died there, as it always did now. Shane tried again.

"Hayden called yesterday. He wanted to check in on you."

No response.

"The security guys said everything's quiet. No reporters have found this place."

Nothing.

Shane watched the side of Ilya’s face. His jaw worked slightly, the only sign he was processing anything at all.

It wasn’t the silence that bothered Shane most.

It was what the silence had replaced.

Even on Ilya’s worst days before this, when his past weighed heavily and nightmares kept him awake, he had still been curious about Shane’s world. He'd ask about work, about meetings, about Shane's parents. He'd wonder what they should make for dinner, what movie they might watch. Small questions. Proof he was still attached to their life.

Now there was nothing. No questions. No curiosity. Just blank acceptance of whatever Shane offered.

Shane realized with a quiet, sinking feeling that he hadn't heard Ilya voluntarily start a conversation in almost a week. Not once since they’d arrived at the cottage. Not once since the article.

He reached for Ilya's hand. Ilya's hand was cold, but he didn't pull away. His thumb traced the back of Ilya’s hand, slow and absent. Shane’s eyes dropped to their intertwined fingers, and something shifted. A wrongness. A gap where something should have been.

The ring was gone.

Shane stared at Ilya’s left hand, at the pale band of skin where the platinum ring had sat. The skin looked almost raw, slightly lighter than the rest of his finger.

Maybe he'd just forgotten it. Maybe he'd taken it off to shower and hadn't put it back on. Shane’s mind searched for reasonable explanations because that was what it did when something didn’t fit. Ilya had been so careful with that ring. He had twisted it during hockey games, looked at it sometimes with that quiet, private expression that made Shane’s chest ache.

"Where's your ring?" Shane asked. The question came out softer than he intended.

Ilya looked down at his own hand. His expression shifted—not surprise exactly, but something close to it. Almost like he'd forgotten the ring wasn't there. His fingers curled slightly, as if reaching for something that was no longer there.

"In bedside drawer," Ilya said. His voice was flat, stripped of everything that usually lived underneath.

Shane waited. The television murmured in the background, some anchor discussing the weather with inappropriate cheerfulness.

"Why?" Shane asked. Gentle. Careful.

Ilya didn't answer immediately. His gaze stayed on his empty hand, his thumb rubbing the spot where the ring should have been. Silence filled the room. Shane counted his breaths. One. Two. Three.

"Didn't feel right," Ilya said finally. The words were quiet, almost inaudible beneath the television.

Shane's chest tightened. "Why didn't it feel right?"

Another silence. Longer this time. Shane could hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen, the faint creak of the cottage settling around them. Ilya's breathing was shallow, measured. Controlled.

"Everyone knows," Ilya said.

The words landed in Shane’s chest like stones.

"The article doesn't change who you are," Shane said. Quietly. The same reassurance he’d offered for days. The same truth. Still not enough.

Ilya shook his head slightly. "Changed who everyone thinks I am."

Shane opened his mouth. The words were right there—the reassurances, the promises, the insistence that none of it mattered. But they died before they reached his lips. He’d said all of it already. Every version. And none of it had reached whatever place Ilya had retreated to.

Ilya stood. He walked to the back door, opened it, and stepped outside without looking back. Shane watched him go. The door clicked shut behind him.

Through the kitchen window, Shane could see Ilya's silhouette against the morning light. He stood in the same spot on the deck, the same position he'd occupied in the middle of the night. Arms crossed. Gaze fixed on the lake. The wind moved through his unwashed hair, and he didn't seem to notice.

Shane stood at the window for a long time, watching. The coffee had gone cold on the counter. The eggs congealed on the plate. None of it mattered.

He reached for his phone. The screen lit up under his thumb, a cascade of notifications he didn't bother to read. He scrolled past Gerald's name, past his father's, past the board secretary's. Past the list of people who wanted something from him.

He found the contact he was looking for.

Dr. Elena Klein.

Ilya’s therapist.

His thumb hovered over the call button. What would calling mean? It would mean that he couldn’t fix this alone. That love wasn't a cure. That the man standing on that deck needed more than Shane could give him.

And Shane had been pretending otherwise for days.

The phone felt heavy in his hand. Outside, Ilya hadn't moved. Hadn't shifted his weight or uncrossed his arms or done anything to suggest he was aware of the world around him.

Shane pressed call.

The phone rang twice before she picked up.

"Dr. Klein."

Shane's throat tightened. He hadn't rehearsed what to say. He'd just pressed the button and now the line was open and the words he needed wouldn't come. He moved away from the window, turning his back to Ilya's silhouette on the deck.

“This is Shane Hollander,” he said. “I’m—Ilya’s fiancé.”

"How is he?"

The question he’d been avoiding for five days. The pressure behind his eyes surged and he pressed his free hand flat against the kitchen counter, grounding himself. He didn't know how to answer. The honest answer was too terrible to say out loud. The dishonest answer was impossible because she would hear it in his voice.

"He's here," Shane said finally. The words came out rough. "But I don't know if he's really here anymore."

Silence. Then her breathing, steady and patient.

"He's been like this since the article," Shane continued, his voice dropping lower even though Ilya couldn't hear him through the glass. "He barely eats. I have to remind him, and even then he just... goes through the motions. Doesn't taste it. Doesn't want it." He swallowed. "He doesn't sleep. Or he sleeps in these short bursts and then he's up, standing at windows, staring at nothing. He doesn't talk unless I ask him something directly, and even then it's one or two words. Nothing voluntary. Nothing that comes from him."

Shane's gaze drifted back to the window. Ilya hadn't moved. Still standing there. Still facing the lake.

"He took off his ring," Shane said.

Another pause from Dr. Klein. When she spoke again, her voice was careful, measured. "I've been trying to reach him since the article went viral. I've called him eleven times. Left voicemails. Texted. Emailed." A pause. "He hasn't responded to any of it."

Shane closed his eyes. Ilya hadn't just withdrawn from him. He'd withdrawn from everyone. From Dr. Klein, who'd been his lifeline for years. From the one person trained to help him find his way back. He’d cut every tether, one by one.

Shane pressed his palm harder against the counter. The granite was cool and unyielding beneath his hand.

"I want to be honest with you, Shane," Dr. Klein said. "Ilya and I worked through a great deal in our sessions. We made significant progress. But this—this kind of retraumatization—it doesn’t erase the work. But it reinforces every belief he’s been trying to dismantle."

Shane's jaw clenched. "What do you mean?"

"The article didn't create those thoughts. It convinced him they were true." Her voice stayed steady, and somehow that made it worse. "When someone with Ilya's history experiences this kind of exposure, it doesn't feel like new information to them. It feels like confirmation. Like the world finally sees what he has always feared was true."

Shane's vision blurred. He blinked hard, pressing his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose.

“What do I do?”

The question came out stripped of everything. His composure. His control. His certainty.

“Tell me what to do. Please.”

"There isn't a perfect answer," she said. "But there are things that help and things that don't." A pause. "Keep encouraging him to eat. Small amounts, regularly. Don't make it a battle. Just... presence. Consistency."

Shane nodded, though she couldn't see him. "Okay."

"Keep talking to him. Even if he doesn't answer. Even if it feels like you're talking to a wall. The sound of your voice matters. It's an anchor."

"Okay."

"Don't force conversations. Don't demand emotional responses. He doesn't have the capacity for that right now."

"Don't pretend everything is normal," Dr. Klein continued. "He'll know you're lying, and it will make him feel more alone. Acknowledge that this is happening. That it's awful. That you're here."

“And what about...” Shane hesitated. “The danger part.”

The line went quiet. He could hear her exhale slowly.

“Watch for worsening sleep. Rapid weight loss. Statements that suggest he believes he's a burden. Any talk about not wanting to exist anymore." Her voice was careful, precise. "If you see any of that, call me immediately. Day or night."

Shane's hand trembled against the counter. He steadied it.

"Will he come back?" The question left his mouth before he could stop it. He hadn't meant to ask it. Hadn't meant to give voice to the thing that had been eating at him since the second day, when he'd watched Ilya stare at a wall for three hours without blinking.

The silence stretched. Five seconds. Ten. Shane counted each one, his pulse loud in his ears.

"Yes," Dr. Klein said finally. "But probably not on his own."

The qualification sat between them, heavy and real.

“Do you think he’ll agree to an appointment?” Shane asked.

“Probably not. The part of him that would choose help may not be accessible right now.”

Shane’s chest tightened. “Then what?”

“I can come to you,” Dr. Klein said.

“To the cottage?”

“Yes. But I don’t want this to feel like an appointment.”

Shane lowered his voice. “You mean surprise him?”

“Not trap him,” she said. “Tell him I’m worried and that I asked to come by. He still gets to say no.”

Shane looked back through the window. Ilya still hadn’t moved. “How soon can you come?”

"I could drive up tomorrow afternoon. Or the day after."

"Tomorrow," he said. "Please."

"Shane." Her voice softened. "I need to prepare you. When I arrive, he may feel cornered. Not just by therapy. By you, for bringing me there.”

"I know." His throat felt raw.

"If he reacts badly, it isn’t personal. It’s protection. He'll say things that hurt. He might try to push you away completely."

Shane closed his eyes. "I can handle it."

"Are you sure? Because he'll know exactly where to aim."

The question landed like a punch. Shane thought about how sharp Ilya could get when cornered. He’d seen it before in smaller moments. Never fully aimed at him, but close enough.

"I'm sure," Shane said.

"Then I'll see you tomorrow afternoon. Text me the address." A pause. "And Shane? Don't expect miracles. This is going to take time."

"I know." He swallowed hard. "Thank you."

The call ended. Shane set the phone on the counter and stood there. Only then did he realize his hand hurt from gripping the edge.

Through the window, Ilya hadn’t moved. The wind ruffled his hair, and a leaf drifted past his shoulder, but he remained still as stone.

Shane watched him for a long moment, memorizing the curve of his spine, the way his shoulders had lost their proud set.

He was going to keep trying because the alternative was a world without Ilya in it.

And Shane refused to live there.

He needed to believe Ilya could come back.

So he would.

***

A few hours later, tires crunched over gravel, pulling Shane from his thoughts. He moved to the window as his father’s black SUV rolled to a stop in the driveway. David hadn't called ahead. Hadn't texted. That wasn't like him.

Shane looked toward the dock. Ilya’s head turned slightly toward the driveway, then back to the lake. Shane opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. The afternoon air was warm, carrying the scent of pine and lake water. David was already climbing out of the driver's seat, a leather messenger bag slung across his body. His father’s eyes found him immediately. Something shifted in David’s expression.

"Dad." Shane moved down the steps. "I wasn't expecting you."

David's gaze drifted past Shane toward the dock. Shane followed his line of sight. Ilya sat with his knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, staring at the water.

David watched him for several seconds, his expression unreadable. Shane could see his father taking in the details: the hollowed cheeks, the stillness that had nothing to do with peace. This was the first time David had seen Ilya since they’d left the family cottage three days ago.

“Has he been like this the whole time?” David asked quietly.

Shane nodded. "Every day."

David’s jaw tightened. He turned back to Shane. "We need to talk."

Shane hesitated, glancing back at Ilya. He didn’t want to pull Ilya away from the only place he seemed able to sit still.

“He needs to hear this too,” David said gently.

Shane exhaled slowly. "Okay."

He walked down to the dock, his footsteps quiet against the planks. Ilya didn't turn as Shane approached, though Shane was certain he'd heard him. He sat down beside him, their shoulders nearly touching.

"My dad's here," Shane said, keeping his voice neutral.

Ilya didn't respond. His gaze remained fixed on the water.

"He needs to talk to us," Shane added.

A pause. Then, without a word, Ilya stood. They walked back to the cottage together, Shane slightly ahead, Ilya following like a shadow. David waited on the porch, messenger bag gripped in one hand.

Inside, they settled in the living room. Shane took the armchair. Ilya sat on the far end of the couch, his body angled slightly away from both of them. David waited until they were seated before taking the chair opposite Shane.

No one spoke immediately. The clock on the mantel filled the silence, joined by the distant call of a loon from the lake.

David made eye contact with Ilya first, then Shane. His expression was carefully controlled, the one he used when bad news had to be delivered cleanly.

“Marcus’s criminal case is moving to trial,” David said. “The prosecution is ready. Several victims have agreed to testify. The evidence is organized.” He paused, letting the information settle. "The court has officially set a trial date."

Shane felt something tighten in his chest. Ilya hadn’t moved. Hadn’t reacted. His eyes stayed fixed on the middle distance.

"You've both been subpoenaed," David continued. He reached into his messenger bag, pulled out two envelopes, and placed them on the coffee table. “Shane, they want your testimony about the arrest, the investigation, and what happened after Ilya’s rescue.” His gaze shifted to Ilya. “Ilya, they want you as a survivor witness. The prosecution considers your testimony essential.”

Shane searched Ilya’s face for any reaction. Almost nothing. Just the slight tightening of his jaw, the barest flicker behind his eyes.

“When?” Ilya asked. Like the word had been handed to him and he had simply repeated it.

"Six weeks," David answered. "The trial begins in six weeks."

Shane held his breath. Ilya’s hands rested in his lap, perfectly still.

"Okay," Ilya said.

David leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "Ilya, this isn't happening tomorrow," he said, his voice gentle but firm. “No decisions have to be made today. There’s time to prepare.”

Ilya's gaze shifted slightly, focusing on David for the first time since they'd sat down. Something flickered behind his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or relief.

David held Ilya's gaze steadily. “If you need accommodations, we’ll ask. Closed courtroom. A screen. Breaks. Whatever helps.”

Ilya swallowed. His fingers moved slightly against his thigh.

“The prosecution wants your testimony. They’ll work with us.”

Ilya’s breathing changed. Shane saw it in the rise and fall of his shoulders.

“No one expects you to face Marcus alone,” David said quietly. “Not the prosecutors. Not us. No one.”

Ilya’s eyes dropped to his hands. His jaw worked as he swallowed again.

Shane reached across the space between them and found Ilya’s hand.

For the first time in days, Ilya didn’t leave his fingers limp. They curled slightly around Shane’s, barely there.

But enough.

Shane didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too hard. Afraid to scare the moment away.

***

David left just after four. Shane stood on the porch and watched the SUV disappear down the gravel drive, dust settling in its wake. The afternoon had stretched thin and fragile, somehow endless and insufficient at once.

Shane turned back toward the cottage. The door stood open behind him, screen catching the breeze. Through it, he could see the empty living room.

Ilya wasn’t inside anymore.

Shane knew before he looked. He stepped off the porch and followed the worn dirt path that wound down toward the lake. Birch, pine, and the occasional maple closed in around him. The path was familiar in a way that lived in his body rather than his mind.

He rounded the last bend, and the dock came into view. Ilya sat at the very end, legs hanging over the edge, bare feet just above the water. The sun hung low over the opposite shore, painting the lake gold. Long shadows reached across the surface toward the dock.

Shane stopped at the beginning of the planks. He watched Ilya’s silhouette against the sunset: the curve of his spine, the lowered set of his shoulders, the stillness of his hands on his thighs. A loon called from somewhere out on the water, its cry carrying across the stillness. Another answered, farther away.

Shane stepped onto the dock. The wood creaked softly under his weight, but Ilya didn't turn. Shane moved slowly, giving Ilya time to hear him. To adjust. To choose whether he wanted company.

He sat down beside him. Not touching, not yet. Just close enough that their shoulders almost brushed. He let his legs dangle over the edge beside Ilya’s.

The water lapped against the dock supports. Shane let the silence settle between them, resisting the urge to fill it with words. The sky deepened, purple bruising at the edges. A fish broke the surface somewhere out in the lake, the sound sharp and sudden before everything went quiet again.

Minutes passed. Shane counted his breaths and felt the sun-warmed wood beneath his palms. Still, he didn't speak.

"I thought I escaped," Ilya said. His voice was rough, unused. “When you found me. When we built this.” His hand made a small, vague gesture between them. "I thought was over. Like maybe I could be someone else."

Shane waited.

“But it doesn’t feel like it anymore,” Ilya said. "The article. The trial. Marcus." He swallowed audibly. “Is like I never left.”

Shane turned toward him. Without speaking, he shifted closer. He paused, giving Ilya time to pull away. When Ilya didn’t, Shane wrapped an arm around his shoulders and drew him gently against his chest. Ilya’s body stayed rigid for a moment. Then something gave way. His weight settled against Shane, his head dropping to Shane’s collarbone.

Shane held him, chin resting lightly against Ilya’s hair. The lake kept moving softly against the shore.

He heard Rose before he saw her. She must have been informed at the same moment, because she appeared in the doorway just ahead of Forger, her hair not yet fully pinned, a shawl thrown over her morning dress. She smiled, genuinely—the kind of smile that reached her eyes before her mouth had caught up.

"Edmund," she said, and crossed the room to take both of Forger's hands in hers. “You finally arrived.”

Ambassador Forger squeezed Rose's hands and returned the smile with so much ease it was clear he had done it a thousand times in her company. "Your Highness," he said warmly. "You look well. Better than I feared, given the reports."

"Reports always make things sound worse," Rose said, releasing his hands but staying close to him. "I'm perfectly fine. Come and sit. Have you eaten?"

Ilya watched this from across the table and said nothing. Rose looked more relaxed around Forger. The tension she usually carried in her shoulders had eased. Figures. He was her only countryman here, and he'd remained in the capital to discuss the alliance with the king. Rose touched the back of a chair to guide him toward it.

Forger settled into the chair Rose indicated, accepted coffee from the servant who appeared at his elbow, and turned to Ilya with a respectful incline of his head. "Your Highness. I’m so glad you and the princess are safe. I was quite distressed when I received reports of the attack on the road.”

"Distressed," Ilya repeated. The word came out smooth, diplomatic. He reached for his coffee. "That's kind of you to say, Ambassador."

"More than kind—it's the truth." Forger wrapped both hands around his cup. "When word reached the capital of the ambush, I felt I could no longer remain there in good conscience. The princess is my responsibility. And frankly, the situation warranted a personal visit rather than correspondence."

"Of course," Rose said, settling into the chair beside him. "I'm glad you came."

Forger glanced around the table—Ilya, Rose, Lukov, the quiet presence of Shane at the door—and seemed to take a brief accounting of the room. "I've also brought dispatches from His Majesty King Grigori, and several matters regarding the alliance framework that require discussion at some point. Nothing that can't wait until you've both rested and eaten." He smiled at Rose. "But I didn't want to send a letter when I could come myself."

It was a perfectly reasonable explanation. Ilya could find nothing in it to object to. It was irritating.

Lukov refilled his coffee without ceremony. "The road was clear when you came through?"

"My escort reported no incidents." Forger's expression sobered. "Though I'll admit we traveled with considerably more caution than usual. Two scouts ahead at all times."

"Wise." Lukov nodded with approval. "I'll want to speak with your escort captain later. Compare notes."

"Of course."

The conversation settled for a moment. Outside the window, the garden was beginning to take on color as the morning light strengthened—the untamed roses catching gold at their edges, the overgrown paths striped with long shadows. Ilya looked at it and thought of the passage entrance hidden behind the ivy. He thought of the footprints in the dust.

"There is one matter," Forger said, setting his cup down with a small, careful sound, "that I'm afraid cannot wait too long. Not indefinitely." He glanced between Ilya and Rose, and his expression shifted. "The postponement of the wedding has generated a certain amount of—anxiety. In both courts."

Ilya said nothing.

"The nobility on both sides," Forger continued, "have begun to speculate. When there is no visible progress—no ceremony, no public appearances together—rumors tend to fill the space. Some have begun to question whether the alliance itself is in jeopardy."

"The alliance is not in jeopardy," Rose said, her voice even. "Ilya was poisoned and we were nearly killed on the road. Surely they understand that."

"It is understood by those who are informed," Forger agreed. "But courts are large places. Information rarely reaches all corners equally. What travels faster, unfortunately, is speculation." He folded his hands on the table. "I don't raise this to pressure either of you. Only to say that visible signs of—goodwill, shall we say—between yourself and Prince Ilya would do a great deal to quiet the noise."

The coffee cup was warm in Ilya's hands, so he focused on that instead. He kept his expression composed and said nothing, because anything he said would sound exactly like what it was.

Lukov made a low sound of agreement. "Stability. That's what's needed. Any sign of instability invites other interested parties to take notice."

"Precisely," Forger said, clearly glad his point had been made for him.

Ilya became aware that Rose had glanced at him. She'd caught something in his silence. Or maybe the tightness of his jaw. He made a small, deliberate effort to release the tension there.

"What kind of visible progress are you suggesting?" Rose asked. Her tone was perfectly pleasant, perfectly curious.

Forger spread his hands in a gesture of open reasonableness. "Nothing elaborate. You're at the summer palace, which is, under the circumstances, appropriate. But if the two of you were seen together—walking in the gardens, taking meals together, allowing the kind of ordinary proximity courtship implies—" He paused. "It would give the gossips less to work with."

"We already dine together," Ilya said.

"Of course. And that's good." Forger smiled at him. "I only mean that a little more of it, in settings where it might be observed by the staff, discussed in letters home—these things have a way of circulating. Courts run on the currency of impression."

Lukov leaned back in his chair. "I'll say this—any arrangement that keeps both of you within the palace grounds and under proper guard is an arrangement I can support." He looked at Ilya directly. "Whatever form that takes."

***

The morning had warmed by the time they made it outside. Ilya walked ahead with Rose on his arm, exactly as prescribed, and Shane followed at the appropriate three paces behind. Two more guards trailed further back.

Rose had played this game before. She walked with the easy grace of someone who had been trained from childhood to exist on display. Her fingers rested lightly on his arm without pressing, and she kept her gaze moving between the garden and the path ahead with a naturalness that looked entirely unforced. Ilya envied her that. He had never stopped feeling the strings.

“There was a lavender bed over there,” Ilya said, pointing toward a tangled mound of gray-green that had once been orderly rows. “You could smell them all the way at the south terrace.” He remembered his mother cutting sprigs with silver shears and tucking them into her hair. He remembered her laugh when he'd told her she smelled like soap.

"It's a shame it's gone so wild,” Rose said.

"It's a shame any of this is here at all."

Rose glanced at him, and something in her expression softened. She didn't answer. She simply kept walking, and her hand on his arm shifted so her fingers closed more firmly around his forearm.

They had made it perhaps a quarter of the way along the central path when Forger appeared at the edge of the garden, having excused himself from the breakfast table a few minutes behind them. He caught up easily, and Ilya wondered how long he had been waiting.

"May I join you?" Forger asked, falling into step on Rose's other side.

"Of course," Rose said.

Ilya said nothing.

Forger clasped his hands behind his back as he walked, and the pose was so deliberately casual it made Ilya's teeth ache. "It really is lovely here," Forger said, gazing at the overgrown hedges with the air of a man admiring something he had read about in a book. "I had heard of the summer palace, of course, but the descriptions don't do it justice. How many rooms does it have?"

"Forty-seven," Ilya said.

"Forty-seven." Forger nodded appreciatively. "And the grounds?"

"Almost two hundred acres. Forest on three sides."

"And the access roads? I imagine there's only the one main approach from the village."

Ilya felt something shift in the air behind him. Shane's pace had not changed, but the quality of his silence had.

"There are two," Ilya said. "The main road from the south, and a service track from the east that connects to the old hunting paths."

"Only two? For a property this size?"

"Only the two."

Forger hummed thoughtfully. “And both roads are maintained? Patrolled?”

"You should ask Captain Lukov," Ilya said.

Forger glanced back over his shoulder, as though he had only just noticed Shane. “Sir Shane. Does Captain Lukov keep men posted along the east track?”

Ilya heard a brief pause in the rhythm of Shane’s boots on the gravel.

“Captain Lukov has it covered,” Shane said, his voice carefully neutral.

"And the south gate?"

“Enough. With additional patrols along the perimeter road.”

Forger said it thoughtfully, without judgment. "And the walls—I noticed they're not particularly high. How many watch posts along the outer wall?"

Shane’s pause was barely noticeable. “The captain adjusts the numbers as needed.”

Forger nodded slowly. "It's a delicate balance, isn't it? Enough men to secure the grounds without making the place feel like a fortress. I imagine the princess appreciates the lighter atmosphere."

"I do," Rose said warmly. “I trust Captain Lukov to make sure everything is secure.”

"Of course," Forger said. "I only meant—it's a credit to your arrangement that it feels so natural. One almost forgets the circumstances."

Ilya's jaw ached from the effort of looking pleasant. He could feel the questions stacking up behind Forger's pleasant smile. The conversation moved on to the architecture of the east wing, then to the history of the fountains, then to the hunting grounds beyond the forest and in each shift, Forger found his way back to the same underlying inquiry.

Shane answered each one with the same even tone. Nothing he said was untrue, and nothing he said was useful.

Forger paused at the crest of a small rise to admire the view, and in the moment his back turned, Rose leaned closer. Her voice dropped to something barely audible beneath the rustle of her skirts.

“I’m sorry about Ambassador Forger,” she murmured.

Ilya felt the tension in his shoulders unknot slightly. He kept his gaze forward. “Is he always like this?”

“Yes, unfortunately.” Her fingers squeezed his forearm lightly. “He’s a good man, but he likes to count every blade of grass on a property if you know what I mean.”

“You know he’s a spy, yes?”

“Yes. But he’s just doing his job.” She paused. "Badly, but still."

Ilya nearly laughed. He swallowed it down into something that came out as a small, polite sound. Rose's mouth twitched.

Forger turned back toward them. "The view from here is extraordinary," Forger said, gesturing toward the forest. "Are the hunting grounds accessible from this side of the property?"

"The old paths run east from here," Ilya said. "Through the woods."

"I've never been hunting," Rose said brightly. She turned to Ilya with a smile that was almost mischievous. "Perhaps we could organize a hunt tomorrow? It’s better than sitting inside all day again.”

Ilya opened his mouth and felt Forger's attention sharpen.

"What an excellent suggestion," Forger said before Ilya could speak. He turned to face Rose fully, his expression warming with what looked like genuine enthusiasm. "A hunt would be precisely the kind of visible activity that would go a long way toward quieting the rumors. The two of you, side by side, enjoying the countryside—it sends the right message."

“Does it?” Ilya asked with a raised brow.

"Absolutely," Forger continued, undeterred. "Nothing too elaborate. A small party, a few hours in the morning. It would give the household something to write home about that isn't—" He paused delicately. "—concerning."

The man had arrived this morning to take inventory of the grounds, and now he was suggesting a reason to ride out into them. Ilya glanced back at Shane, who had not changed his pace or his expression, but whose hand rested on the hilt of his sword in a way that was anything but casual.

"We should consult Captain Lukov," Ilya said.

"Of course." Forger smiled. "But I think even the captain would agree that morale needs tending as much as security."

They found Lukov in the courtyard half an hour later, overseeing the morning rotation of guards with his usual grim efficiency. Ilya watched Lukov's face as Rose explained the proposal. The captain visibly stiffened.

"Absolutely not," Lukov said.

"Captain—" Forger began.

"With all respect, Ambassador, the prince has survived two assassination attempts in the span of a week. The last one happened on an open road. I will not authorize him to ride into an unsecured forest."

"It would not be unsecured," Forger said. He clasped his hands in front of him. "I understand your concerns entirely, Captain. But consider—a properly organized hunt, with advance scouts on every trail, guards flanking the party on horseback, a fixed perimeter maintained throughout—the prince would be more visible than in any other setting, and therefore more difficult to approach undetected. An assassin would have to cross a secured perimeter before reaching him.”

“An assassin on the road crossed a secured route,” Lukov said flatly. “Forgive me if I’m not reassured.”

"But the road was a known route. The hunting grounds are not. We would choose the route. We would control the terrain." Forger's voice was even, reasonable, and Ilya found himself disliking the man more with each sentence. "And the forest itself provides natural cover for our scouts. They could position themselves ahead of the party without being seen."

Lukov’s jaw worked. Then he looked at Ilya, and Ilya knew Forger had gotten his way.

***

Ilya stood in the stable courtyard and breathed in pine, frost, and woodsmoke from the kitchen chimneys. Something in his chest cracked open after days of being sealed shut.

He was alive. The sky above the summer palace was that particular pale blue that only happened on autumn mornings, his horse was being led from the stables, and Shane was already mounted beside the gate with one hand near his sword.

Ilya's mare, a dappled gray named Masha that he had not ridden in years, turned her head toward him and nickered softly. He crossed the courtyard and pressed his palm flat against her warm neck. She smelled of hay and leather.

"Your Highness." The groom handed him the reins with a small bow.

"Spasibo," Ilya murmured, and the word came out more naturally than anything had in days. He swung up into the saddle and felt the familiar shift of muscle beneath him, the way the horse settled under his weight. Masha tossed her head and blew out a breath that clouded in the cold air.

"Easy," he said, and she stilled.

Rose emerged from the main doors wearing a riding habit of dark green, her hair braided and pinned close to her head beneath a simple hat. Two servants followed with a pair of saddlebags. Forger came behind her, already in his own riding clothes, well-made and understated. He moved to the mounting block.

"Good morning," Rose called, crossing the courtyard. "It's freezing."

"You'll warm up once we're moving," Ilya said.

Captain Lukov appeared from the guardhouse with a rolled map in one hand and a grim expression that suggested he had not slept. He had assigned the guard detail himself. Ilya recognized two of the four flanking riders from the escort to the summer palace, and the rear guards were both men Lukov had brought from the capital. Trusted men, or as trusted as anyone could be.

"The scouts are already on the east trail," Lukov said, addressing no one in particular. "They'll check in every half hour. We ride single file on the narrow paths, with the princess and the prince at the center of the party. No one separates from the group." He looked at Ilya directly. "No one."

"Yes, Captain," Ilya said.

The party moved out through the east gate in a careful, unhurried column. Ilya found himself between Rose and Shane, with Forger riding just ahead on Rose's other side and the flanking guards forming a loose diamond around them. The cold air stung his cheeks and pulled tears from the corners of his eyes. He let the wind have them.

The forest swallowed them within minutes. The trees here were older and thicker than those along the main road, their trunks dark with moisture, their branches interlacing overhead so that the path ran in alternating stripes of shadow and pale light. The only sounds were creaking leather, jingling bits, and the occasional birdcall high above.

Ilya felt the tension in his shoulders begin to loosen. The forest had always done this to him—even as a child, even in the worst of those years after his mother died. There was something in the anonymity of it, the way the trees did not care who he was or what he was supposed to become. He was just a body on a horse, moving through dappled light, and the forest accepted him without ceremony.

"How far does the east trail run?" Forger asked from ahead.

"Three miles to the old logging road," Ilya said. "Then it splits north and south."

"And the scouts are covering both splits?"

"One on each," Shane said from behind. "The north trail rejoins the service track. The south goes deeper into the hunting grounds."

"And the hunting grounds themselves—how large an area are we talking about?"

"Roughly twenty square miles," Ilya said. "Bordered by the river on the west and the old royal boundary stones on the east."

"Twenty square miles." Forger let out a low whistle. "And the scouts cover all of it?"

"Not all at once," Shane said. "They rotate sections. A pair covers the perimeter road, another pair covers the interior trails. They switch at midday."

"And at night?"

"The perimeter road only at night. The interior trails are too dark to patrol effectively."

"Of course." Forger nodded, as if committing the information to memory. "And the river crossing—is there a bridge, or do the scouts ford it?"

"Bridge at the western edge of the grounds," Ilya said. "Stone, three horses wide. There's a guard post on the far side."

"Only one post?"

"It's a single crossing point. The river runs fast enough that fording isn't practical."

Forger hummed and turned back toward the trail. The conversation died away. For a few minutes there was only the sound of horses and forest.

Ilya glanced back at Shane. The knight was riding with one hand on his reins and the other resting on his thigh, close to the hilt of his dagger. His eyes were not on the trail ahead or the trees to either side. They were on Ilya. Shane was reading him the way he read terrain, and Ilya felt the attention like a hand at the small of his back.

He didn't turn around. He let Shane look.

"Deer," she said quietly. "About two hundred yards, just inside the trees to the left. Three of them."

Ilya followed her gaze and saw them—three does, half-hidden in the shadows, their ears swiveling toward the sound of the horses. He had not heard or seen them himself.

"So you do hunt." It wasn't quite a question.

Rose lowered the field glasses and smiled at him. “I may have lied just to get us out of the castle. My father took me from the time I was ten. He said a queen who couldn't track a deer through a forest would make a poor queen.”

“You might be sneakier than I am.”

"Shall we?" Rose asked, nudging her horse toward the treeline.

Ilya watched Rose guide her horse through the gap in the trees, Forger following close behind. The forest opened before them—dense, shadowed, ancient in a way the garden paths could never be—and the column began to stretch as the flanking guards adjusted their positions to maintain the diamond formation around the princess.

He shifted his weight in the saddle and Masha responded before his heels touched her sides. She broke from the column in a single stride, veering right where the trail forked, and Ilya leaned into her neck as the trees closed around them. The sound of Shane's voice cut through the air behind him, but he did not turn. He pressed his knees in and Masha lengthened her stride, picking her way through the undergrowth with the instinct of an animal that had spent years on these trails.

"Ilya!" Shane's voice, closer now. Desperate in a way Ilya had never heard from him in daylight. "Ilya, stop!"

He did not stop. The forest opened and closed around him in rapid succession. Masha's hooves were silent on the thick bed of needles. Behind him, the sound of pursuit had doubled. Shane's horse. At least one other. Maybe two. The heavier hoofbeats of the guards' mounts.

"Stay with the princess!" Shane shouted behind him. "That's an order! I'll get him! Stay with Rose!"

The hoofbeats behind him thinned. One set. Only one. Shane had sent the others back.

Ilya ducked beneath a low-hanging branch and Masha surged through a gap in the rocks that he remembered from when he was twelve and half her size. The trail here was barely a trail. More of a deer path, overgrown with ferns and crossed by exposed roots that Masha navigated without breaking rhythm. The air grew thicker, damper. The canopy above closed completely, and the light dropped to something green and underwater.

Shane's horse crashed through the undergrowth somewhere to his left, taking a parallel path. Good. He was trying to cut him off. Ilya veered right, through a stand of young birch so dense he had to turn sideways in the saddle. Then the ground dropped away into a shallow ravine. Masha took it in a single bound and landed sure-footed on the far side. Somewhere behind him, Shane cursed.

The ravine gave way to level ground, and Ilya let Masha slow. Not because he wanted to be caught, but because the terrain was changing. He recognized the moss now—the particular pale green of it, the way it grew in thick carpets over limestone outcroppings. He was close.

Hoofbeats behind him. Rapid. Close. Masha's ears swiveled back.

"Ilya." Shane's voice, right behind him now. "Ilya, stop the horse."

Instead, Ilya guided Masha around a massive oak with roots that crawled across the ground like the legs of a sleeping giant, and then through a gap in the stone that he would have missed if he hadn't been looking for it.

"Goddammit, Ilya." Shane's horse pulled alongside him, close enough that Ilya could feel the heat of the animal's flank. Shane's hand shot out and caught Masha's bridle. Both horses slowed to a walk, then stopped, their sides heaving, steam rising from their coats in the cold air.

Shane's face had gone pale beneath the flush of exertion. His jaw was locked so tight Ilya could see the muscle jumping beneath the skin. His hand on the bridle was steady, but the other hand was trembling.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Shane asked, his voice so controlled it made Ilya's stomach drop.

Ilya did not answer. He looked past Shane's shoulder at the slope beyond. A limestone ridge, the curtain of ivy that hung from it in thick green ropes, the way the light fell differently there than it did on the surrounding rock.

"Answer me." Shane's voice cracked on the second word. He released the bridle and grabbed Ilya's arm instead, his fingers digging into the muscle through the sleeve of his riding jacket. "You broke from a guarded formation. You rode into unsecured forest. Alone. After two assassination attempts. What the hell is wrong with you?"

Ilya glanced down at Shane's hand on his arm. The knuckles were white. He could feel the tremor running through Shane's fingers.

"I know what I'm doing," Ilya said quietly.

"You don't." Shane's eyes were bright with something that looked like fury but was not fury. "You don't, Ilya. You have no idea what's out here. You have no idea who's watching. And you rode off like—like it doesn't matter. Like your life doesn't—"

He stopped. His throat worked. The hand on Ilya's arm tightened and then released, as if Shane could not decide whether to hold on or let go.

"You scared me," Shane said. He looked away immediately after saying it, as though the admission had escaped him by mistake. His chest rose sharply beneath his riding coat. For a moment he looked less like a knight and more like a man who had nearly lost something he couldn't survive losing.

Ilya felt the crack in his chest widen. He looked at Shane and for a moment he couldn’t breathe.

Then he turned Masha toward the ridge and nudged her forward.

"Ilya." Shane's voice behind him. Broken. "Ilya, don't you dare—"

"Follow me," Ilya said. "Or don't. It's up to you."

He did not look back to see if Shane followed. He guided Masha along the base of the ridge, the limestone warm against his right leg where the sun hit it through the canopy. The ground here was soft and damp, carpeted in moss that muffled the horses' steps. He knew this path. He had walked it a thousand times in his head, even in the years when he hadn't set foot in this forest.

Behind him, he heard the heavy breath of Shane's horse, the creak of leather, the tight silence of a man holding himself together by force of will.

"Ilya." Shane's voice was closer than expected. Level. Controlled. The voice of a knight who had decided to follow rather than drag him back by the collar. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

"I don't want to see. I want you to turn around and ride back to the party."

"You can ride back."

They rode another hundred yards. The ridge curved inward, and the canopy thickened until the light dropped to something that felt like twilight. Ilya's pulse picked up. He stopped Masha.

The curtain of ivy hung from the limestone in thick, heavy ropes. Fifteen years had passed since he'd last pulled it aside. The vines had thickened and woven themselves together into a solid wall of green that reached from the ground to well above his head. Behind it, the shape of the ridge was wrong—too deep, too shadowed. The rock receded inward where it should have been flat.

Ilya dismounted. His boots sank into the moss. He looped Masha's reins over a low branch and turned to face Shane, who had already swung down from his horse and closed the distance between them in three long strides.

"What is this?"

Ilya reached for the ivy. The vines were thick and stubborn, rooted deep in the crevices of the limestone. He had to use both hands, pulling back a section that came away with a sound like tearing fabric, revealing darkness beyond.

Shane stopped. Ilya watched his face change. The anger drained from his face in a visible wave. Shane's hand moved to his sword hilt, but his eyes stayed on the darkness behind the vines. “What is that?”

“A cave.”

"I can see that it's a cave." Shane's voice had gone flat. "I want to know why you just rode half a mile into unsecured forest to show me a cave."

"I found it when I was eight," Ilya said. He kept his voice low. The forest had gone quiet around them. No birds, no wind through the upper branches, just the sound of Masha shifting her weight behind him and the steady rhythm of Shane's breathing.

Shane said nothing. His hand was still on his sword hilt.

"I used to hide here." Ilya pulled back another section of ivy as though the memory of his hands had left some permanent weakness in their grip. "Whenever I wanted to get away from the palace. From my father. From the tutors. From everything." He glanced back at Shane. "No one ever found me. Not once."

"And you're telling me about it now because—"

"Because we're here." Ilya held the ivy aside and stepped through.

The cave opened around him, both familiar and strange. The air inside was cool and damp and smelled of limestone and wet earth. The light from the entrance fell in a narrow beam across a floor of smooth, water-worn stone. The ceiling arched overhead, disappearing into shadow.

He heard Shane step through behind him. The ivy fell back into place with a soft rustle, and the light dimmed to something amber and underwater.

"Stop," Shane said. His hand closed on Ilya's shoulder, pulling him back. "Stay here."

Shane moved past him into the cave with the controlled precision of a man clearing a room. His sword was half-drawn, his free hand extended to feel the air, the walls, the distance between surfaces. Ilya watched him work. Shane pressed his palm flat against the back wall, then knelt to examine the ground. His fingers traced the stone floor, reading the texture of it the way another man might read a map.

"No footprints," Shane said. He rose and moved along the left wall, checking for gaps, fissures, anything that could conceal a person. "No disturbance in the dust. No recent water flow." He paused at a narrow fissure near the rear and held his hand in front of it. "No draft. It's sealed."

He completed the circuit of the cave. He checked the entrance again, testing the weight of the ivy curtain, the sight lines from outside. When he was satisfied, he turned back to Ilya.

The cave fell silent.

Shane's body shifted from soldier into the man Ilya had woken beside that morning. The rigid set of his shoulders dropped by a fraction. His hand released the sword hilt. His eyes, which had been scanning the cave for threats, fixed on Ilya's face.

They were alone.

Not alone in a palace chamber with servants in the corridor and guards at the door. Not alone in a bed with the constant, low hum of the household carrying on beyond the walls. Truly alone. No one within a mile who could hear them, see them, report on them. The ivy curtain sealed them in like a door being closed on the outside world.

Ilya crossed the distance in three steps. Shane's back hit the limestone wall with a soft thud. Ilya caught the front of Shane’s riding jacket and pushed him harder against the rock, pinning him there. Shane's breath left him in a sharp exhale.

Shane's hands came up to grip his arms. His fingers dug into Ilya’s jacket with a desperation that belonged nowhere near careful, controlled Shane.

"Do you have any idea," Shane said, his voice rough, "what it felt like to watch you ride off into those trees?"

"Yes." Ilya pressed closer. "I do."

"Then why—"

"Because I needed this." Ilya's forehead dropped to rest against Shane's. The limestone was cold against his knuckles where they pressed into the wall on either side of Shane's body. "I needed one thing that was mine. One place where no one could find us. Where no one was watching."

"You could have told me." Shane's grip tightened on his arms. Ilya could feel Shane's heart hammering against his sternum, fast and hard. He pressed his mouth to the corner of Shane's jaw and felt the muscle there jump. "I thought—when you broke from the column—I thought they'd gotten ahead of us somehow. I thought I was going to ride around that oak and find you—" Shane stopped like the image had lodged in his throat.

"Shh." Ilya kissed him. Softly this time. I’m here. I’m alive. I’m not going anywhere. Shane's mouth opened under his and the sound he made was barely a sound at all.

Shane's hands released his arms and came up to frame his face instead, holding him there like something that might slip away.

"Don't do that again," Shane said against his mouth. "Don't ever do that again."

"I won't."

"You will. You're going to do it again. You'll find another cave or another passage or another way to disappear, and I'm going to have a heart attack before the assassins even get to you."

Ilya laughed. The sound broke on the way out, and he pressed his face into Shane's neck to hide it. The skin there was warm. Ilya breathed him in until his lungs ached.

They stood like that for a long time. Shane's fingers moved through his hair, slow and steady, and Ilya let himself be held.

"Forger is a problem," Shane said eventually.

"He's a spy."

"He's more than a spy." Shane’s voice went quiet, thoughtful in that dangerous way it did when he was putting pieces together. “He arrived this morning, and within two hours he knew the access roads, the bridge points, the watch posts. He’s building a map.”

Ilya’s stomach tightened. “Yes.” He pulled back enough to look at Shane's face in the dim light. “He asked around the passages. Not directly. Close enough. Walls, entrances, service tracks. He knew what shape he was looking for.”

Shane's jaw tightened. "He's either trying to help secure the property, or he's helping someone else get inside it."

"Or both."

"Or both," Shane echoed. His thumb moved along Ilya's jaw, a slow, absent stroke. "The hunt was his idea."

"It was Rose's idea."

"Rose suggested it. Forger shaped it." Shane's eyes held his. "He wanted to see the forest. He wanted to see where the scouts are positioned and where they aren't."

Ilya said nothing.

"We should go back," Shane said. He didn't move.

"We should."

Neither of them moved.

Shane’s hand dropped from Ilya’s face and found his, threading their fingers together with a deliberateness that made Ilya’s chest hurt. He looked down at their joined hands in the amber light, and something in his face shifted.

"The wedding." Ilya's voice came out flat. He looked away, at the limestone wall, at the narrow beam of light cutting through the ivy curtain. "Forger is right about one thing. The rumors are going to get worse the longer it's delayed. My father won't let it be postponed indefinitely. The alliance is too important."

"Rose is—"

"I know what Rose is." Ilya turned back to him. "She's kind. She's clever. She's going to be a good queen. And I'm going to stand in a cathedral and say vows to her while you stand behind me with your hand on your sword, and neither of us is going to say a goddamn thing about it."

Shane's hand was trembling in his. Ilya could feel it.

"What happens after that?" Shane asked. His voice was barely a whisper.

"I don't know."

"Ilya."

"I don't know." The words came out harder than he meant them to. He pressed his free hand flat against the limestone wall, felt the cool roughness of it against his palm. "I don't know what happens. I'll be king someday. I'll have a queen. I'll have heirs. And you'll be—what? My guard? My captain? My—"

He stopped. The word he'd been about to say sat in his mouth like a stone.

"I keep imagining it," Ilya said. The confession came out before he could catch it, quiet and terrible in the silence of the cave. “A different life. One where I’m not a prince and you’re not a knight. No palace. No crown. No one trying to kill me.” He laughed, but it came out wrong. "I imagine a cottage. Somewhere by the sea. With a garden. And I work with my hands, and you come home in the evening, and we eat dinner at a table that only seats two, and there's no one watching and no one counting and no one—"

His voice broke. He pressed his lips together and looked at the ceiling until the heat behind his eyes receded.

"I imagine it too," Shane said. His thumb moved over Ilya's knuckles. "A cottage. A garden. A table for two." He paused. "I imagine you teaching me Russian properly, instead of just the words I can't say in front of other people. I imagine waking up and not having to leave before anyone sees."

Ilya's throat closed. He swallowed hard. They looked at each other.

"It's impossible," Ilya said.

"Yes."

"Completely impossible."

"Yes."

Talking made it worse. Talking made the impossible too real.

Ilya kissed him. Shane’s hand stayed at the back of his neck, holding him there as if he might disappear into the limestone if Shane let go. Ilya's hands found the front of Shane's riding jacket and pulled at the fastenings. His fingers were shaking. He couldn't get them undone. Shane's hands covered his, stilling them, and then Shane was the one working the brass hooks free, one by one, his movements unhurried despite the way his breath was coming faster. The jacket came open. Ilya pushed it off Shane's shoulders and it fell to the stone floor with a sound like a held breath releasing.

Ilya’s hands found Shane’s hair. His mouth found Shane’s throat. Shane's head tipped back against the limestone, exposing the long line of his throat, and Ilya bit down on the tendon there. Shane made a low, broken sound.

Ilya moved lower. Shane's riding shirt was untucked, the fabric thin and damp from exertion, and Ilya pushed it up with both hands, exposing his stomach. He pressed his mouth to the scar along Shane's ribs. Shane’s stomach tightened beneath his mouth.

"Ilya." Shane's voice was wrecked. "Ilya, the horses—"

"Can wait." He looked up. Shane's face was flushed, his pupils blown so wide the brown had nearly disappeared. His chest rose too fast, his hands braced against the limestone as if it was the only thing keeping him upright. "They'll wait."

Ilya dropped to his knees. The stone was cold through the fabric of his riding breeches, but he barely registered it. His fingers found the fastening of Shane's trousers and worked them open. Ilya dragged the fabric down with deliberate slowness, watching Shane tense with every inch. When the cool air hit him, Shane hissed through his teeth, and Ilya pressed his mouth to the inside of his thigh in answer. A kiss, then a bite, then another kiss lower, closer.

"Fuck," Shane breathed. His head dropped back against the wall with a dull thud. "Ilya, I—"

Ilya didn't let him finish. He took Shane’s cock into his mouth, and Shane's hand flew to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair with a grip that was almost painful. Ilya held him there, his tongue working slow circles around Shane’s tip. Shane moaned, breath breaking into rough pants.

Ilya hollowed his cheeks and took Shane deeper down his throat. Shane’s fingers tightened in his hair. "God—Ilya—" Shane's voice cracked on his name. "I can't—if you keep—"

Ilya pulled off slowly, letting his lips drag along the length of him, and Shane shuddered so hard his shoulder blades scraped against the wall. Ilya looked up. The angle was obscene. Shane's chest heaving, his cock flushed and wet against his stomach, his eyes dark and wild and fixed on Ilya's mouth. Ilya could have stayed there all day.

Ilya rose. His knees protested against the stone, but the pain was distant, secondary to the heat crawling up his spine. Shane's hands found his face the moment he was upright and pulled him into a kiss that tasted of desperation and something deeper. Shane kissed him like he was drowning and Ilya was air, and Ilya kissed him back the same way.

He turned Shane around. Shane went without resistance, his palms pressing flat against the wall, and Ilya stepped into the space behind him. His chest pressed against Shane's back, and he felt the shiver that ran through him at the contact. Ilya's hands found Shane's hips and held them, fingers digging into the muscle, and Shane's head dropped forward between his arms.

"Please," Shane said. The word was barely a breath.

Ilya reached into the pocket of his riding jacket where he'd tucked the small bottle before they'd left the palace this morning. He'd known. Some part of him had known. Had packed it with the same careful hope that had followed him to the summer palace. He worked the cap free with one hand while the other stayed firm on Shane's hip, holding him in place.

The oil was cold when he poured it over his fingers, but it warmed quickly as he pressed his palm between Shane's shoulder blades and eased him forward. Shane went, bending at the waist, his forearms braced against the limestone. The position pressed him back against Ilya’s hips, and Ilya had to close his eyes and breathe through his nose to keep from losing his composure entirely.

"Ilya." Shane's voice was rough, urgent.

Ilya pressed one finger inside him and Shane dropped his forehead against his forearm with a sound that was half groan, half exhale. The heat of him was staggering. Ilya worked slowly, carefully, feeling every point of resistance, every shift in Shane's body that told him what to do. A second finger, and Shane's hands curled against the stone, his knuckles going white.

"More," Shane said. "I can take more."

"You can take what I give you," Ilya murmured against the back of his neck, but he added a third finger anyway, and the noise Shane made went straight through him.

He was methodical about it. Thorough. He wanted Shane to feel every moment of this, wanted to leave no room for the outside world to creep back in. He scissored his fingers slowly, feeling the way Shane's body opened for him, and when he found the spot that made Shane's legs buckle, he pressed against it again. And again.

Shane's back arched. "Fuck—right there, don't stop—"

Ilya worked him open with a patience that surprised even himself, watching the way Shane's muscles moved beneath his skin, the way his breathing fractured into shorter and shorter gasps. When Shane was shaking against him, when his grip on the wall had slipped twice and his voice had gone to something barely recognizable, Ilya pulled his fingers free.

Shane turned his head to look at him over his shoulder. His eyes were glassy, his lips parted, a flush spreading down his chest. He looked wrecked. Beautiful. Entirely Ilya’s.

Ilya poured more oil into his palm and slicked his own cock. The cave air made him hiss. Then he was pressing forward, the head of his cock catching at Shane's entrance, and the heat that met him was almost blinding.

He went slow. Inch by agonizing inch, because Shane deserved slow, because they both deserved this to last. Shane's body resisted, then yielded, then pulled him deeper, and the sound Shane made when Ilya was fully seated was the most devastating thing Ilya had ever heard.

He held still. His forehead dropped to rest between Shane's shoulder blades, and he breathed. Shane's hands were flat against the limestone, his arms trembling, and Ilya could feel the rapid beat of his heart through the contact of their bodies.

"You okay?" Ilya managed. His voice came out rougher than he intended.

"Don't stop," Shane said.

Ilya pulled back and thrust forward, and Shane's whole body jerked. The angle was different from the bed—deeper, sharper—and Ilya could feel the exact moment he hit the spot that made Shane's breath leave him in a punched-out gasp. He did it again. And again. Setting a rhythm that was deliberate and deep, each thrust driving the air from Shane's lungs in a sound that was barely a sound at all.

Shane's hands slipped on the stone. Ilya caught one of them, threading their fingers together and pressing Shane's palm flat against the wall. The position arched Shane's back further, changing the angle, and when Ilya drove into him again, Shane made a noise that was closer to a sob than anything else.

"Ilya—oh god—"

The cave echoed with them, obscene and impossible to hide. Ilya released Shane's hand and wrapped his arm around his chest instead, pulling him upright so that Shane's back was flush against his chest. Shane’s heartbeat hammered against his forearm, his ribs rising fast under Ilya’s grip, and when he thrust up into him from this angle, Shane's head dropped back against his shoulder with a cry that Ilya felt in his teeth.

"I've got you," Ilya murmured against his ear. "I've got you."

Shane's hand came up to grip the back of Ilya's neck, holding him there, and Ilya could feel the wetness on his cheeks where tears had broken free.

"Harder," Shane said. His voice was shattered. "Please, Ilya, harder—"

Ilya pulled out in one fluid motion and spun Shane around. Shane made a broken sound of protest, but Ilya caught him under the thighs and lifted, using the wall to brace them both as he pressed Shane back against the limestone. Shane's legs wrapped around his waist automatically, his arms locking behind Ilya's neck, and Ilya drove up into him in the same movement.

Shane's head snapped back against the rock and the sound that tore from his throat was raw. Ilya pinned him there with one arm wrapped around Shane's back, holding his weight, and used the other to grip Shane's hip and pull him down onto each thrust.

"Ilya—fuck—"

Ilya didn't slow. Couldn't slow. The heat of Shane around him, the sound of his voice fracturing into pieces, the way his thighs trembled where they gripped Ilya's waist—it was consuming him whole. He drove up harder, feeling Shane's body take it, feeling the way Shane's fingers dug into the back of his neck hard enough to bruise.

"Say my name again," Ilya said against his throat.

"Ilya—" Shane's voice broke on it. His head tipped forward, forehead pressing against Ilya's, and his eyes were glassy and unfocused. "Ilya, please, don't stop, I can't—I can't—"

The words dissolved into a moan as Ilya angled his hips and hit that spot again. Shane's cock was trapped between their stomachs, leaking and flushed, and Ilya could feel the wetness of it against his own skin with each thrust. He reached between them and wrapped his hand around Shane, and Shane shrieked.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god—" Shane was babbling now, words spilling out faster than thought. His arms were shaking where they held on, his legs tightening around Ilya's waist with each thrust. "I'm gonna—I can't—Ilya—I love you."

Ilya fucked up into him harder. The sound of it was filthy and Shane's mouth was open against his shoulder, breathing in ragged gasps that hitched every time Ilya's cock dragged over that spot inside him.

"Say it again," Ilya demanded, his voice rough and low.

“I love you—" Shane's voice cracked. “I love you, I love you, I love you, fuck—"

Ilya buried his face in Shane's neck and let the words wash through him like fire. He could feel Shane's cock pulsing in his hand, could feel the way Shane's body was tightening around him, and he knew he was close, knew they both were, and he didn't want it to end, didn't want this moment to exist in past tense, didn't want to go back to the palace and the guards and Forger's careful questions.

Shane came with a sound close to a scream, his body seizing around Ilya. The clench of him was brutal, and Ilya lost whatever was left of his composure. He drove up one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and came with Shane’s name on his lips, Shane’s broken voice in his ear, and cool limestone against his forehead.

They stayed like that. Shane's legs were still wrapped around him, his arms loose around Ilya's neck, his breathing coming in long, shuddering pulls. Ilya could feel Shane's heartbeat against his own chest, rapid and then slowing, slowing, until it was almost in time with his.

Shane's fingers moved in his hair. Soft. Absent. The way they had that morning in bed.

"Don't let go," Shane said quietly.

Ilya tightened his arms around him. "I won't."

They stood in the amber light of the cave, Shane pinned between Ilya's body and the limestone wall, and neither of them moved. The horses were waiting outside. The column was waiting. Forger was probably already cataloging every second of their absence. But here, in this cave that no one knew about, with the ivy curtain sealing them in like a held breath, none of that existed.

Shane's lips found his temple. "We have to go back."

"I know."

"You have to ride behind me this time."

Ilya laughed against his neck. The sound broke. He realized he was crying, and he didn't care. "I'll ride behind you."

Shane's hand came up and wiped the tears from his cheek with his thumb. “I love you,” he said simply, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Ilya closed his eyes and let himself have it. Just for a moment. Just here, in the cave his mother had never known about, with the man she would have wished for him.

"I love you," he said back.

Outside, the forest waited.

***

They rode back in silence, Shane ahead this time, his horse picking through the undergrowth with steady patience. Ilya followed three paces behind, exactly where he'd promised to be. The forest opened and closed around them in reverse, each landmark pressing the world outside the cave closer.

He could still feel Shane on his skin. The phantom weight. The heat. The oil had dried cold on his fingers, and the inside of his thighs ached in a way he did not entirely hate.

Shane did not look back. Not once. His spine was straight, his shoulders locked into duty, but the flush at the back of his neck still vanished beneath his collar. He wanted to press his mouth there.

The party found them before they found the party. Captain Lukov's voice cut through the trees first, sharp with relief buried under authority, and then the sound of hoofbeats converging from multiple directions. Ilya saw the flanking guards appear through gaps in the foliage, their faces tight with the strain of men trying very hard not to look like they had lost their charge.

"Your Highness." Lukov pulled his horse up alongside Ilya's, his expression caught somewhere between fury and gratitude. "You're uninjured."

"I'm fine, Captain."

"You will ride at the center of the formation for the remainder of the hunt."

"Yes, Captain."

Lukov looked at Shane, then back at Ilya, and said nothing more. He wheeled his horse and fell back into position, issuing quiet orders to the flanking guards in a voice pitched low enough that Ilya caught only fragments.

Rose appeared from the left trail on her bay mare, Forger a half-length behind her. Her hair had come partially unpinned during whatever she’d done in their absence, and there was a smear of mud along the knee of her riding habit. She pulled up when she saw them, and Ilya watched her face change.

It was the smallest thing: her gaze flicking between Ilya and Shane, a pause half a second too long, then the corner of her mouth curving in a way that had nothing to do with relief.

"Well," she said. "Look who's back."

Ilya kept his expression perfectly neutral. "The trail forked. We took a wrong turn."

“Did you.” Rose’s voice was warm, conversational, and absolutely merciless. "Both of you. On the same wrong turn."

"The prince's horse broke from the column," Shane said. His voice came out clipped, professional. He still had not looked at Rose. He was studying the treeline to his left as if it had personally offended him. "I followed. We lost the trail in the ravine and had to double back."

"The ravine," Rose repeated. Her eyes dropped briefly to Ilya's collar, which he had fastened wrong and not yet noticed, and then to the smear of dirt on Shane's riding jacket where it had pressed against the limestone wall. "Good thing you found your way back."

“Very fortunate,” Forger said, and something in his tone made Ilya’s skin prickle. The ambassador watched Shane with the same careful attention he’d given the grounds that morning. "Sir Shane, you're bleeding."

Ilya's stomach dropped. He looked.

A thin scratch ran along the side of Shane's neck, just below the jaw. The kind of mark that came from rough stone and rougher hands. Not from any branch in any forest. Shane's hand went to it automatically, his fingers brushing the line, and Ilya saw the exact moment Shane realized what it was. His hand dropped back to the reins. His jaw set.

"Thorn bush," Shane said.

"Thorn bush," Rose echoed. Her smirk spread, and she made no effort to hide it. She turned her mare so that she was riding beside Ilya, close enough that her knee brushed his. "You know, Your Highness, you really should be more careful in the forest. It’s pretty secluded out here. Captain Lukov mentioned there are caves in these woods. Old ones. Completely hidden."

Ilya's hand tightened on the reins. Masha tossed her head in protest and he forced his grip to loosen.

"I wouldn't know," he said.

"No? That's a shame.”

Shane, riding ahead of them, had gone entirely rigid. His ears were red. Ilya could see it even from behind, the flush creeping up past his collar to the tips of his ears, and it was the most damning thing Shane had ever done in his life.

Rose saw it too. Her gaze landed on the back of Shane’s neck, and her smile turned almost cruel. She pressed her lips together, clearly fighting a laugh, and turned her face forward with the exaggerated composure of someone who was enjoying herself far too much.

"Shall we continue the hunt?" she asked brightly, as though she had not just dismantled them both in under a minute.

The rest of the hunt passed in a blur of enforced normalcy that was physically exhausting to maintain. Rose shot a doe at a hundred and fifty yards with a clean kill that impressed even Lukov, and Forger spent the next twenty minutes discussing the quality of the forest's game with the enthusiasm of a man who had never held a bow in his life. Shane didn’t speak. Didn’t look at anyone. Shane rode three paces ahead with his hand on his sword hilt, his ears cooling from red to pink to normal, and every time Rose managed to work the word cave into an adjacent conversation, Ilya watched Shane’s shoulders hike another quarter inch.

They returned to the summer palace in the late afternoon, the doe strapped across the back of one of the guard's horses, and the courtyard had filled with the particular bustle of a successful hunt. Ilya dismounted and handed Masha's reins to the groom without meeting anyone's eyes. His body ached in places that had nothing to do with riding.

Rose slipped from her saddle and came to stand beside him while a servant brushed pine needles from her skirt.

"That was fun," she said. She wasn’t looking at him, too busy examining a scratch on the back of her hand with great interest.

"It was."

"The forest here is amazing. So many—hidden places." She glanced up at him through her lashes. "You should show me more of it. Tomorrow, maybe. The two of us. With a proper escort, of course. I'm sure Sir Shane would be delighted to come along."

"Rose."

"I'm simply saying." She smiled. It was the most innocent expression he had ever seen on her face, and it was absolutely lethal. "It's good to get out. Clear the head. Work out any—tension."

Ilya turned and walked into the palace without answering. Behind him, he heard Rose laugh and he hated her a little for how much he didn't hate her at all.

***

Dinner was served in the small dining room at seven. The table had been set with the summer palace’s best silver, crystal catching the candlelight. Ilya sat at the head, with Rose to his right and Forger across from her. Shane stood at attention by the door, his face carefully blank. Even across the room, Ilya could feel him holding himself still.

"The kitchen has prepared venison from today's hunt," Forger said, as the first course was served. "Princess Rose is quite the markswoman."

Rose smiled modestly. "Beginner's luck."

"Nonsense. That was a clean kill at impressive range." Forger turned to Ilya. "You must be pleased to have such a capable future queen."

Ilya took a sip of wine. “Yes. Rose is remarkable.”

"Speaking of which, I've had correspondence from the capital. There's been some discussion about the wedding date."

Ilya's knife paused mid-cut. "Has there?"

"Given recent events, naturally there's concern about further delays." Forger dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “However, I’ve assured them the ceremony will proceed once security concerns are addressed.”

Rose glanced at Ilya before responding. “We’ve only just arrived. Surely we can rest for a few days.”

"Of course, Your Highness." Forger's voice was smooth as silk. "But the people grow anxious. They want to see their future king and queen united."

The venison turned dry in Ilya’s mouth. He set down his fork.

“Public expectations are quite specific,” Forger continued, perfectly aware. "They want the traditional procession through the capital, the cathedral ceremony, the formal banquet afterward. All the pageantry befitting such an important union."

Each mention of the wedding twisted between his ribs. He risked a glance at Shane, but Shane’s gaze stayed fixed on some middle distance, his expression unreadable.

"I've taken the liberty of reviewing the plans your father's advisors prepared," Forger said, pulling a small notebook from his jacket pocket. "The guest list, the decorations, the vows—everything is in order."

Rose reached for her water glass, her fingers tightening briefly around the stem before she smiled. "We appreciate your thoroughness, Edmund, but perhaps we could discuss this another time? I'm sure Ilya is tired after today's hunt."

"Of course, of course." Forger closed the notebook but didn't put it away. "But there is the matter of the royal couple's future residence. The east wing of the palace is being prepared, but the queen's chambers need updating to Rose's taste."

Ilya's stomach turned. The east wing. His mother's wing. Of course. Even the dead were expected to make room for politics.

"The future is bright for both our nations," Forger said, raising his glass. "To the union of Zakoria and Valestria."

Ilya lifted his glass mechanically. Rose lifted hers a half-second later, her smile polished thin. Shane did not move. Ilya wondered what it cost Shane to stand there and listen to men plan the wedding that would end them.

***

After dinner, Ilya returned to his rooms. Shane followed him inside, checked the lock, and walked the room’s perimeter once with his hand on his sword hilt. The ritual was the same as every evening, but the air between them had shifted. Shane's fingers brushed his wrist when he passed.

"I'll check the corridor," Shane said. His voice was low, meant for Ilya alone. "And the adjoining passage entrance. Then I’ll be next door."

Ilya nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak.

Shane paused at the door. His hand rested on the handle for a moment longer than necessary, and when he glanced back, warmth moved through his eyes before the mask returned. Then he was gone, the door closing with a soft click.

Ilya stood alone in the center of the room. The fire had been lit in the grate while they were at dinner, and the amber light threw long shadows across the walls. He heard Shane’s footsteps in the corridor, then the adjoining door opening and closing as Shane checked his own room. The familiar rhythm of it was almost soothing.

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots. His body ached pleasantly—from the hunt, from the cave, from Shane’s hands and voice and the way he had said I love you like it was easy. Ilya pressed his palms flat against the mattress and let the feeling settle in his chest.

He was happy.

The realization was so startling he almost laughed.

Actual happiness.

He lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The old beams were dark with age, the plaster between them cracked in places, and he found himself cataloging the damage the way his mother used to. The thought didn't hurt as much as it should have. It felt almost like company.

He closed his eyes. The fire crackled. He was drifting when the shouting started.

One voice rose in alarm. Then others joined it. He heard doors slamming and footsteps pounding through the corridor outside. Ilya was on his feet before his mind had fully caught up. His hand found the dagger on the bedside table by instinct and he crossed to the door in three strides. The shouting grew closer. He could make out individual words and beneath it all, the sound of steel being drawn.

He pulled the door open and the corridor erupted around him.

Guards were moving in both directions. Two of Lukov's men were pushing a cluster of palace staff back toward the servants' stairs, their voices sharp with orders. A maid pressed herself against the wall, her hands over her mouth. At the far end of the corridor, a door stood open, light spilling from it in a yellow rectangle across the floor.

Lukov's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "Secure that wing! No one enters, no one leaves! I want every exit covered!"

Ilya shoved past the guards at his door. Their hands reached for him. He knocked them aside without breaking stride.

“What is it?” he demanded. “What happened?”

No one answered him. The guards were too busy forming a cordon around the open door, their swords drawn, their attention fixed on whatever lay beyond it. Ilya pushed through the cluster of bodies, using his height and title to force his way forward. The guards parted before him.

He reached the door and stopped.

Shane stood in the center of the room. His adjoining room. The small space was full of guards. Four of them had formed a loose circle around Shane, their swords not drawn but their hands on their hilts, and Shane's hands were raised at his sides in a gesture that was not quite surrender.

He looked genuinely confused. His jacket was unbuttoned, his hair mussed from the hunt and still damp at the temples.

On the writing desk, laid out with careful precision, were several items that had no business being there. A small glass vial, empty, its cork missing. A folded piece of parchment, opened to reveal the decoy route, the real route, travel times, and guard positions with Shane’s initials forged at the bottom.A cloth pouch with its drawstring loose, dried herbs spilling from its mouth. And beside them, a knife designed for close work, with a curved edge that caught the candlelight.

Ilya's blood went cold.

"That's not mine," Shane said. His voice was steady, but Ilya could hear the strain beneath it. “I’ve never seen any of that before.”

Captain Lukov stood at the edge of the desk, his weathered face grim. He was looking at the evidence, then at Shane, then back at the evidence, and the conflict in his expression was painful to look at.

“The vial was behind the wardrobe,” one guard said, reading from a ledger with a shaking voice. “The parchment was between the mattress and the frame. The knife was wrapped in the spare linens.”

“Same kind of vial as the poisoner’s,” another guard added. "The apothecary in the capital identified it. Same seal on the bottom, same—"

"I know what it looks like." Lukov's voice cut through the room. He looked at Shane, and something passed between them that Ilya couldn't read. "Sir Shane. When is the last time you were in this room alone?"

"I haven't been alone in this room since we got here," Shane said. "I've been with the prince. Or on duty. Or—" He stopped. His jaw tightened. "Someone planted this."

“Who had access?” Lukov asked, to no one in particular.

"The servants change the linens," one of the guards offered. "And the steward has a master key to all the rooms."

"A master key," Shane repeated. He turned to look at the guard who had spoken. "Anyone with a master key could have—"

"That's enough." Lukov held up a hand. His face had gone gray. "Sir Shane, you understand what this looks like."

"I understand what someone wants it to look like." Shane's voice had dropped to something dangerous. His hands were still raised, but his fingers had curled into loose fists at his sides. “Captain, you know my record. You know what I’ve done for this kingdom.”

"I know." Lukov's voice was rough. "But I also know what's on that desk."

Footsteps in the corridor. Rose appeared in the doorway, her hair loose around her shoulders, a dressing gown pulled hastily over her nightclothes. She took in the scene and her expression shifted from confusion to horror.

"What is this?" she demanded. "Captain Lukov, what's happening?"

"Princess." Lukov turned to her, his posture straightening automatically. "Evidence has been found in Sir Shane’s quarters connecting him to the attempts on the prince’s life."

Rose's hand went to her mouth. She looked at Shane, then at Ilya, and the color drained from her face.

"That's impossible," she said. "That's—Captain, you can't possibly believe—"

"I don't believe it," Lukov said. The words came out hard, almost angry. "But I have to act on the evidence. Protocol demands—"

"Protocol demands you use your goddamn head!" Ilya's voice cracked through the room. Fury blurred the edges of his vision. He stepped forward, placing himself between Shane and the circle of guards. "This is a setup. Someone is framing him. You know that. You know Shane."

"Your Highness—"

"Release him." Ilya's hand found the hilt of his dagger. He didn't draw it. He didn't need to. "Now."

"I cannot." Lukov's voice was flat. "The evidence is too serious. Sir Shane must be detained until a full investigation can be completed. Those are the king's orders regarding any suspect in this matter."

"Those are my father's orders regarding a traitor," Ilya said. "Shane is not a traitor."

Forger appeared in the doorway, his expression a careful composition of shock and concern. His dressing gown was perfectly fastened, his hair combed.

"What's happened?" Forger asked, his voice carrying the perfect balance of authority and alarm. He looked at the desk, at the evidence laid out there, and his hand came up to cover his mouth. "My God. Is that—"

"Evidence linking Sir Shane to the assassination attempts," Lukov said.

Forger's eyes widened. He looked at Shane, then at Ilya. "This is deeply troubling." He stepped into the room. "We must all remain calm. An investigation must proceed, and it must follow the evidence wherever it leads." He turned to Lukov. "Captain, you're handling this correctly. Sir Shane must be detained for questioning, but he must also be treated with the respect his position warrants. The evidence is serious, but we cannot rush to judgment."

“Rush to judgment?” Ilya turned on him. The first words came out in Russian before he could stop them, sharp enough to make Forger’s expression falter. Ilya forced himself back to the common tongue. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Your Highness, I assure you, I want only the truth.”

"Get out," Ilya hissed.

Forger blinked. "Your Highness—"

“Get. Out.”

Forger held his gaze for a moment, then inclined his head and stepped back into the corridor.

Lukov moved forward. "Sir Shane. You will be escorted to the east tower. You will be treated with respect. You will be allowed an advocate. But you will remain in custody until this is resolved."

Two guards stepped forward. Ilya felt their movement before he saw it. His hand tightened on the dagger hilt.

"Don't." Shane's voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk. Quiet. Controlled. The voice of a man who had already made a decision. "Don't do this, Your Highness."

Shane lowered his hands slowly. He didn't look at the guards approaching from either side. He didn't look at Lukov or Rose or anyone else in the room. He looked at Ilya.

His hands came to rest at his sides, palms open, fingers relaxed. No fists. No resistance. He stood in the center of the circle and let the guards close in.

Ilya moved. He didn't think about it. His body crossed the distance before his mind finished forming the intention, and his hand shot out and caught the nearest guard’s arm.

"Stop." The word came out as a command, but the guard didn't stop. The man's eyes flicked to Lukov, who gave a single, grim nod, and then the guard's hand closed firmly around Ilya's wrist.

"Your Highness. Please."

The second guard had reached Shane. He took Shane’s arm. Shane let him.

"Ilya." Shane's voice was barely above a whisper. "Don't."

Ilya's hand was still on the guard's arm. He could feel the man's pulse beneath his fingers, rapid and anxious. He could feel his own pulse hammering in his throat, in his temples, in the hand that gripped the dagger hilt so hard the leather sheath creaked.

"You know this is wrong," Ilya said. He was looking at Shane, but the words were for Lukov. For the room. For whoever was listening. "You know it."

"Your Highness." Lukov's voice was rough. "Step back."

Shane's eyes locked with his.

They were the color of dark earth, of the forest floor at dusk. I love you.

Ilya couldn't breathe. His hand opened. The guard's arm slipped free of his grip, and the man stepped back with obvious relief.

The guards turned Shane toward the door. One on each side, their hands guiding rather than gripping, the deference of men arresting someone they respected. Shane walked between them without stumbling. His boots made soft sounds on the stone floor. His shoulders were straight, his chin level, and he did not look back.

He glanced over at Ilya, who hadn't moved or spoken since they'd left the apartment. The sunglasses Shane had put on him at the last minute still hid his eyes, even though there was no one left to hide from. Ilya’s hands rested in his lap, fingers interlaced. Even then, Shane could see the faint tremor running through them. His breathing came shallow and uneven. Too quick, then too slow, as if his body had forgotten the rhythm.

Shane reached across the console, his fingers finding Ilya's. The skin was cold, almost clammy. He squeezed gently, trying to communicate something—anything—through the touch. Ilya's fingers didn't pull away, but they didn't respond either. They stayed limp in Shane’s grasp, cold and unresponsive.

"I’ve got you," Shane said. His voice sounded strange in the quiet car. "We’re going to be okay."

Ilya didn't react. He just continued staring straight ahead, his face a mask of stillness that terrified Shane more than tears or anger would have.

The phone buzzed again. David's name flashed on the dashboard display. Shane hesitated, then tapped the answer button.

"Dad?" His voice sounded hollow in the car's interior.

"Shane." David’s voice came through the speakers, steady except for the urgency underneath. "I've just had a call from your building's security. There are already reporters gathering at the entrance. A few TV vans too."

Shane's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "Already? It's barely been an hour."

"The article is spreading faster than we anticipated," David said. "Major outlets are picking it up. It’s already trending."

Shane glanced at Ilya, who remained motionless beside him. The sunglasses hid his eyes, but Shane could see the way his jaw had tightened, the slight tremor in his lower lip.

"I've got our legal team working on a takedown notice," David continued. "And I've spoken with Gerald. He's... concerned, but willing to wait for your statement before making any decisions."

Shane knew what that meant. Gerald was concerned about the company’s image. The stock price. Whether Shane was still fit to lead. The board would be meeting without him, making decisions that would affect his future.

“We’ll be at the cottage in another hour,” Shane said, forcing calm into his voice. They would go to Shane’s private cottage later, once David decided the route was clear.

"Good." David paused, and Shane could hear him take a deep breath. "Your mother is handling the wedding venue. She told them we’re postponing."

The word postponing hung in the air. Not canceled. Postponed. As if this was just a temporary setback, not the complete destruction of everything they'd built.

"Thanks, Dad," Shane said, his throat tight. "We'll call when we get there."

"Shane—" David's voice cracked slightly before he regained control. "I love you, son. Both of you. We'll get through this."

The call ended, leaving only the hum of the engine and the sound of Ilya's shallow breathing. The silence felt heavier than before, pressing down on Shane's chest. Shane kept his eyes on the road, his mind racing through options, contingencies, damage control plans. But beneath all that, a deeper fear was growing. Ilya might never come back from this. The man he loved was disappearing right before his eyes, retreating into some place Shane couldn't follow.

"You read whole article?"

Ilya’s voice was so quiet Shane almost missed it. He glanced over, but Ilya wasn't looking at him. His face remained turned toward the window, the sunglasses still hiding his eyes.

Shane's throat tightened. He had read it. Every devastating word. Every humiliating detail. The article hadn’t contained everything. Not the worst things Ilya had endured. Not the things he had never told Shane. But it had contained enough—details Shane had never heard. Details Ilya had never chosen to give him.

He hesitated because he knew exactly how horrific the article had been. How it had laid Ilya’s past bare with clinical cruelty and turned his trauma into entertainment.

"Yes," Shane finally admitted, the word feeling inadequate.

Ilya's body tensed almost imperceptibly. "All of it?" he asked, his voice still that same hollow monotone.

"Yes."

Ilya turned his head toward the window again. His expression didn't change much, but Shane could physically feel him retreating further inward. The console between them might as well have been an ocean.

"None of it changes anything," Shane said, the words feeling fragile in the silence of the car. "I still love you." He reached across the console again, but Ilya's hand remained limp in his. "We're going to get through this."

Ilya heard him. Shane could tell by the slight nod, the barest acknowledgment. But emotionally, the words couldn't reach him right now. They hit whatever wall Ilya had built and fell between them.

The highway stretched ahead, trees blurring into a green wall on either side. Nearly two hours later, the city was behind them. The silence between them had grown heavier with each passing mile. Shane kept glancing at Ilya, searching for any sign that he was coming back from whatever dark place his mind had retreated to.

The turnoff for the cottage appeared ahead. Shane slowed the car, preparing to leave the highway. Just a few more minutes and they'd be there. Away from reporters, away from phones, away from the world.

"Do you still want marry me?"

The question cut through the car. Shane’s foot eased off the gas before he caught himself. He looked over at Ilya, who had finally removed the sunglasses. His eyes were red-rimmed but dry, fixed on Shane with an intensity that made Shane’s chest ache.

"Yes," Shane said immediately. "Of course I do."

Ilya's expression didn't shift. He just continued staring, as if searching for something in Shane's face that would contradict his words. His hands twisted in his lap, fingers knotting together.

The family cottage came into view through the trees, its wide porch and lake-facing windows warm with light. Shane pulled up to the front and cut the engine, but neither of them moved to get out.

"Ilya, look at me." Shane turned in his seat, reaching for Ilya's hands. They were cold between his palms. "What happened to you wasn’t your fault. None of this is your fault."

Ilya pulled his hands away, shaking his head. Shane felt a growing horror as he watched Ilya's face. Embarrassment or privacy weren’t the problem. Ilya genuinely believed that his past could destroy everything Shane had built. That Shane's career, reputation, family—even their relationship—were at risk because of what had been done to him.

"You think this could end us," Shane said quietly, the realization settling like a stone in his stomach. "You think I'll lose everything because of you."

Ilya's silence was answer enough. His eyes dropped to his lap, unable to meet Shane's gaze.

The front door of the cottage swung open before Shane could say anything else. David stood in the doorway, his face tight with concern. Behind him, Yuna appeared, her eyes red-rimmed and her usually immaculate hair slightly disheveled. She must have been crying.

Shane glanced at Ilya, who hadn't moved, then nodded. He got out of the car, moving around to Ilya's side. When he opened the door, Ilya sat motionless for a moment before slowly unfolding himself from the seat. He moved wrong, each motion delayed, as if his body were receiving instructions from very far away.

Yuna stepped forward as they reached the porch. The moment she saw Ilya’s face, her expression shattered. Without hesitation, she pulled him into a fierce hug, her arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders.

"Oh, sweetheart," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Ilya stood stiffly in her arms, his own hanging at his sides. He didn’t return the hug. Didn’t lean into it. He only stood there, blank and unreachable.

Shane watched, his chest tightening painfully. Yuna’s arms loosened slightly, not because she wanted to let go, but because she seemed afraid of holding him too tightly. Afraid of asking his body for anything more.

David's eyes met Shane's over Yuna's shoulder. The understanding in his father's gaze was immediate and devastating. David recognized what Shane was only beginning to comprehend. Ilya was in full psychological collapse.

"Let's get you both inside," David said quietly, gently guiding Yuna back while keeping a hand on Ilya's shoulder.

The cottage was warm and alive around them. Ilya moved through it like a ghost.

"Ilya," Yuna said softly, her hand hovering near his arm but not quite touching. "Would you like some tea? Or maybe something to eat? You must be hungry after the drive."

Ilya's eyes tracked her movement, but he gave no indication that he'd heard her words.

"Ilya," David said, his voice gentle but firm. "Is there anything you need right now? Anything at all?"

Shane stepped closer, placing his hand on Ilya's back. "Hey," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "You're safe here. No one can reach us. We're going to figure this out, okay?"

Ilya’s gaze shifted to Shane’s face, but there was no recognition in his eyes. Just emptiness. He was gone, and the realization made Shane want to disappear too.

Shane's throat tightened as he looked at his parents. "I'm going to take him upstairs," he said quietly. "To my old room."

David nodded, understanding immediately. Yuna's eyes filled with fresh tears, but she pressed her lips together and nodded too.

Shane guided Ilya toward the stairs, his hand firm on his back. Ilya followed without resistance. He climbed the stairs like a sleepwalker, one foot after another, his gaze fixed on nothing.

The hallway at the top of the stairs felt familiar and strange at once. Shane had spent summers here as a child, racing up and down this hallway. Now he moved slowly, his hand never leaving Ilya's back, guiding him toward the door at the end.

Shane pushed the door open, and they stepped into his childhood bedroom. The sight of it hit him hard. Hockey posters still covered the walls—Wayne Gretzky, Sidney Crosby, the Canadiens logo. Trophies lined the bookshelf, gleaming in the afternoon light. A worn hockey stick leaned in the corner. The room was a time capsule of Shane before adulthood. Before responsibility. Before the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders.

And now Ilya stood in the middle of it, surrounded by the innocent evidence of a normal childhood he had never been allowed to have.

"Let's get you comfortable," Shane said, his voice soft.

He helped Ilya remove his jacket, guiding his arms through the sleeves with gentle hands. Ilya allowed it passively, making no move to help or resist. Shane knelt to untie his shoes, slipping them off one by one. Ilya's feet were cold even through his socks.

"Come on," Shane murmured, guiding Ilya toward the bed. He turned him gently and helped him sit on the edge of the mattress.

Ilya’s eyes stayed fixed on the middle distance. Shane pulled back the covers and guided him to lie down, then tucked the blankets around him. Ilya curled slightly inward, almost automatically, his knees drawing up toward his chest. The fetal curl made Shane’s heart ache.

Shane sat on the edge of the bed, watching Ilya stare at the ceiling. He barely blinked. "I'm going downstairs for a few minutes," he said softly, his hand hovering over Ilya's arm. "I'll come right back. I promise."

Ilya gave no indication that he'd heard.

"You’re safe here," Shane continued, his voice cracking. "No one can get to you here."

Still nothing. Just that empty stare, that terrible stillness.

Shane stood, his legs feeling unsteady beneath him. He hesitated at the doorway, looking back at Ilya's still form. It felt wrong to leave him like this. But Shane needed help. He needed his parents. Needed someone to tell him what to do.

With one last look at Ilya's still form, Shane forced himself to step into the hallway and close the door behind him. The click of the latch felt like abandonment.

The moment he was out of Ilya’s sight, Shane’s composure began to crumble. His shoulders slumped as he descended the stairs, each step heavier than the last. The control he’d been forcing on himself since the article finally started to slip.

Yuna was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. The moment she saw Shane's face, her expression crumpled.

"How bad is he?" she asked.

Shane opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out. He tried again, but his throat closed around the attempt. How could he explain what he’d just seen? Ilya upstairs, breathing and silent and not really there.

"I don’t..." Shane’s voice cracked. "I’ve never seen him like this. It’s like he’s not there."

Yuna's hand flew to her mouth, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Oh, Shane."

David appeared from the kitchen, his phone still in his hand.

Shane sank onto the bottom step, his legs suddenly unable to support him. "Who would do this?" he asked, his voice hollow. "Who would want to hurt him like this?"

David sat beside him, his presence solid and steady. "This wasn't just gossip, Shane. This was targeted. Someone had intimate information—details that weren't publicly known."

"The photos," Yuna said, her voice trembling. "Those horrible photos." She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "The thought of strangers looking at them, consuming his pain like it's entertainment..." She shook her head, unable to finish. “They did more than just expose him. They violated him again.”

Shane's stomach turned at the memory of the images. Ilya, bound and collared, forced to look at the camera. A hand in his hair. That same vacant look Shane had just seen upstairs.

"The board is in emergency session," David said. "Gerald called again. They’re concerned about the company’s image."

"Of course they are," Shane said bitterly. "God forbid the CEO’s fiancé survived something."

David placed a hand on Shane's shoulder. “Who would want to do this now?”

Shane looked up. "Faber."

David's expression darkened. "We don't know that for certain."

"Who else would have a reason to do this right now?" Shane’s hands clenched into fists. "He threatened me. He said I wouldn’t last long."

David was quiet for a moment, considering. "If it is Faber, we'll need proof. But right now, we need to focus on Ilya."

Shane's gaze drifted back toward the stairs, toward the closed door where Ilya lay in that terrible stillness. "I don't know how to help him," he admitted, the words feeling like a failure as they left his mouth. He always knew what to do. Always had an answer. A plan.

Then it hit him. The tears he’d been holding back since reading the article finally broke. His shoulders shook.

Yuna immediately moved to sit on his other side, wrapping her arms around him. "Oh, Shane," she murmured, her own tears falling onto his hair.

David's arm came around Shane's shoulders, pulling him into a solid embrace. "Let it out," David said quietly. "You’ve been holding too much."

Shane buried his face in his hands, the sobs coming harder now. The image of Ilya's empty eyes kept flashing in his mind, over and over. Someone had done this deliberately. Dragged Ilya’s deepest trauma into the light and let the world consume it.

"I can't lose him," Shane choked out between sobs. "I can't."

"You’re not losing him tonight," David said firmly. "That’s what matters right now."

Shane's phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it, but David reached for it, checking the screen.

"It's Gerald again," David said, silencing the call. "He can wait."

Shane wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand, trying to regain control. "The board will want me to step down," he said, his voice hoarse. "They won't want this associated with the company."

"Let me worry about the board," David said. "You focus on Ilya. No amount of PR management can undo what this has done to him." He rubbed slow circles on Shane’s back. “Besides, I don’t think what he needs right now is solutions. He needs safety.”

“He needs you,” Yuna added. “And you need him.”

“This isn’t about making the story disappear,” David said. “It’s about making sure he survives what they’ve done to him.”

The rest of the day passed in fragments. A call from Legal. A statement drafted and redrafted until every word felt bloodless. Melissa crying quietly before pulling herself together. David taking Gerald’s calls because Shane couldn’t trust himself to sound civil. Through all of it, Shane kept looking toward the stairs.

The article stayed online despite the legal threats. By evening, the frenzy had already shifted from breaking news to analysis pieces, opinion columns, and strangers debating Ilya’s life as if it belonged to them. Shane’s team drafted a statement that acknowledged Ilya’s past without feeding the story, emphasizing his recovery and his work as a coach. Recovery. Current work. Resilience. Words clean enough for a press release, useless against the image of Ilya staring through a camera lens with dead eyes. It felt hollow. Inadequate. Still, it was the only thing they had.

Shane climbed the stairs slowly, his body heavy with exhaustion. The house had gone quiet. His parents had retreated to the master bedroom after dinner. He paused outside the door to his childhood room, his hand hovering over the knob. The fear that had been building all day sharpened.

What if he opened that door and Ilya was still gone? What if the man he loved had disappeared into that void and never returned? Shane had wanted to believe his love could protect Ilya from this. But now, watching Ilya vanish into that terrible stillness, Shane felt the first real doubt take root.

He pushed the door open quietly. The room was dark except for the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains. Ilya lay exactly as Shane had left him, curled on his side, staring at the wall. He hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t slept. Had barely responded to Shane’s quiet attempts to reach him throughout the day.

Shane changed into sleep clothes in the dim light, moving as quietly as possible. He slipped under the covers beside Ilya, careful not to jostle the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight, but Ilya gave no indication that he noticed.

For a long moment, Shane simply lay there, watching Ilya's profile in the darkness. He wanted to say something, but the words stuck in his throat. What could he possibly say that would matter right now?

Shane moved closer, wrapping an arm around Ilya’s waist. He pressed his chest to Ilya’s back, feeling the slight rise and fall of his breathing. Ilya didn’t pull away, but he didn’t lean into him either. His body stayed rigid, unyielding and cold.

Beneath everything was the growing terror that Shane had been wrong. That love might not be enough to reach this far.

“They were right about me,” Ilya whispered quietly. “You should leave before this ruins you too.”

Shane went still. His arm tightened around Ilya’s waist before he could stop himself.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He pressed his lips to Ilya’s shoulder, a gentle kiss that asked for nothing in return. “I love you. So much.”

Ilya didn’t respond. He just continued staring at the wall.

Shane lay awake long into the night, holding Ilya against his chest. Their bodies were pressed together beneath the blankets.

Shane didn’t smile, but warmth moved through his eyes. "Morning," he replied, his voice rough with sleep.

They lay there in silence, the space between them charged with everything they weren't saying. Ilya watched Shane's face, saw the moment he remembered—the way his expression shifted from sleepy contentment to something more complex, more conflicted.

"You said it last night," Shane said finally. Not a question.

Ilya nodded, not looking away. "And you said it back."

Last night had moved them past dangerous. Now there was no pretending this was only stolen heat and bad judgment.

"What happens now?" Shane asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ilya's throat tightened. He wanted to make a joke, to deflect with humor as he always did when things became too real. But the words wouldn't come. Instead, he reached for Shane's hand where it lay between them on the sheets and threaded their fingers together.

“I don’t know,” Ilya admitted. “I don’t know what we do with this.”

Shane's thumb moved over his knuckles, a gentle, reassuring gesture. "We can't change it."

"No." Ilya's voice was firm on that point. "I meant what I said."

"Me too." Shane's eyes held his, unwavering. "Even if I shouldn't have."

They both knew the truth—that loving each other was dangerous, impossible even. Ilya was a prince, heir to a kingdom. Shane was his guard, sworn to protect him. And somewhere beyond these walls, a traitor was plotting Ilya's death.

A knock at the door shattered the moment.

They sprang apart, Ilya rolling to his side of the bed while Shane slid to the floor, gathering his discarded clothes with frantic hands. The knock came again, more insistent this time.

"Your Highness?" Mrs. Rogova's voice called through the door. "Captain Lukov requests your presence for breakfast. He has news regarding the investigation."

"Thank you, Mrs. Rogova," Ilya called back, his voice steady despite the frantic beating of his heart. "I'll be down shortly."

Footsteps retreated down the corridor. Shane was already half-dressed, fastening his trousers with quick, practiced movements. His face had already changed. The softness was gone. Sir Shane was back.

"I should go," Shane said, not meeting Ilya's eyes. "Check the corridors, make sure everything's secure before you come down."

Ilya nodded, feeling the old weight settle back over him. "I'll see you downstairs."

Shane finished dressing quickly, his movements efficient and practiced. At the door, he paused, his hand on the handle. Ilya saw the conflict in his eyes, the desire to say more, to reach back across the distance that had already opened between them.

But instead, Shane simply nodded once, his expression settling back into duty. "Your Highness," he said formally, and then he was gone.

Ilya sat alone on the edge of the bed, the sheets still warm where Shane had lain beside him. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, feeling the weight of the crown that he hadn't even put on yet. I love you still echoed in his mind. Already, daylight was trying to make it feel like a dream.

***

The small dining room felt like a different world from the intimate space they had shared just hours before. Ilya sat at one end of the table, every inch the composed prince, his spine straight and his expression carefully neutral as servants moved quietly around the room. Across from him, Shane stood at attention by the door, his face a mask of professional detachment, though his eyes kept moving: room, windows, servants, exits.

Captain Lukov sat to Ilya's right, maps and reports spread before him on the polished mahogany table. "We've questioned every staff member who had access to the travel arrangements," he said, his voice low enough that only those at the table could hear. "So far, no one's admitted to anything."

"Which means either our traitor is skilled at deception," Ilya replied, his voice carefully modulated, "or we're looking in the wrong place." He took a sip of tea, aware of Shane's watchful gaze tracking his every movement.

The young servant pouring tea at his elbow stumbled slightly, catching herself against the table. Ilya didn't react, but he noted how Shane's hand moved instantly to his sword hilt before the knight caught himself and returned to his formal stance.

Mrs. Rogova entered, her footsteps precise on the hardwood floor. "Your Highness, Princess Rose has arrived."

Rose entered in pale green, composed as ever. Her eyes found Ilya first, then Shane. A small, knowing pause. Then she smiled.

"Good morning," she said, taking the seat across from Captain Lukov. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

"Not at all, Your Highness," Lukov replied with a respectful nod. "We were just discussing the investigation."

Rose accepted tea from the servant, her gaze moving between Ilya and Shane with perceptive eyes. "You both look tired," she observed, her tone light but her meaning clear. "Did you not sleep well?"

Ilya caught the subtle emphasis in her question and felt his cheeks warm slightly. "Well enough," he replied, his voice betraying nothing. "Long journey."

Shane's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. His eyes met Ilya's for just a moment before returning to their vigilant sweep of the room.

"Indeed," Rose said, taking a delicate sip of her tea. She set her cup down and turned to Captain Lukov. "Captain, might I suggest that Prince Ilya and I go for a walk this morning? The gardens here are beautiful, and we could both use the exercise."

Lukov frowned slightly. "Your Highness, with the recent attempt—"

"We'll take Sir Shane with us," Rose interrupted smoothly. "And two other guards if you insist. But you can’t keep us locked inside for the entire visit. We’re not animals, Captain.”

Ilya found himself grateful for Rose's intervention. The walls of the summer palace were beginning to feel like a prison, the weight of his mother's memory pressing down on him from every corner. "The princess is right, Captain. I’d like some fresh air."

Lukov considered this, his weathered face creased with concern. "Very well. But you'll take four guards, not two. And you'll remain within sight of the house at all times."

"Agreed," Ilya said, rising from his chair. He avoided looking directly at Shane, though he felt the knight's eyes on him as he moved. "Shall we, Princess?"

Rose stood gracefully, her gown rustling softly. "Of course, Your Highness."

***

Ilya stepped into the garden, the morning sun warm on his face. After hours inside, the fresh air should have been a relief. The garden itself was another matter. His mother’s flowerbeds had once sprawled in perfect symmetry. Now wildness had taken over.

"You okay?" Shane's voice came from behind him, close enough that Ilya could feel the warmth of his breath.

"Fine," Ilya replied automatically, though his chest tightened at the sight before him.

Rose walked ahead with her two guards, already exclaiming over the climbing roses that had grown unchecked along the eastern wall. Ilya hung back, taking in the changes with a strange sense of detachment. The gravel paths his mother had ordered from the southern quarries were now half-hidden beneath encroaching grass. The ornamental hedges had grown shaggy and irregular, their sharp geometric shapes softened by neglect.

"The fountain was there," Ilya found himself saying, pointing to a circular area where the stone rim was still visible beneath a tangle of vines. "My mother used to sit on that bench and read while I played in the water."

Shane moved to stand beside him, his posture casual but his eyes constantly scanning the perimeter. "What happened to it?"

Ilya shrugged. "My father didn’t care about my mother. The garden never stood a chance. There was no one to make sure it was maintained after she died.” He kept his tone light, matter-of-fact.

They continued walking, following Rose and her guards along what remained of the central path. Ilya felt the weight of memory pressing in from all sides. Every corner held a ghost.

"That oak tree," he said, pointing to a massive tree with low-hanging branches. "I used to climb it to spy on the kitchen staff. There's a perfect view of the servants' entrance from up there."

Shane glanced at him, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "You spied on the servants?"

"They knew all the palace gossip." Ilya's lips quirked. "I learned more from them than from any of my tutors." He paused. "My mother would get so angry when she found out. She'd send me to my room without dinner."

The words came easier than he expected. The memories weren’t all grief. Some hurt. Some warmed.

"What else did you do?" Shane asked, his voice low enough that only Ilya could hear.

Ilya pointed to a small structure partially hidden by overgrown ivy. "That's the summer house. I'd hide there when I didn't want to be found." He smiled despite himself. "I used it to sneak out at night."

Shane raised an eyebrow. "Is that where you learned to climb the palace walls?"

"Maybe," Ilya admitted, smirking. "My mother never caught me, at least."

Ilya glanced ahead to where Rose had stopped to examine a particularly vibrant rose bush farther ahead, her guards clustered around her. Sergei was pointing something out to her, while Kirill stood with his back to them, surveying the garden perimeter. She listened politely as Sergei explained the history of the rose terraces. If she noticed Ilya falling behind, she gave no sign of it. Perfect.

Without a word, Ilya seized Shane's wrist and pulled him off the main path, ducking behind a towering hedge.

"Your Highness—" Shane protested, his voice low but sharp. "Captain Lukov said—"

"Captain Lukov isn't here," Ilya whispered, tugging Shane deeper into the overgrowth. "And you're with me. I'll be fine."

Shane's expression remained troubled, but he didn't resist as Ilya led him through the dense foliage. "Where exactly are we going?"

Ilya pushed aside a curtain of ivy to reveal a small alcove, hidden from view by the garden's wild growth. “Somewhere no one will find us,” he said, and felt a small thrill at the words. He ran his fingers along the stone wall until he found what he was looking for. A slight indentation, nearly invisible unless you knew where to look.

"What are you—"

Ilya pressed firmly against the indentation. A section of wall shifted inward with a soft groan, revealing a dark passage beyond.

“Hidden passages,” Ilya said, unable to keep the old thrill out of his voice. “My mother told me about them. When she or my father were busy, I used to sneak around and try to find them. They were used by royals and servants to move through the palace unseen."

Shane's expression transformed instantly. All traces of the softness from this morning vanished, replaced by the sharp alertness of a soldier. "These passages connect to every room?"

"Most of them."

"This is a security breach," Shane said, his voice tight. "Who else knows about them?"

"My father's advisors, the steward, maybe a few senior servants." Ilya shrugged. "They're not exactly common knowledge."

Shane stepped forward, peering into the darkness. His hand went to his sword hilt. "We need to check every one. Someone could be using them to—"

“Then let’s see where it goes,” Ilya said, already ducking into the passage. The air inside was heavy with dust and the musty smell of disuse. "I haven't been in here since I was twelve."

The passage narrowed almost immediately, forcing them single file. Ilya took the lead, his footsteps leaving clear prints in the thick layer of dust covering the stone floor. Dim light filtered through small ventilation grates set high in the walls, casting eerie shadows across the corridor.

"We should turn back," Shane said, his voice echoing softly in the confined space. "This isn't secure."

"I know this place," Ilya insisted, though doubt was beginning to creep in. The passage felt different than he remembered. Smaller somehow. Maybe because he was bigger now.

The corridor forked ahead, one tunnel veering left, the other right.

Shane moved up beside him, his shoulder pressing against Ilya's in the tight space. "Where do they lead?"

"The right passage leads to the servants’ stairs near my rooms," Ilya said, pointing.

"And the left?" Shane asked, his voice tight with tension.

Ilya shook his head. “I don’t know. I never got the chance to find out.”

Shane crouched down, examining the floor. "Look."

In the dim light, Ilya could just make out what had caught Shane's attention—footprints in the dust, clear and recent, leading down the left passage.

"Someone's been here," Shane said, his voice dropping to a barely audible whisper. "Recently."

Ilya's throat went dry. This place had been his sanctuary once. His secret with his mother. Now someone had violated it. Someone had discovered the passages.

"Ilya," Shane's voice was urgent now. "We need to go back. Now."

But Ilya was already moving forward, following the trail of footprints down the unfamiliar passage. The corridor narrowed further, forcing him to turn sideways to continue. The dust here was thinner, disturbed in a clear path where someone had recently walked.

"Stop," Shane hissed, grabbing Ilya's arm. "This isn't a game. Whoever made these prints—"

"Is the same person who tried to kill me," Ilya finished, his voice flat. "I know."

He continued forward, ignoring Shane's protests. He knew Shane was right. He knew this was stupid. But the footprints led toward the part of the palace he had avoided for fifteen years, and suddenly turning back felt worse than going forward. The passage curved sharply, and suddenly they were in darkness. The ventilation grates had disappeared, leaving them in complete blackness.

"Wait," Shane whispered. "I have a flint."

Ilya heard the soft sound of Shane's hand moving to his belt pouch, then the scrape of flint against steel. A small flame flared to life, illuminating Shane's tense face in the darkness.

The light revealed more than either of them wanted to see. The walls here were marked, scraped in places, as if someone had passed through in a hurry. A strip of coarse dark-green fabric clung to a protruding stone. The kind used for travel cloaks, not palace livery. And there, clearly visible in the flickering light, was a boot print, smaller than Shane's, with a distinctive pattern on the sole.

Ilya felt sick. His mother’s secret had been turned into a murderer’s road. The summer palace wasn't safe after all. Nowhere was safe.

"We need to follow these prints," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "Find out where this passage leads."

Shane nodded grimly, his face illuminated in harsh shadows by the small flame. "Stay behind me."

They continued deeper into the passage, the darkness closing around them like a shroud. Ilya's heart pounded against his ribs at the realization that the threat they'd hoped to escape by coming here had followed them. Someone knew the summer palace's secrets. Someone who wanted him dead.

The passage opened into a small antechamber Ilya recognized immediately. A painted ceiling arched overhead, faded clouds and birds still visible in the dim light. His mother had commissioned them for her private rooms. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of light that pierced the gloom through a small window high on the wall.

"We're in the east wing," Ilya whispered, his voice catching in his throat. "My mother's quarters."

Shane's flame illuminated walls covered in peeling silk wallpaper. A thin layer of dust coated every surface, undisturbed except for the single trail of footprints they'd been following which continued through a small archway to their left.

Ilya stepped forward, his boots leaving clear prints in the thick dust. The air tasted old and stale, but beneath it lingered lavender and oil paint, scents that brought memories crashing back with such force he had to steady himself against the wall.

Shane remained close but silent, his presence a steady anchor as Ilya moved through the forgotten space. The antechamber opened into a larger room. His mother's private sitting room. Furniture lay draped in yellowed sheets like ghosts frozen in time. A grand piano stood in the corner, its lid closed, keys untouched for fifteen years. The footprints continued across the room and disappeared through the door to his mother’s bedchamber. But Ilya found himself unable to follow them, his feet rooted to the spot as he took in the faded splendor around him.

“Why would anyone come here?” he murmured, moving to the nearest draped object. With trembling fingers, he pulled away the sheet to reveal an ornate writing desk. The wood was rich but dull with neglect, its surface still bearing the faint impressions of ink stains from letters long since written.

Shane checked the other doors methodically, ensuring they were alone. "This area isn't part of the active palace, is it?"

Ilya shook his head. "My father sealed it off after she died." He ran his fingers along the desk's edge, leaving a clean trail in the dust.

He had locked this place away for a reason. Standing here made every lock feel useless.

Shane remained quiet, his eyes watchful as they moved through the room. He didn't rush Ilya or push him to continue. He simply stood guard, a silent witness to Ilya's growing turmoil.

The next sheet Ilya removed revealed a chaise lounge upholstered in faded blue silk. He remembered his mother reclining there, book in hand, while he played at her feet. The memory was so vivid he could almost hear her soft laughter, feel the gentle touch of her hand in his hair.

"Your father never comes here?" Shane asked quietly.

Ilya laughed, the sound hollow in the dusty room. "He can't face what he destroyed."

He moved to a small side table, drawn to a silver frame half-hidden beneath another sheet. When he lifted it, his breath caught in his throat. A portrait of his mother—young, smiling, holding a small child in her lap. Ilya recognized himself at perhaps four years old, his mother's arms wrapped protectively around him, both of them laughing at something beyond the frame.

"She wanted more for me," Ilya said, tracing the glass with his fingertip. "Not just to be a prince or a pawn." He swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat. “She told me to find my own path. Said that was the only way I’d ever become a good king.”

He set the frame down with unsteady hands and moved deeper into the room, toward the door that led to her bedchamber. The footprints continued through it, but Ilya paused at the threshold, suddenly uncertain.

Shane appeared at his side, close but not touching. "We don't have to go in there," he said softly.

Ilya looked at him, taking in the concern in those dark eyes, the way Shane's body angled slightly toward him, protective even now. This man who had seen him at his most vulnerable, who had held him through the night, who had risked everything simply by caring.

"I need to," Ilya said finally. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The bedchamber was even more frozen in time than the sitting room. Dust-covered furniture, draped paintings, a grand canopy bed still made as if its occupant might return at any moment. But what drew Ilya's eye was the small writing desk in the corner, its drawers slightly ajar.

He crossed the room and pulled the top drawer open fully. Inside lay a leather-bound journal, its cover embossed with his mother's initials. His hands shook as he lifted it out, dust cascading from its pages.

"A…diary," he said, turning the book over in his hands.

The first page fell open to reveal elegant handwriting. The date at the top caught his eye: fifteen years ago. The month before she died.

"My darling Ilya turns twelve tomorrow," he read aloud, his voice barely above a whisper. "My little boy is becoming a man, and already Grigori speaks of alliances and marriages, as if our son is only a tool for him to use."

The words blurred as tears welled in Ilya's eyes. He sank onto the edge of the bed, unable to stand any longer.

"I have one wish, though Grigori might make it impossible. I wish Ilya will find someone who sees him for who he is, not just his title." His voice cracked. "Someone who loves the boy beneath the title. Someone who makes him happy."

Everything crashed down at once: the assassination attempts, the marriage, Shane, the crown, the life he had never chosen. A sob broke out of him before he could stop it. Then another.

The journal slipped from his fingers and landed on the dusty floor with a soft thud. Ilya pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to stem the flood of tears, but it was useless. He couldn’t pull it back. Not this time.

His mother’s wish had come true and not come true at all. His education. His training. His marriage. All of it had been chosen for him. Even his death was apparently part of someone's grand design. He had never been given a choice about anything that mattered.

A warm hand touched his shoulder. Shane sat beside him.

"I'm sorry," Ilya whispered, ashamed of his breakdown.

“Don’t apologize,” Shane said softly.

The bed dipped as Shane sat beside him, close enough that their thighs touched. He didn't say anything else. No platitudes, no empty reassurances. Ilya felt Shane's fingers brush against his before linking with his own. He looked up, his vision blurred with tears, to find Shane watching him with an expression that made his heart clench.

Without a word, Shane reached up and wiped a tear from Ilya's cheek with his thumb. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Ilya's. Ilya closed his eyes and focused on matching Shane's slow, steady breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

“I love you,” Shane whispered.

The words hit softer than any touch. He opened his eyes to find Shane still watching him.

"I love you too," he whispered back, the words coming easier this time. Maybe one part of his mother’s wish had come true. Even if he still couldn’t keep it.

Ilya leaned forward, closing the small distance between them, and kissed Shane. It wasn't passionate or desperate like their previous encounters. This kiss was tender. Grounding. A promise they weren’t alone in this. Shane's lips were warm and steady against his, and for a moment, the weight of everything felt somehow more manageable.

When they pulled apart, Shane rested his forehead against Ilya's, his eyes still closed. "We should go," he whispered. "Before someone notices we're missing."

Ilya nodded, reluctantly retrieving his mother's diary from the dusty floor. He tucked it carefully into his jacket, next to his heart, as if it were a secret he couldn't bear to leave behind.

They retraced their steps through the forgotten rooms, Shane's hand never leaving his sword hilt. The knight's posture had shifted, hardened back into that of a guard on high alert. Each shadow and creak made him tense, his eyes constantly scanning for threats.

When they reached the garden entrance, Shane held up his hand, signaling Ilya to wait while he checked the passage ahead. "Clear," he murmured after a moment, gesturing for Ilya to follow.

As they emerged into the sunlight, blinking at the sudden brightness, Shane changed immediately. His shoulders squared, his expression hardened, and his voice dropped to a low, urgent tone.

"Those passages are a security nightmare," he said, scanning the garden for any sign of Rose or the guards. "I need to speak with Lukov. We'll need more guards posted at every entrance, and restricted access to anyone who knows about them."

Ilya felt a familiar frustration rising in his chest. "I don't need to be locked down again, Shane."

Shane's jaw tightened. "Someone used those passages to move around undetected. The same someone who's trying to kill you."

"And locking me up won't stop them from trying again," Ilya countered, keeping his voice low. "It just means I'll be an easier target."

“I know you hate it. But right now, restrictions keep you alive.” Shane's voice was firm, but Ilya could see the conflict in his eyes.

“And restrictions make me crazy.” Ilya stepped closer, their argument hidden by the tall hedges surrounding them. "Or did you forget?"

Shane's expression softened slightly. "I know. But I also know I can't protect you if you're wandering through secret passages that half the palace staff might know about."

“I’m not wandering.”

They were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. Captain Lukov appeared around the corner, his face grim. His eyes narrowed at the dust on their clothes, but he didn’t comment.

"Your Highness," Lukov said, his voice tight with urgency. "We've found the third assassin."

Ilya's pulse quickened. "Alive?"

Lukov shook his head. "Dead. In the forest, about a mile from where we were ambushed." He glanced at Shane. "Same method. Throat cut. Clean, professional."

"Just like the poisoner," Shane said, his voice hard.

Lukov nodded grimly. “This is what we feared. These attacks aren’t random. They’re coordinated.”

Ilya felt his body tighten. The poisoning, the ambush, the swift elimination of any evidence. Someone was running an operation.

“Your Highness,” Shane said, voice low and dangerous, “this place is compromised.”

Ilya felt the anger rising in his chest, hot and sharp. They would never stop. There would always be another plot. Another attempt. Another room to lock him in.

"No." The word came out stronger than he intended.

"But—"

“I’m not a target to hide away. I’m the Crown Prince of Zakoria,” Ilya said, his voice rising. "If someone wants me dead, they can face me directly. I’m not going to spend my life running.” If he ever ran, it would be with Shane. Not because some bastard assassin scared him into it.

Shane and Lukov exchanged glances, but neither argued. Ilya knew they were only trying to protect him, but he was tired of being protected.

"We need to know who has access to those hidden passages," Shane said, redirecting the conversation. "And we need to map every route."

"The palace blueprints are in the steward's office," Lukov offered. "Though they may not show all the passages."

"I'll help with the mapping," Ilya said. "I remember some of the routes."

Shane's expression darkened. "You shouldn't go back in there. It's not safe."

"And sitting in my chambers waiting to die is any better?" Ilya countered. "At least this way, I'm doing something."

A muscle ticked in Shane's jaw, but he nodded reluctantly. "Fine. But you stay with me at all times."

"I always do," Ilya replied, the double meaning not lost on either of them.

Lukov cleared his throat. "We should return to the palace. Princess Rose is asking for you."

Of course he had. Nothing happened in this building that David Hollander didn't eventually hear about. Shane had hoped to handle the situation before it reached his father, but clearly that ship had sailed.

"Gerald called me," David continued when Shane didn't immediately respond. "Said Faber reached out to him. Apparently, you showed him the door rather unceremoniously."

Shane's jaw tightened. "He deserved worse."

David raised an eyebrow, waiting for more.

"He made inappropriate comments," Shane said, keeping his voice even. "About Ilya."

Understanding dawned on his father's face. "Ah."

That single syllable contained multitudes—recognition, comprehension, a certain weary knowledge of how the world worked. Shane had always admired his father's ability to grasp situations quickly, to see all the angles at once. Now, he found himself wishing for just a moment that his father didn't understand quite so well.

"Gerald is concerned about the Wellman Capital connection," David said. "Faber has significant pull there."

"I'm aware."

"And you still sent him packing."

It wasn't a question, but Shane answered anyway. "Yes."

David leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "Tell me what happened. Did he recognize Ilya? From…before?”

Shane hesitated. Discussing this felt like a violation of Ilya's privacy. But if anyone could help him navigate this situation, it was David. “No. He didn’t recgonize him, but…he knew. He saw something, a look Ilya had, his posture. I don’t know. He cornered him in the bathroom. Asked him how much I paid for him and then tried to pay him double to leave with him.”

Shane felt bile rise in his throat. Even remembering it all made him angry. “When he came in for his meeting, he asked for a private one with me. I thought he wanted to discuss numbers. He just wanted to talk about Ilya. Wanted to know where I’d bought him. He wanted to—” Shane swallowed past the lump in his throat. “He wanted to take a turn himself.”

David's expression remained neutral, but a muscle tightened in his jaw. "I see."

Shane ran a hand through his hair. The frustration that had been building all week finally spilled over. "It's like no matter what we do, no matter how far we've come, someone's always going to look at Ilya and see..." He couldn't finish the sentence.

"His past," David supplied quietly.

"Yes." Shane looked down at his desk, at the papers scattered across it. Contracts, projections, the tangible proof of his responsibilities. "And now I’ve made an enemy who could damage the company. All because I couldn't keep my cool."

"Would you do it differently if you could go back?"

Shane looked up sharply. "No. Never."

David nodded, a slight smile touching his lips. "Good."

The response surprised Shane. He'd expected a lecture about professional detachment, about keeping business and personal matters separate. That had always been his father's way.

"I'm proud of you," David said, leaning forward slightly. "You stood up for what matters."

Shane felt a knot loosen, one he hadn’t realized was there. "But Gerald—"

"I'll handle Gerald," David cut in. "He respects me enough to listen. And Conrad Faber isn't the only investor in Montreal."

"Thank you," Shane said, the words inadequate for the relief washing through him.

David waved it away. "Don't thank me yet. I have a feeling this isn't the last we'll hear from Faber. Men like that don't take rejection well." He paused, studying Shane's face. "But that's not what's really bothering you, is it?"

Shane hesitated. The ease with which his father read him was both comforting and unnerving. "It's Ilya," he admitted. "After I told him about Faber coming to my office, he..." He struggled to find the words. “Something happened, and we haven’t talked about it. I don’t think he wants to.”

David was quiet for a moment, his fingers tapping thoughtfully against the arm of the chair. “And you want to?”

“I feel like we should. It was kind of major. I don’t want him to feel like he has to earn his place with me.” Shane let out a shaky breath. He was trying to remain professional, even in front of his father since they were still in the office. But he couldn’t stop the glassy sheen that came over his eyes. “I love him, Dad. I just want to protect him.”

David's eyes softened, and for a moment he was just Shane's father. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"You can't protect him from everything, Shane. Some battles he has to fight himself."

Shane shook his head. "You don't understand. After I told him about Faber, he..." The words stuck in his throat. "He tried to do something he wasn't ready for. Something that triggered him. And he did it because he thought he needed to be 'worth the trouble' I was going through for him."

David was quiet for a long moment. "Have you considered that maybe Ilya needs something else from you right now?"

"Like what?"

"Space to figure out who he is." David's gaze was steady. "From what you've told me, he went from being controlled by Marcus to being saved by you. When did he get to decide who he wanted to be?"

He'd never thought about it that way. Had he just replaced one form of control with another, albeit gentler version?

"I'm not trying to control him," Shane protested. "I just want him to be happy."

"I know that. But sometimes protecting someone can feel like making decisions for them." David stood up, straightening his jacket. "Just something to think about. I think you two do need to talk though. Even if it ends in a fight, at least it’s progress. Learned that one from your mother."

After his father left, Shane sat in the quiet of his office. His father's words echoed in his mind. Space to figure out who he is. He wanted to give Ilya everything—safety, love, a future untainted by his past. But maybe what Ilya needed most was something Shane hadn't considered: the freedom to choose his own path. Even if that path led him somewhere Shane couldn’t follow.

***

Ilya sat at the kitchen island, hand loosely wrapped around a bottle of vodka. He was staring at the marble, not really seeing it. He had been waiting for Shane to get home when his mind had drifted somewhere else. Somewhere dark:

The client was a regular. A businessman who traveled to Montreal three or four times a year. Marcus called him Mr. Smith, though Ilya knew that wasn't his real name. He always requested Ilya specifically. Always paid extra for "privacy."

This night, Mr. Smith brought friends.

Three of them. All in expensive suits, wedding rings glinting under the hotel lights as they circled him like wolves. Ilya was wearing the outfit Mr. Smith preferred. Tight black pants, no shirt, and a leather collar around his neck.

"I told them how good you are," Mr. Smith said, his fingers tracing the line of Ilya's jaw. "How you never say no. How you take everything."

Fear pooled deep in Ilya’s gut. His eyes darted to Marcus. He was standing by the door. The smile on his face promised consequences if Ilya didn’t perform well.

“Please,” he’d whispered to Marcus as Mr. Smith pulled him closer, running his hands over his body. He didn’t want to. If his friends were anything like Mr. Smith, it would hurt. It would hurt so badly he might pass out or die. And they wouldn’t stop.

Marcus's smile only widened. "Triple the money, pretty boy. You'll manage."

The next hours blurred together, only fragments popping up in Ilya’s mind. The first man grabbed him by the collar and threw him onto the hotel bed. Ilya hit the mattress hard, the breath knocked from his lungs. Before he could recover, they were on him.

The ropes burned around his wrists as they secured him to the bed. One man produced a small knife from his pocket. Ilya’s breathing picked up as the cold metal traced along his chest, not cutting. Threatening.

"I like them scared," the man whispered, his breath hot against Ilya's ear. "Marcus said you could take pain. Let's see how much."

The first cut was shallow—across his collarbone, a thin line of fire that made Ilya gasp. The second was deeper. By the third, he was struggling despite knowing it would only make things worse. Marcus watched from the corner, eyes cold, calculating how much damage they could inflict without reducing his value.

The knife-wielder laughed, wiping a tear from Ilya’s eye. “He’s so pretty when he cries.”

Mr. Smith moved between Ilya's legs, forcing them apart. "You haven't seen anything yet."

What came next felt like a bottomless ocean of pain as they passed him between them like an object. A camera flashed as Mr. Smith documented everything.

One of them—the youngest, with manicured hands and a Harvard class ring—gripped Ilya's throat until black spots danced across his vision. "Look at him," the man said to the others. "He loves it."

Ilya didn’t love it. At some point, he stopped feeling. His mind disconnected from his body, floating somewhere near the ceiling, watching what was done to the body below with detached curiosity.

When they finally finished with him, Mr. Smith pressed a thick envelope into Marcus's waiting hand. "Same time next year," he said, as if they'd just concluded a business meeting.

Marcus nodded, pocketing the money without counting it. The trust of a long business relationship. He didn’t untie Ilya until the men left. He didn’t help him clean up or dress.

He just tossed his clothes at him before grabbing his jaw, forcing Ilya to look at him. "Be ready in ten minutes.” His fingers dug into Ilya's cheeks. “We have another appointment across town."

Ilya vomited in the hotel bathroom, his body shaking as he tried to wipe away the blood. There wasn't time to shower. Marcus never gave him time.

The sound of glass shattering yanked Ilya back to the present. He looked down at his hand. He’d gripped the vodka bottle so tightly it cracked, alcohol spilling across the marble countertop, dripping onto the floor. His heart raced, sweat beading on his forehead as he watched the cut across his palm bleed down his wrist..

"Fuck," he whispered, standing up and rushing to the sink.

He ran cold water over the cut, watching the blood swirl down the drain in pink ribbons. The pain was sharp, grounding. At least this pain was real, present, his own. Not a memory, not a ghost. He reached for a clean dish towel and wrapped it around his hand, applying pressure.

The front door opened.

"Ilya?" Shane's voice carried from the entryway, followed by the sound of keys dropping into the bowl by the door and a briefcase being set down.

"In kitchen," Ilya called back, his voice steadier than he expected. He turned off the faucet with his uninjured hand and pressed the towel tighter against his palm.

Shane appeared in the doorway, still in his suit from work, tie loosened. His eyes immediately went to the broken bottle, the puddle of vodka on the floor, the bloodstained towel wrapped around Ilya's hand.

"What happened?" Shane crossed the kitchen in three quick strides, reaching for Ilya's hand.

"Accident," Ilya said, allowing Shane to carefully unwrap the towel. "Bottle broke."

Shane examined the cut, his touch gentle as he turned Ilya's hand under the light. "This looks deep. You might need stitches."

"Is fine," Ilya insisted, though the cut continued to bleed steadily. "Just need bandage."

Shane's jaw tightened slightly, but he didn't argue. Instead, he guided Ilya to a stool, then retrieved the first aid kit from under the sink. He worked in silence, cleaning the wound with antiseptic that stung enough to make Ilya hiss through his teeth. Then he applied butterfly bandages to hold the edges of the cut together.

As Shane worked, Ilya watched his face. There was a slight furrow between his brows and a careful concentration in his eyes. Shane's hands were steady and competent. He was always fixing things. Always taking care of him.

"How was work?" Ilya asked, needing to break the silence.

"Fine," Shane replied, securing the last bandage. "My dad stopped by." He hesitated, his hands stilling on Ilya's. "We talked about Faber."

Ilya's body tensed involuntarily. He kept his face neutral. But he knew Shane would notice the change anyway. Shane always noticed.

"What about him?" Ilya asked.

Shane finished wrapping a gauze bandage around Ilya's hand before answering. "Dad's going to talk to Gerald. Handle the situation." He secured the gauze with medical tape. "He doesn't think Faber will be a problem for the business."

Ilya nodded, relief mixing with a familiar sense of shame. Another problem solved. Another mess cleaned up. All because of him.

"Ilya," Shane said, his voice softer now as he set the first aid supplies aside. "We need to talk about what happened the other night."

Ilya’s fingers unconsciously tightened around the gauze bandage Shane had just applied. The dull throb in his palm became a sharp sting. He focused on that instead of the conversation he'd been dreading.

"Nothing to talk about," he said, pulling his hand away from Shane's. "It happened. Is over."

Shane sighed, leaning against the counter. "It's not over, Ilya. Not when you still believe you need to..." He paused. "To earn your place with me somehow."

Ilya stood up, needing to move. The kitchen suddenly felt too small, the air too thick. He grabbed a paper towel and bent to clean the spilled vodka, giving himself something to do with his hands and a reason not to meet Shane's eyes.

"We are getting married," he said, focusing on wiping up the clear liquid. "Planning big wedding with two hundred seventy-four people I don't know. Is enough talking, I think."

"That's not the same thing and you know it." Shane's voice was gentle but firm. "We haven't discussed what happened that night. Why you felt you needed to do that."

Ilya's movements became more aggressive, the paper towel tearing under the pressure. He grabbed another, continuing to clean while the first piece stuck to his bandaged hand.

"Was mistake," he muttered. "Won't happen again."

"That's not—" Shane took a deep breath. "Ilya, look at me. Please."

Ilya straightened slowly, reluctantly meeting Shane's eyes. All he saw was Shane’s deep concern. He didn't deserve that look. Didn't deserve Shane's patience or his kindness or the careful way he was trying to navigate this conversation.

"My father said something today that made me think," Shane continued. "He asked me when you've had the chance to figure out who you want to be."

Ilya thought back to his therapist. What do you want, Ilya? He frowned. "What does this mean?"

"It means..." Shane pushed away from the counter, stepping closer but still giving Ilya space. "It means that maybe I've been trying so hard to protect you that I haven't given you room to decide things for yourself."

Ilya felt something cold slide down his spine. "You are... tired of me?" The question came out small, vulnerable in a way he hated.

"God, no." Shane reached for him, his hand finding Ilya's uninjured one. "That's not it at all. I love you. I want to spend my life with you."

"Then what?"

Shane's thumb traced circles on the back of Ilya's hand. "I'm wondering if maybe you need some space. Not from me," he added quickly, seeing the panic flash across Ilya's face. "But space to figure out what you want. Who you are outside of..." His eyes searched his face. "...outside of us. Outside of our relationship. Outside of what happened to you."

Ilya felt his throat constrict. He pulled his hand away from Shane's and turned toward the sink. "You want me to... what? Go somewhere?" Where would he even go? Everything that mattered to him was here.

"No," Shane said quickly. "That's not what I'm saying at all." He moved to Ilya's side, not touching him but close enough that Ilya could feel his warmth. "I just mean... maybe you need to explore what you want. For yourself. Not for me, not for us, but for you."

"I want you," he said. Simple. Direct. True.

"I know," Shane said softly. "And I want you too. But there has to be more than that."

"Why?" Ilya turned to face him now, something hot and desperate rising in his throat. "Why does there have to be more? Is not enough?"

Shane's face softened. "Of course it's enough. But Ilya, you've spent years surviving. Years just trying to stay alive, and then years trying to rebuild. When have you ever gotten to just... want things? To choose things for yourself?"

When had Ilya last wanted something just for himself? Had he ever? Not to please someone else, not to survive, but simply because he desired it?

"I don't know," he admitted.

Shane stepped closer, placing his hand on the side of Ilya’s face. “I think you need to figure that out, baby.” He rubbed Ilya’s cheek with his thumb. “But it has to be your choice. Not something you think I want. Not something you're doing to be worthy of me."

What if Ilya couldn't figure it out? What if he searched and searched inside himself and found nothing? Just emptiness where desire should be? The thought terrified him. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Shane, burying his face in the crook of his neck. His eyes burned, tears threatening, but he blinked them back. He didn't want Shane to see him cry. Not again.

"What if I never figure it out?" His voice came out muffled against Shane's skin. "What if there is nothing inside? Just... broken pieces?"

Shane's arms tightened around him, one hand moving to the back of Ilya's head, fingers threading through his hair.

"Then I'll be here to help you," Shane said, his voice steady and certain. "I'm not going anywhere, Ilya. Not ever."

Ilya pulled back, unable to stop the tears that spilled down his cheeks as he looked at Shane. At the man who had found him on that dark road. Who had waited through nightmares and panic attacks and silences. Who had never once made him feel like he was something damaged beyond repair.

"I love you," Ilya whispered.

Shane's eyes softened, his thumb brushing away a tear from Ilya's cheek. "I love you too. Always."

Ilya leaned forward, pressing his lips to Shane's. The kiss started soft, gentle, a reaffirmation. Then he deepened it. His fingers found their way into Shane's hair, tangling in the soft strands as he pressed Shane backward until he met the edge of the sink.

Ilya's mouth moved from Shane's lips to his jaw, then lower, trailing kisses down his neck. He nipped lightly at the sensitive skin where neck met shoulder, gratified by the shiver that ran through Shane's body. His teeth scraped Shane's earlobe, tugging gently.

"Ilya," Shane moaned, his hands gripping Ilya's hips.

The sound of his name on Shane's lips sent a surge of heat through Ilya's body. Without breaking the kiss, he slid his hands beneath Shane's thighs and lifted him, feeling Shane's legs wrap around his waist. He carried him the short distance to the couch, then let himself fall backward, pulling Shane down on top of him.

Shane braced himself with his hands on either side of Ilya's head, looking down at him with desire darkening his eyes. Ilya reached up, fingers working at Shane's tie, loosening it but not removing it. He unbuttoned Shane's shirt with practiced ease, pushing the fabric aside and off to reveal the smooth skin beneath. His hands slid up Shane's chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his palm.

"Leave tie," Ilya murmured. "Like how you look, Mr. Businessman."

Shane laughed, the sound warming Ilya's chest. He dipped his head to capture Ilya's lips again as his fingers found the hem of Ilya's t-shirt, tugging it upward. Ilya lifted his arms, allowing Shane to pull the shirt over his head and toss it aside. The cool air of the apartment raised goosebumps on his skin, or maybe it was the heat in Shane's gaze as he looked down at him. He undid Shane’s suit pants and pushed them down until they were also tossed and forgotten somewhere on the floor.

Shane's fingers traced the lines of Ilya's chest, following the contours of muscle with reverent attention. His tie dangled between them, brushing against Ilya's bare skin as Shane leaned down to press his lips to Ilya's collarbone. The silk felt cool and smooth, a counterpoint to the warmth of Shane's mouth as he worked his way lower.

Ilya's breath caught as Shane's lips moved down his chest, tongue flicking over a nipple before continuing their journey southward. His hands moved to Shane's hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as Shane's mouth traced the line of hair leading below his navel. The anticipation built in Ilya's body, heat pooling in his groin as Shane's hands worked at the button of his jeans.

Shane looked up at him, seeking permission even now. Ilya nodded, lifting his hips to help as Shane tugged his jeans and boxers down in one smooth motion. The fabric caught briefly at his ankles before Shane pulled them free, leaving Ilya naked beneath him.

Shane settled between Ilya's legs, his tie brushing against Ilya's thigh. The sight of him there, his tie hanging loose around his neck, sent a surge of desire through Ilya's body. Shane looked like everything he wasn't supposed to have, everything he'd once believed was beyond his reach.

When Shane's mouth finally found his cock, Ilya's head fell back against the couch cushion. The wet heat of Shane's tongue traced up the length of his shaft, a slow, deliberate tease that made his toes curl. Shane's hands gripped Ilya's thighs, holding him open as he took him into his mouth.

Ilya's hand found the side table drawer, fumbling blindly until his fingers closed around the bottle of lube they kept there. Shane had laughed when Ilya first suggested stashing bottles around the house. But he’d known they’d come in handy. They could never keep their hands off each other. He coated his fingers generously with the clear gel, his gaze never leaving Shane's face. The lube felt cool against his skin as he warmed it between his fingers. Shane's mouth continued its exquisite work, tongue swirling around the head of his cock before taking him deeper again.

"Turn around," Ilya murmured.

Shane released him with a wet pop, his lips shiny and swollen. He shifted on the couch, repositioning himself so his body was stretched alongside Ilya's, his mouth still level with Ilya's cock while his own erection hovered tantalizingly close to Ilya's face. The position exposed Shane perfectly, giving Ilya access to what he wanted.

Ilya ran his slick fingers down the curve of Shane's ass, tracing the cleft before circling his entrance with gentle pressure. He felt Shane shiver at the touch, a small moan vibrating against his cock as Shane took him into his mouth again. The sensation made Ilya's head swim with pleasure.

He pushed a finger in, breaching Shane’s tight opening. He worked his finger slowly, carefully, feeling Shane's body gradually yield to the intrusion. When he added a second finger, Shane groaned around his cock.

“Ffuck,” Ilya moaned, crooking his fingers just so, searching for Shane’s sweet spot.

Shane's rhythm faltered when Ilya found it, his body tensing as a shudder ran through him. Ilya smiled, repeating the motion deliberately, watching as Shane struggled to maintain his focus. With his uninjured hand, he gripped Shane's hip, steadying him as he continued the careful stretch, adding a third finger when Shane's body seemed ready.

“Mmm…fuck, Ilya,” Shane gasped, pulling off briefly before diving back down with renewed enthusiasm.

Ilya closed his eyes, concentrating on the movement of his hand, on the sounds Shane made each time he brushed that sensitive bundle of nerves. He scissored his fingers gently, stretching Shane open.

Shane was working him with single-minded determination now, taking him deeper with each bob of his head. Ilya could feel the familiar pressure building at the base of his spine.

“Stop, stop, not yet,” he said, quickly pulling Shane’s mouth away. He pulled his fingers out. Shane looked confused for a moment before Ilya pulled their mouths together. “Ride me.” Kiss. “Please.” Kiss.

Shane moaned, nodding frantically against Ilya's mouth. He moved to position himself. Ilya sank deeper into the couch, watching through half-lidded eyes as Shane straddled him. Shane looked so beautiful. So perfectly disheveled. Perfectly his.

Shane reached behind himself, wrapping his fingers around Ilya's cock and guiding it to his entrance. The first press of pressure made both of them groan. Ilya gripped Shane's hips with both hands, careful even through his desire to keep his injured palm from reopening. Shane sunk down inch by torturous inch, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he concentrated on the stretch and burn. His thighs trembled with the effort of controlling his descent. When he finally settled fully in Ilya's lap, they both exhaled sharply.

"Okay?" Ilya asked, thumbs tracing circles on Shane's hipbones.

"More than okay," Shane breathed, adjusting to the fullness. He braced his hands on Ilya's chest and began to move. He rolled his hips and Ilya dug his fingers into his skin.

Shane established a rhythm, lifting himself almost all the way off before sinking back down. His movements grew more confident as pleasure built, his head falling back to expose the long line of his throat. Ilya couldn't tear his eyes away.

"So beautiful," Ilya murmured, one hand sliding up Shane's chest to curl around his tie. He tugged gently, pulling Shane down for a kiss that was all heat and hunger.

Shane moaned into his mouth as the angle shifted, pressing Ilya deeper inside him. “Mmmmfuck…” he gasped, breaking the kiss. “Feels so…good.”

Ilya planted his feet more firmly on the floor, giving himself leverage to thrust upward as Shane came down. The new angle had Shane crying out with each movement, his cock leaking precome onto Ilya's stomach.

Ilya wrapped his hand around Shane’s cock. He stroked in time with his thrusts, watching Shane's face contort. Shane's body moved in perfect rhythm, his tie swinging with each rise and fall. Ilya watched Shane above him—eyes half-closed, lips parted, completely lost in sensation. The sight was more beautiful than anything Ilya had ever known. No fake passion. No performance. Real. Theirs.

"Look at me," Ilya whispered, needing to see Shane's eyes.

Shane's gaze found his, pupils blown. His movements slowed slightly as they stared at each other.

"I love you," Shane gasped, his voice breaking on the words. “Ilya, I love who you are. Not who you were. Not who you might become. Who you think you need to become. Just you. Right now.”

Ilya’s throat tightened as he continued thrusting upward. His hand never stopped its rhythm on Shane’s cock. He might not know everything about who he was or what he wanted. But he knew he wanted Shane. Their happiness, their life together. And for that, he needed to try harder to become something whole. For himself.

Shane’s rhythm faltered. His hands gripped Ilya’s shoulders as he leaned down to press their foreheads together. Ilya captured Shane's mouth in a desperate kiss as he thrust upward more forcefully. He felt Shane tightening around him, felt the tremors beginning in Shane's thighs. His own release built at the base of his spine.

Shane cried out, his body arching as he came between them, hot pulses coating Ilya's chest and stomach. Ilya thrust upward one final time, holding Shane tight against him as he emptied himself deep inside, wave after wave of pleasure washing through him.

They collapsed together, breathing heavily, bodies slick with sweat. Shane's head rested on Ilya's chest, his tie now crumpled between them. They didn’t move for a few moments. Just held each other, existing in the aftermath.

Ilya pulled out slowly, keeping an arm around Shane. He ran his hands through his hair, tracing his fingers up and down his back. “I want you to come to see therapist with me.”

Shane lifted his head off Ilya’s chest, looking down at him. “Are you sure?”

Ilya was about to just say ‘yes’, but that wasn’t true. He needed to stop avoiding the truth. “Not really, no. But I think is good idea.” He traced a finger along Shane's jawline, feeling the slight stubble beneath his touch. “I want to try.”

The decision felt right, even with the fear that accompanied it. There were things he still hadn’t told Dr. Klein and things he still hadn’t told Shane. Things that were so traumatic, he had locked them in a box in his mind he was still terrified to open. But he had to, and Shane had to hear them. He needed to trust that Shane wouldn’t run away, no matter what he heard. It would be difficult, but necessary.

"Just... be patient," Ilya said. "Some things are hard to say."

"I know." Shane's eyes held nothing but understanding. "And you don't have to say everything at once. We have time."

Time. Such a simple concept that had once seemed irrelevant to Ilya. When he was with Marcus, time was just something to endure, to survive through. Days, weeks, months blending together in an endless nightmare. Now time stretched before him filled with possibility. With choice.

Shane shifted, grimacing slightly at the mess between them. "We should clean up."

"Da," Ilya agreed, though he made no move to let go of Shane. Instead, he tightened his arms, keeping him close for just a moment longer. "In minute."

Shane settled back against him, his weight comforting and solid. He reached for Ilya's hand, interlacing their fingers.

***

A week later, Ilya stretched across their bed, one arm folded behind his head as he watched sunlight filter through the blinds. It was their first mutual day off in weeks, and the apartment felt peaceful in the late morning light. Through the open bathroom door, he could hear Shane humming tunelessly in the shower, water splashing against the tile.

Ilya closed his eyes, letting the familiar sounds wash over him. He felt content, his body sinking into the mattress.

"So my mom called this morning," Shane called out over the rush of water. "She had another 'brilliant' wedding idea."

Ilya opened his eyes, turning his head toward the bathroom. "What now? Diamond-encrusted place settings?"

Shane's laugh echoed off the bathroom tiles. "Worse. She wants to rent an entire cruise ship."

Ilya sat up so quickly his head spun. "What?"

"A cruise ship," Shane repeated. "For the wedding. She says it would be 'unique' and 'memorable.'"

Ilya frowned, picturing himself on a massive boat surrounded by water in every direction, trapped with hundreds of people he didn't know. His stomach lurched at the thought.

"No," he said firmly. "Not happening."

"Not a fan of the high seas?" Shane's voice carried a hint of amusement.

"I prefer weddings on land. Where there is... land." Ilya ran a hand through his hair, hesitating. He'd been working on this with Dr. Klein. Speaking his mind instead of just agreeing to avoid conflict. He took a deep breath. "Shane, I love your mother, but she is maybe going... how do you say? Overboard with wedding?"

The shower spray shifted as Shane moved under the water. "Overboard? Nice pun."

"Not trying to make joke," Ilya said, watching Shane's silhouette through the frosted glass. "I am serious."

Shane's phone buzzed on the nightstand. Then again. Ilya glanced at it but made no move to check the messages.

"Is there something specific about the plans you don't like?" Shane asked, his voice softening. "Besides the cruise ship idea, which I promise is not happening."

Ilya lay back down, staring at the ceiling. The words stuck in his throat for a moment before he pushed them out. "Maybe is too big," he admitted. "Too many people. Too... much."

"The guest list?" Water splashed as Shane rinsed his hair.

"Yes. Two hundred seventy-four people is..." Ilya shook his head even though Shane couldn't see him. "Most I don't know. Will be watching me whole time."

Shane's phone pinged again. Three messages in quick succession. Ilya frowned.

The water shut off abruptly. Shane's voice came from behind the shower door. "I'm sure I can get Mom to trim the guest list. We can cut it down to people who actually matter to us."

Ilya sighed, pulling himself up to sit against the headboard. "I don't want to upset Yuna. She works so hard on everything. The book, the plans... she wants it to be perfect."

The shower door opened with a soft squeak. Shane reached for his towel, rubbing it vigorously over his hair before wrapping it around his waist.

"She'll be fine," Shane said, stepping into the bedroom. Water droplets clung to his shoulders, catching the morning light. "It's our wedding, Ilya. You should be happy with it too."

Ilya looked down at his hands, tracing the healing cut on his palm. "I just don't want to disappoint you."

Shane moved to the bed, the mattress dipping as he leaned over. He cupped Ilya's jaw with one hand and kissed him softly. His skin was warm and damp, smelling of citrus bodywash.

"I’m marrying you," Shane murmured against his lips. "As long as I get to do that, I will never be disappointed."

Ilya leaned into the kiss, his chest lightening. Shane's phone pinged again from the nightstand, the screen illuminating with another notification.

"It keeps going off," Ilya said, pulling back slightly.

Shane got off the bed and grabbed his phone as it pinged yet again. The screen lit up with a cascade of notifications. Texts, missed calls, emails. He scrolled quickly, his brow furrowing as he saw the names: Gerald Winters, Melissa from HR, three board members, his assistant, even Hayden.

"What's going on?" Ilya asked, watching Shane's face grow increasingly pale.

Before Shane could answer, the phone vibrated in his hand. His father's name flashed across the screen. He swiped to answer, pressing the phone to his ear.

"Dad, hey—"

"Shane, listen to me." David's voice cut him off, tight with urgency. "I'm so sorry, son. I don't know how it happened or who told them, but—"

"Dad, slow down." Shane’s heart kicked against his chest. He'd never heard his father sound like this. He sounded worried, almost panicked. "What are you talking about?"

Across the room, Ilya's phone began to chime. Once, twice, then a cascade of notifications. Ilya reached for it with a puzzled expression that quickly morphed into something else entirely.

"There's an article," David continued, his voice grim. "It was published this morning. About you and Ilya. It... it reveals that Ilya used to be a prostitute."

Shane’s knees weakened, and he sank onto the edge of the bed.

"I'm having a car sent for you both," David was saying. "Go to the family cottage—the one near yours. You need to get out of the city now, before reporters start camping outside your building."

Shane looked over at Ilya. The color had drained from his face. He was staring at his phone screen, hands visibly shaking, tears already streaming down his cheeks. He looked like he might be sick.

"Dad, I—" Shane swallowed hard. "How bad is it?"

"Bad," David said simply. "They have details, Shane. Dates, places. Photos."

Photos. The word echoed in Shane's mind. He crossed the room in three quick strides, looking over Ilya's shoulder at the screen.

The headline screamed up at them both: "HOLLANDER HEIR'S SECRET FIANCÉ: THE TRUTH BEHIND ILYA ROZANOV'S DARK PAST." Beneath it, a photo of Ilya, thinner with familiar vacant eyes. He was wearing nothing but a black g-string. Hands bound with a collar around his neck. A disembodied hand gripped his hair, forcing him to look at the camera.

Shane gently took the phone from Ilya's unresisting fingers. Ilya didn't fight or protest. His body seemed to have shut down completely—some kind of protective shock.

"We'll be ready in ten minutes," Shane told his father, his voice somehow steady and collected despite the earthquake happening inside him. "Thanks, Dad."

He hung up and turned back to Ilya, whose vacant stare was fixed on some middle distance. Tears continued to stream down his face, but he made no sound, no movement to wipe them away.

"Ilya." Shane knelt in front of him, taking Ilya's face between his hands. "Baby, look at me. Please look at me."

Slowly, painfully, Ilya's eyes focused on Shane's face. The devastation he saw made Shane’s heart crack. Ilya looked utterly broken, like someone had reached inside and torn out something essential.

"They know," Ilya whispered with trembling lips. "They know."

"I know, baby." Shane pressed his forehead against Ilya's. "But we have to go. Right now."

Shane forced himself to move, to act, even as his mind screamed in protest. He yanked open drawers, throwing clothes haphazardly into suitcases. Jeans, t-shirts, sweaters, underwear. He didn't check if they matched or even if they were clean. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except getting Ilya away from here, somewhere safe.

He grabbed his own phone, scanning the article quickly. His stomach turned at the details—just enough to be credible, just enough to destroy everything they'd built. Someone had talked. Someone who knew specifics. Maybe Marcus himself. Or one of his clients.

Shane moved on autopilot, pulling a hoodie over Ilya's head, tugging his arms through the sleeves like he was dressing a child. He slid sunglasses onto Ilya's face, hiding his red-rimmed eyes.

"Can you stand?" Shane asked gently.

Ilya nodded once, mechanical. He rose to his feet, swaying slightly. Shane steadied him with a hand on his elbow.

"We're going to be okay," Shane said, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue. He wasn't sure they would ever be okay again.

"Shane Hollander," Reginald said, gesturing between them. "This is Conrad Faber. Conrad, Shane just took the helm from his father last quarter."

"I'm aware," Faber said, extending his hand. "I've been following Hollander Tech for some time."

Shane shook it. Firm grip, brief. "Good to meet you."

"And you." Faber held the handshake a half-second longer than necessary. Then he stepped back and looked at Shane—not the quick assessment of a business rival, but something slower. More personal. Slower. Like he was placing him. Or confirming something he already knew.

Shane kept his expression neutral. Some men stared because they were trying to establish dominance. He'd learned not to give them the satisfaction of reacting.

"I saw you at the Wellman gala the other evening," Faber said, clasping his hands behind his back. "You made quite an impression."

"It was a good event," Shane replied.

"You were with someone." A slight pause. Not a question, exactly. More like a prompt.

"My fiancé," Shane said. Simple. Pleasant. He reached for his coffee.

Something shifted in Faber’s expression—subtle, a slight tightening at the corners of his mouth that might have passed for a polite smile. But it wasn't quite a smile. It was something else. Something that knew something.

"Of course," Faber said smoothly. "Congratulations."

Reginald, oblivious to whatever was passing between them, glanced at his watch. "I have a call in ten. Shane, we'll pick this back up after the board review?" He was already moving toward the door, his attention already somewhere else.

"Absolutely," Shane said.

And then it was just the two of them standing near the windows with the city laid out below them in grey morning light.

"I'd like to go over some of your company numbers," Faber said. "The Horizon projections specifically. I have questions that I'd rather not ask in a room full of people."

Shane studied him for a moment. The request was normal. The phrasing was normal. The look on the man’s face was not, but Shane had learned not to dismiss potential investors based on instinct alone.

"My office," Shane said. "Ten minutes?"

***

The forty-floor offered a different quality of silence than the rest of the building—thicker, more deliberate. Shane's office occupied the northeast corner, floor-to-ceiling glass on two sides, the city spreading out in every direction below. He'd kept most of his father's furniture: the heavy walnut desk, the leather chairs arranged in front of it, the long credenza along the far wall. He’d added almost nothing of his own. It still felt premature.

He closed the door behind Faber and turned the lock out of habit when he had private meetings. It was a practice his father had taught him—locked doors kept assistants from walking in at inconvenient moments.

Shane moved to his desk, pulling up the Horizon financials on his monitor. "The Q2 projections are here," he said, turning the screen slightly toward the chairs. "And I have the phased capital expenditure breakdown that I presented to the board last week, if you want to—"

"I don't want to talk about the numbers."

Shane looked up.

Faber had settled into the chair across the desk with the ease of a man who had sat in important offices his entire life. He wasn't looking at the screen. He was looking at Shane with that same careful, confirming quality he'd had in the hallway.

Shane set down his pen.

"Then what do you want to talk about?" he asked. His voice came out even. Patient. The voice he used when he needed to understand something before deciding how to respond to it.

Faber tilted his head slightly. "You have good taste," he said. "I'll say that."

A pause.

"The man I brought to the gala," Faber continued, "was attractive enough. Presentable." His tone was that of a man offering a minor compliment about a piece of furniture. "But the one you hired—" He paused again, letting the word hired settle between them like something deliberately placed. "Now he was something else entirely."

The sentence landed in the center of Shane’s chest and detonated. He didn't move. Didn't let anything reach his face. The years of boardrooms and negotiations had given him that, at least—the ability to hold perfectly still while something catastrophic happened inside him.

The one you hired.

The words shifted as he processed them. Faber thought Ilya was—

The bathroom. The gala. Did something happen.

Ilya's voice, flat and controlled: He asked how much you paid for me.

Shane leaned back slightly in his chair. "I think," he said, voice perfectly level, "you should be very careful about what you say next."

Faber raised both hands in a small, unhurried gesture—palms out, the universal signal of a man who considered himself reasonable. He looked almost amused.

"No harm intended," he said. "Truly." He settled back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other. "I was there with hired company myself, as it happens. No judgment from me." The amusement sharpened into something self-satisfied. "Quality fuck, actually. Worth every cent."

Shane said nothing. His hand rested flat on the desk. He was aware of it—the effort it took to keep his hand flat, not curl it into a fist.

"But your man." Faber shook his head slowly, a connoisseur expressing genuine regret. "I would have much preferred him. I'll admit that freely." He said it the way someone might admit to preferring one wine over another. Conversational. Unbothered. "I did try, at the gala. I apologize for that—I suppose I overstepped." The apology landed without a single gram of sincerity behind it.

Ilya's voice continued to echo in his head. He asked how much you paid for me.

Shane's jaw tightened. The movement was small. He stopped it.

"He’s loyal." Faber made a brief, appreciative sound. "I offered him double—double what I assumed you'd paid, anyway. He wasn't interested." Something flickered across his face that wasn't quite admiration but lived in the same neighborhood. "That's rare, in my experience."

The pressure behind Shane's sternum had become something structural, load-bearing, the kind of thing that if it gave way would take the whole room with it. He breathed through his nose. Kept his shoulders square. Kept his face arranged into something that still resembled professional neutrality even as the edges of it began to deteriorate.

Faber leaned forward then, elbows coming to rest on his knees, his voice dropping into the register of men sharing something confidential between themselves.

"Between us," he said, "where did you find him? I've used several services over the years but nothing that produces that caliber." His eyes stayed on Shane's face with the patient certainty of a man who had never been refused information he wanted. "And what does he cost? I'd love to find out exactly how much he can handle."

The professional neutrality finished collapsing.

Shane became aware of it the way you become aware of a sound that has been building for some time—the moment it crosses a threshold and you can no longer pretend it isn't there. His pulse was loud in his ears. His hand had left the desk at some point without him deciding to move it. He was standing now. He didn’t remember getting up.

"He is my fiancé." The words came out with a quietness that had nothing calm inside it. "He is not for sale. He has never been for sale to you. He will never be for sale to you."

Faber's expression shifted—not into embarrassment, not into apology, but into something more recalibrating. Reassessing the situation. He studied Shane with new attention, the way a man looks at a door he thought was unlocked when it turns out not to be.

"I see," Faber said carefully.

"No." Shane's voice had dropped further, and something in it had changed—stripped of the boardroom finish, stripped of the careful architecture of the CEO who had walked into this room twenty minutes ago. What was underneath it was colder and less managed. "I don't think you do."

Faber smirked, crossing his legs. “No, I understand perfectly. I admire you a little.” He started to mess with a pen on Shane’s desk. “You’re not the first businessman who’s tried to turn a whore into a housewife.”

Shane’s hands balled into fists. He felt his whole body trembling with the restraint it took him to not jump over his desk and start pummeling this smug asshole. “Get out of my building.”

Faber didn’t move immediately. He stayed in the chair, the pen still between his fingers as he looked at Shane like he was trying to decide if his threat was credible. Shane didn’t repeat himself. He stood behind his desk with his hands at his sides, and waited.

Faber set the pen down. He uncrossed his legs and rose from the chair smoothing the front of his jacket, his movements unhurried. “It’s not smart to make business decisions based on emotions,” he said. It was an observation, not an accusation. His condescending tone—like he was an older man correcting someone younger and inexperienced—made Shane’s blood boil all over again.

“You’re a predator,” Shane said simply. “And I don’t do business with predators.”

Irritation moved behind Faber’s eyes. It was clear he was rarely spoken to this way by anyone, much less someone whose compant he’d been considering investing in. He picked up his phone from the arm of his chair and slid it into his jacket pocket.

“You know Gerald Winters right? He sits on your board,” Farber said.

“He does.” Shane was ready to shove this man out his door himself.

“We’ve known each other a long time.”

“I’m sure you have.”

Faber looked at him for another moment. Then he walked to the door. Shane watched him cross the room. Faber's hand found the door handle. He turned it, and then paused with his back still to Shane.

“You should know,” Farber continued, his voice carrying easily in the quiet of the room. “A man in your position can’t afford to have too many…principles.” A beat. “You won’t last very long.”

He left the door open behind him.

Shane stood behind his desk for a long moment after the sound of footsteps faded down the hallway. His hands were still at his sides. His breathing was controlled and even, a thing he was doing deliberately rather than automatically. The door was still open. Shane looked at it for another moment, then closed it quietly.

He let go of the door handle slowly and turned to sit back down at his desk, the leather settling under his weight sounded too loud in the silence. His monitor was still open on the Horizon projections. Numbers he'd spent weeks refining, arguments he'd made to twelve skeptical faces in a room exactly like this one. All of it was still there on the screen, unchanged. Waiting for him to care about it again.

But he couldn’t.

He pressed his fingertips to the edge of his desk. The thing that was wrong wasn’t Faber, not entirely. It wasn’t even the threat about Gerald, about the board connections or what a man like Faber could do if he decided to be difficult. Shane had handled difficult men before, had been raised to know how to. That part of his mind was already working on it, categorizing, preparing—and he could feel himself doing it, and it felt completely beside the point.

Ilya had talked about the encounter in the gala bathroom so matter-of-factly, so detached as he was pressed against Shane’s chest in their bed. It was the same voice he had used years ago when Shane found him—that subservant tone of voice where Ilya just accepted anything and everything done to him reciting facts and phrases like a living doll. A voice he still used sometimes like a default button.

After the gala, all Shane had thought was: someone approached him. Someone was inappropriate, and Ilya handled it, and it was awful and wrong and Shane had wanted to find the man and dismantle him piece by piece. He hadn't thought past that. Hadn't thought about what it meant that Faber had looked at Ilya and known. Hadn't thought about how Faber had known.

He thought about it now.

Faber had walked into this building, stood in this office, in the northeast corner of the fortieth floor with the city laid out below them and the Hollander Tech logo on the building, and he had looked at Shane across a desk and said where did you find him like it was a reasonable question. Like the answer was simply a matter of exchanging information between men of similar interests.

He had been so certain. Not guessing. Not wondering. Certain.

Shane's thumb pressed into the edge of the desk until he felt the pressure in his knuckle. Faber had looked at Ilya at a charity gala—at Ilya in a bespoke midnight blue suit with sapphire cufflinks, standing beside Shane Hollander at a Wellman event, wearing an engagement ring on his finger, and he had looked at him and seen something Shane had not seen. Or had not let himself see.

Not the suit. Not the ring. Not the name.

Something else. Something underneath all of it that Faber recognized because he was the kind of man who looked for it. Who had trained himself, over years of buying people, to identify it. He had believed, somewhere in the architecture of his thinking about all of this, that the problem was secrecy. That the damage was done by hiding—by asking Ilya to stand in shadows, to be unnamed, to be absent from the parts of Shane's life that were visible. He had believed that the solution was exposure. Claim him publicly. Put the ring on his finger in front of three hundred people. Bring him to the galas. Let the world see.

He had been so sure that visibility was the answer.

The thing that had clicked into place in his chest felt less like a revelation and more like a structural failure. A beam giving way quietly inside a wall—not visible from the outside, but everything built on top of it suddenly less certain.

Because Faber was not unique. That was the thing. Faber was not some aberration, some singular predator who had wandered into the wrong building. He was a type. Shane knew the type—had grown up adjacent to it, had sat across conference tables from versions of it, had watched his father navigate around it with the practiced ease of a man who had done it for decades. Men who moved through the world taking what they wanted and calling it discernment. Men who had learned to recognize certain things—certain histories, certain qualities—because those things were useful to them.

There would be another gala. There would be another dinner, another board meeting, another industry event. There would always be another room full of people like Faber, and some of them would look at Ilya the way Faber had looked at him, and some of them would see what Faber had seen.

The ring wouldn't change that. The suit wouldn't change that. Shane's name attached to Ilya's wouldn't change that.

And he wasn't even sure if anything could change that.

***

The scrapbook was enormous.

Ilya lay on his back across the bed, holding it above his face with both hands, its weight already pulling at his arms. Yuna had assembled it over weeks—maybe months—of careful, obsessive labor. Every page was laminated. There were fabric swatches attached with little gold clips. Color palettes rendered in watercolor. Venue photographs printed on heavy matte stock and labeled in her neat handwriting. Catering menus with itemized tastings circled in red pen. Floral arrangements organized by season. A guest list—seventeen pages, double-sided—tucked into a pocket on the inside back cover.

Ilya had made the mistake of counting.

Two hundred and seventy-four names. He’d stopped at two hundred and seventy-four because something in his chest had tightened and he’d needed to put the list down.

He lowered the book onto his chest and stared at the ceiling. The apartment was quiet. He could hear Shane moving around in the bathroom—the sound of water running, the soft drag of a drawer opening and closing. Normal sounds. Good sounds.

He looked back down at the open page. A full-bleed photograph of a reception hall in some hotel he'd never been to: arched ceilings, white flowers cascading from every surface, tables set for eight, a dance floor gleaming under chandeliers. It was beautiful. Objectively, undeniably beautiful. Yuna had exceptional taste and she'd put every bit of it into this book.

He thought about the cottage.

Shane's cottage in the off-season was cold and quiet and smelled like cedar and lake water and the particular brand of stillness that existed in places too far from the city for noise to follow. They'd make terrible soup from whatever was left in the pantry and watch the ice begin to form on the water's edge in the mornings. It was Ilya’s favorite place, though he’d never said that out loud. They had gone three more times since that first time Shane had hidden him there from Marcus.

He would have married Shane there. Standing on the dock. Just Shane and a handful of people who actually knew them. No chandeliers. No florists. No two hundred and seventy-four guests who needed to be seated in a specific order according to the chart on page eleven.

Ilya ran his thumb along the edge of the scrapbook's spine.

He would never say that to Yuna. Not ever. She had built this thing out of pure love—he could feel it in every laminated page, every carefully clipped swatch. She had cried at their engagement. She had called him the morning after and talked to him for two hours about centerpieces and he had sat in the kitchen in his boxers listening to her voice and felt something settle in his chest that he didn't have a word for in either language. She wanted this for them. She wanted to give them the wedding she had dreamed of for her son.

He closed the book.

The bathroom door opened. Shane came out in sweats and an old Hollander Tech shirt from some corporate event three years ago, his hair still damp, toweling the back of his neck. He looked at Ilya on the bed, looked at the scrapbook, and made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

"She added another section," Shane said.

"Cocktail hour," Ilya confirmed. "Eight pages."

Shane dropped onto the bed beside him with the weight of someone who had been holding himself together for too many hours. The mattress absorbed the impact and Ilya shifted slightly to accommodate him. Shane stared at the ceiling.

"She texted me about a signature drink," Shane said. "Something with vodka."

"Of course."

"She wants to call it 'The Rozanov.'"

Ilya turned his head to look at Shane. "What is in it?"

"I don't know. She sent me a link to a mixologist."

Ilya looked back at the ceiling. "Fine."

Shane turned his head, studying the side of Ilya's face. "Fine?"

"The drink can be called whatever she wants." Ilya kept his voice even. "She has worked very hard on this."

A pause. Shane seemed to be measuring something in the silence.

"You hate it," Shane said.

"I don't hate it."

"Ilya."

"The book is beautiful." He meant it. That wasn't the problem. "She loves you. She wants to celebrate. I understand this."

"But?"

Ilya was quiet for a moment. He thought about the cottage again—the dock, the frozen lake, the quiet. He pushed the thought away. "No but," he said. "We should look at seating chart this week. She wants input before Friday."

Shane watched him a moment longer, then let it go. He reached over and pulled the scrapbook onto his own chest, flipping it open to the middle. They lay there side by side in the quiet, Shane turning pages with the careful attention of someone actually trying to engage with the content, and Ilya watching the ceiling and thinking about nothing in particular.

Or trying to.

He noticed it slowly. The way Shane turned a page—and then didn’t turn the next one for a long time. The way his breathing had changed slightly, more deliberate, like something was being managed. His thumb traced the edge of a photograph without actually looking at it.

Ilya knew that quality of stillness. He had felt it in himself enough times to recognize it in someone else.

He turned his head. "What happened," Ilya said. Not quite a question.

Shane looked at him. Something moved across his face—a brief debate, the opening and closing of something—before he set the book aside and sat up. "Something at work today."

Ilya waited.

Shane rested his elbows on his knees, his hands loosely clasped. He looked at his own hands. "The man from the gala. The one who—" He stopped. Pressed his lips together. "He came to my building today. Reginald introduced us. He said he wanted to talk about the Horizon projections."

The air in the room shifted. Ilya kept his face still.

"He didn't want to talk about the projections," Shane continued, his voice carefully controlled. "He wanted to talk about you." A short pause. "He said—" Shane's jaw tightened visibly. "He asked where I found you. What you cost."

Ilya said nothing. The ceiling was the same ceiling it had always been. The light fixture in the center had a small crack in the plaster around it that had been there since the first night he had spent in Shane’s room. He had looked at it many times.

"He said he'd tried at the gala," Shane said. He stopped again. His hands had tightened. "He apologized for overstepping like he had taken my parking spot or something."

Ilya breathed in through his nose. The thing happening inside him was not calm, but it was quiet, and he had learned the difference between those two things. The inside of his chest felt like a room after something had been thrown through it.

He had known, somewhere beneath the part of himself that tried not to know things, that the man at the gala would surface again. Men like that always did. They moved through the same circles, their money pulling them toward the same rooms, and they did not forget faces. They had too much time and too much certainty of themselves to forget anything.

"What did you say?" Ilya asked.

Shane looked at him. "I told him to get out of my building."

Something moved in Ilya's chest that was not quite relief and not quite anything else.

"I rejected his investment offer," Shane continued. "I told him I don't do business with predators." He sighed heavily. “Then me made some comment about Gerald on his way out. Talking about my board connections and expensive principles. Then he left.”

Ilya turned this over slowly. Gerald Winters. The man who had told Shane he would get there eventually. He’d been David Hollander’s advisor for decades and Ilya knew Shane still reached for his approval even if he didn’t always realize he was doing it.

“He knows Gerald?” Ilya said succeeding in keeping his voice level.

“Apparently.”

“Your board might hear of this.”

“They might.” Shane didn’t look away. “I don’t care.”

The words were said with conviction—Shane meant them, Ilya could hear that.

"I'll smooth it over," Shane said, reaching for Ilya's hand. "If Gerald brings it up, I'll handle it. I always do."

Ilya stared at their intertwined fingers, the platinum bands catching the light. Shane made everything sound so simple. So manageable. As if rejecting a powerful investor wouldn't have consequences. As if the life they'd built couldn't be dismantled in an instant.

Shane leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to Ilya's lips. "Don't worry about it, okay?"

But he was worried. It was his fault. The knot in Ilya's chest tightened. If he hadn't been what he was—if he didn't carry his past in his walk, his eyes, his very being—Faber would never have approached him. Never would have seen through the expensive suit and the engagement ring to what lay beneath. Never would have threatened Shane's business connections. Shane was still talking, something about alternative investors and contingency plans, but Ilya couldn't focus on the words. All he could think was how Shane was once again cleaning up something Ilya had caused just by existing.

Instead of saying any of this, Ilya surged forward—capturing Shane's mouth with his own. He poured his desperate need into the kiss—his need to be worth all of this. To be worth Shane.

***

Shane barely had time to process Ilya's desperate kiss before he found himself being pushed back against the headboard. The scrapbook tumbled to the floor with a heavy thud as Ilya climbed into his lap, hands framing Shane's face, kissing him with an urgency that caught him off guard.

"Ilya—" Shane started, but the word was swallowed by another kiss, deeper and more insistent than the last.

Ilya's body pressed against his, all hard angles and restless energy. His hands were everywhere—in Shane's hair, sliding under his shirt, gripping his shoulders. There was something frantic in the way he moved—something almost desperate in the way his fingers dug into Shane's skin.

Shane kissed him back, his body responding automatically to Ilya's touch. But even as heat pooled in his stomach, but a small voice in the back of his mind said something wasn’t right. Ilya rarely initiated like this—all hunger and no finesse, like he was racing toward something.

"You feel so good," Ilya murmured against Shane's mouth, his accent thicker than usual. He rolled his hips, grinding down against Shane's growing hardness.

Shane's hands found Ilya's waist, steadying him. "Slow down," he whispered, trying to catch Ilya's gaze. "We have all night."

But Ilya didn't slow down. If anything, the words seemed to make him more determined. He tugged at Shane's shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside before doing the same with his own. Skin against skin now, the contact sending sparks of pleasure through Shane's body despite his concern.

Ilya stood briefly to shed his pants, leaving him in just his boxer briefs. The sight of him momentarily distracted Shane from his worry. Ilya climbed back into his lap immediately, kissing him again with that same desperate edge. Shane's hands moved to Ilya's thighs, feeling the strong muscles tense under his touch. Everything about this felt good physically—Ilya's weight in his lap, the heat of his skin, the way his breath hitched when Shane ran his hands up his back. But mentally, Shane couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Ilya's movements were too hurried, too calculated, like he was performing rather than feeling.

When Ilya ground down against him again, Shane couldn't help the moan that escaped his lips. His fingers dug into the firm muscle of Ilya's ass, pulling him closer instinctively. Ilya made a small, satisfied sound against Shane's neck.

"You can fuck me this time," Ilya whispered, his lips brushing against Shane's ear. "If you want."

Shane froze. His hands stilled on Ilya’s body. In their three years together, Ilya had never bottomed. Not once. They'd never even discussed it. One reason being that Shane liked to bottom, preferred it. But Shane had always assumed there was also a deeper reason—one tied to Ilya's past that he didn't need to know unless Ilya wanted to tell him.

"What?" Shane pulled back to look at Ilya's face, searching for some explanation.

Ilya avoided his gaze, focusing instead on kissing along Shane's jaw, down his neck. "Is okay," he said between kisses. "You never get to feel how good it is. How good I feel when I fuck you."

Shane's mind raced, trying to make sense of this sudden shift. Ilya's words sounded rehearsed, like he'd been practicing them. Like he was trying to convince himself as much as Shane.

"Ilya, you don't have to—"

"I want to," Ilya interrupted, reaching between them to palm Shane through his sweatpants. The touch sent a jolt of pleasure through Shane's body, momentarily derailing his thoughts. Ilya used the distraction to his advantage, slipping his hand beneath the waistband to wrap around Shane's cock.

Shane sucked in a breath at the contact. Part of him—the purely physical part—wanted to give in, to let this happen. But the larger part, the part that knew Ilya better than anyone, couldn't ignore the wrongness of it all. This wasn't about desire. This was about something else entirely.

Before he could voice his concerns, Ilya was tugging his sweatpants down, freeing his cock. Ilya stroked him with practiced movements, his eyes fixed on the task rather than Shane's face. Shane knew he should stop this, knew they should talk about whatever was driving Ilya's behavior. But he also knew that pushing too hard could make Ilya retreat further. If this was something Ilya genuinely wanted to try, Shane didn't want to reject him. He'd always let Ilya set the pace when it came to sex, always followed his lead when it came to what was comfortable and what wasn't.

Ilya reached for the nightstand drawer, retrieving the bottle of lube they kept there. He flipped the cap open and poured some onto his fingers, then reached behind himself. Shane watched, despite himself, as Ilya's eyes fluttered closed and his breath hitched. Was he actually enjoying this, or was this another performance?

He shifted forward, positioning himself over Shane's cock. The angle was awkward, and Shane could feel Ilya's thighs trembling with tension.

“Ilya, wait—” Shane said, using his better judgment even as he felt Ilya’s hand press his cock against his entrance.

He was cut off when Ilya's entire body went rigid. Ilya’s breath caught in a way that had nothing to do with pleasure. Shane looked up and saw something he'd only glimpsed a handful of times before. Ilya’s eyes had gone distant—empty. His expression blank in a way that made Shane's heart clench.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Shane said, immediately stilling his hands. “It’s okay.”

Ilya didn't seem to hear him. He continued trying to lower himself, but his movements had become mechanical, disconnected from his expression. His breathing had turned shallow and rapid.

"I'm fine," Ilya said, flat. Empty. "Keep going."

The phrase sent a chill down Shane's spine. He recognized it immediately—not from their life together, but from the fragments Ilya had shared about his past. Words said to men who didn't care if he was in pain, who only wanted their own pleasure.

"Ilya, stop." Shane's voice was firmer now. He reached for Ilya's hips, holding him still. "Look at me."

But Ilya's eyes remained unfocused, looking through Shane rather than at him. His body was shaking now, fine tremors running through his muscles despite his obvious effort to control them. He was somewhere else entirely—trapped in a memory Shane couldn't see but could painfully imagine.

With careful movements, Shane pulled his sweatpants back up—then wrapped his arms around Ilya, holding him close. "You're okay," he whispered against Ilya's hair. "You're here with me. You're safe."

For several long moments, Ilya remained rigid in his arms. Then, slowly, awareness returned. He blinked, looking around as if surprised to find himself in their bedroom rather than whatever nightmare his mind had conjured.

"I'm sorry," Ilya said, his voice barely audible. "I'm sorry."

The apology sounded heavier than it should have, weighted with more than just this moment. It was an apology for everything. Everything Ilya thought he had done to Shane since meeting him.

"Don't apologize." Shane pressed his forehead against Ilya's, holding him steady. "Ilya—you don't have to do anything for me."

"But I want to make you happy," Ilya said, his voice small in a way that made Shane's heart break.

Shane pulled back just enough to meet Ilya's eyes, cradling his face between his palms. “You make me happy.” He brushed his thumb across Ilya's cheekbone. "You're everything I want."

Ilya fell forward resting his head on Shane’s chest. He was still trembling, breaths uneven. Shane pulled Ilya against him, wrapping his arms around him tightly, as if he could physically shield him from the weight of his own past.

“Never do that again,” Shane whispered, fierce into Ilya's hair. “I don’t want to be the reason for this. Ever. Never hurt yourself for me.”

Ilya nodded against his chest, but Shane wasn't sure if he truly understood. They stayed like that for a long while, Ilya's breathing gradually evening out, his body growing heavier as the tension drained away. Eventually, Shane helped him into a t-shirt and sweatpants, then tucked him under the covers. He curled around Ilya's back, one arm draped protectively over his waist.

Ilya’s thumb traced circles on the back of Shane’s hand. “After today, I thought—”

"What did you think?" Shane's voice was gentle as he pressed kisses to the back of Ilya’s neck.

"That I need to be worth it." The words fell between them, heavy with everything Ilya couldn't articulate. "Worth the trouble I cause you."

Shane went still. "Trouble?"

"Faber. Your board. Your business." Ilya let out a deep breath. "I am always making trouble for you."

"That's not—"

"It is," Ilya insisted. “Because of what I was. Because I am still broken. You have to clean up after me. Protect me. Make excuses.” Ilya turned around to face Shane. “I should have been able to go to gala and not be scared. Be happy. Talk to people. Make you proud to be with me.”

The conviction in Ilya's voice made Shane's chest ache. How long had these thoughts been festering? How many times had Ilya swallowed these fears rather than burden Shane with them?

"Stop," Shane said firmly, bringing his hand to Ilya's cheek. "You don't make trouble for me. Other people are the problem.”

Ilya's eyes held his. Shane met his gaze steadily, willing him to believe.

"Listen to me," Shane said, framing Ilya's face with both hands. "You're not broken. You survived something terrible, something most people can't even imagine. And you rebuilt yourself from nothing." His throat tightened. "You're the strongest person I've ever known."

Ilya closed his eyes, his lashes damp against his cheeks. Shane leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Ilya's.

"And you do make me proud," he whispered. "Every day. When you coach those players. When you laugh without hesitating. When your eyes sparkle when you smile. Really smile.” Shane brushed his thumb across Ilya's cheekbone. "When you love me."

A tear slipped down Ilya's cheek. Shane wiped it away gently.

"I'm sorry," Ilya murmured.

"For what?"

"For trying to..." He gestured vaguely between them.

"Don't apologize for that. Just promise me you'll never do something you don't want just because you think it's what I need."

Ilya nodded, his eyes still closed. "I promise."

Shane pulled him closer, tucking Ilya's head beneath his chin. “After we get married, we can honeymoon anywhere you want to go.” He kissed Ilya’s chest. “A whole month. No business calls. No interruptions. Just us.”

Ilya ran his hand lazily though Shane’s hair. Shane could practically hear him thinking.

“The cottage,” Ilya finally said, resting his cheek on top of Shane’s head. “I want to go to the cottage.

Shane’s chest tightened—almost painfully. “The cottage,” he repeated, not even trying to hide his suprise. “Really? Not Paris or Bali or the Maldives?”

“The cottage,” he confirmed, his voice soft but certain.” Is private. Is ours.”

Shane couldn’t argue. The cottage had been his sanctuary ever since he had had it built. Now it was Ilya’s. It was the first place where they had truly connected, where they had escaped, not just from Marcus, but from the world. It was the first place they had said ‘I love you’.

“Then the cottage it is,” Shane said, lifting his head to press a kiss to Ilya’s cheek. “No one but us for a while month.”

Shane felt Ilya’s body relax fully and it didn’t take long for his body to start growing heavy. He held onto him as he drifted off to sleep, hoping that, at least tonight, his arms could chase away Ilya’s nightmares.

***

Ilya sat in the familiar leather chair, watching dust motes dance in the afternoon light filtering through Dr. Klein's office window. The silence stretched between them—not uncomfortable, just there. He'd already given his standard responses about practice, about the wedding preparations, about Shane's work. The usual script.

"How have you been sleeping?" Dr. Klein asked, her pen poised above her notepad.

"Fine," Ilya said automatically. Then he caught himself. "Some nightmares. Not many."

Dr. Klein nodded, making a small note. "And how are things with Shane?"

"Good." Ilya's thumb traced circles on the arm of the chair. A nervous habit he'd never managed to break. "Wedding planning continues. His mother has opinions about everything."

The corner of Dr. Klein's mouth twitched slightly. "I imagine she does."

Ilya looked past her to the plant on the windowsill. It had grown since he'd started coming here. New leaves had unfurled, reaching toward the light. He wondered vaguely what kind it was, if it was difficult to keep alive.

"Ilya." Dr. Klein's voice pulled his attention back to the room. "There's something different about you today. You seem... distracted."

Ilya blinked. He'd thought he was doing a good job of seeming normal. The same as always. He shrugged, a small lift of his shoulders that neither confirmed nor denied.

"Did something happen since our last session?" she pressed gently.

The memory flashed through his mind—the gala, the bathroom, Faber's voice. Then later, Shane's face as he told him about Faber coming to his office. The weight of Shane's arms around him after Ilya had tried to—

"There was gala," he said finally, his voice flat. "For Shane's business. I went with him."

Dr. Klein waited, giving him space to continue.

"A man approached me in bathroom." Ilya's jaw tightened. "Thought I was…for sale."

Dr. Klein's expression remained neutral, but he saw the slight tension in her shoulders. "That must have been very difficult," she said.

"Was not first time someone has thought this," Ilya replied, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. "Won't be last."

"Did you know this man? Had you encountered him before?"

"No." Ilya shook his head. "Never saw him before."

"Then how did he—"

"He just knew," Ilya cut her off, the words coming out sharper than he'd intended. "He looked at me and knew what I was."

What I was. Not what I had been. What I was. Present tense. The slip felt significant somehow, like a door opening to reveal something he'd been trying not to look at directly.

"What do you mean, he knew?" Dr. Klein asked carefully.

Ilya's fingers curled into the leather of the chair. "He saw it. In me." He struggled to find the words. “Something expensive suit and engagement ring couldn't hide."

"And what do you think that something was?"

What was it? What had Faber seen that made him so certain? Ilya had asked himself this question every day since the gala, turning it over in his mind like a stone worn smooth with handling.

"I don't know," he admitted finally. "But whatever it was, it's still there. Still..." He trailed off, not wanting to finish the thought.

"Still defining you?" Dr. Klein suggested.

Ilya's chest tightened. "Yes."

Dr. Klein set her pen down, giving him her full attention. "Do you believe that's true? That you're still defined by your past?"

Did he? The question seemed simple, but the answer wasn't. Ilya stared at his hands—the calluses from hockey sticks, the platinum band on his finger. These were not the hands of the person he'd been. And yet.

"Sometimes," he said quietly.

"Has it occurred to you," Dr. Klein said carefully, "that what Faber 'knew' might have been a projection of his own expectations rather than something inherent in you?"

Ilya frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that Faber is someone who views people as commodities. He's trained himself to look for certain qualities, certain vulnerabilities, because that's what he wants to see." She leaned forward slightly. "His perception says more about him than it does about you."

Ilya wanted to believe that. Wanted it to be that simple. But the doubt had burrowed too deep.

"People who move in certain circles often share certain biases,” Dr Klein resumed, “They see what they expect to see."

"Or they see truth," Ilya said, his voice hollow. "Maybe I can't change. Maybe is just..." He gestured vaguely at himself. "In me. Forever."

"Do you truly believe that?"

The question landed like a stone in still water, ripples spreading outward. Did he believe it? Some days, no. Some days he could look in the mirror and see only the person he was now—Coach Rozanov, Shane's fiancé, a man with a future. But other days—days like today—he felt like he was just wearing a costume that could be stripped away at any moment.

"I want to believe I can change," he said finally. "But Faber..." He shook his head. "He came to Shane's office after gala. Tried to invest in his company. But really wanted to ask about me. How much I cost. Where Shane found me." The memory made his stomach churn. "Shane told him to leave. Now Faber is threatening Shane's business connections."

Dr. Klein nodded slowly, absorbing this information. "That must have been incredibly distressing for both of you."

"Shane says is not problem. That he will handle it." Ilya's mouth twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. "He always says that."

"And how did you feel when Shane told you about this encounter?"

The question seemed innocuous, but Ilya sensed the trap in it. Dr. Klein never asked simple questions.

"Angry," he said, which was true, but not complete.

"What else?"

Ilya looked down at his hands again. "Guilty," he admitted. "For causing trouble. For being something that can hurt Shane."

"And after he told you? How did that affect your interactions with Shane?"

The memory of that night flashed through his mind—his desperate attempt to prove his worth, the panic that had overwhelmed him, the blank space where his mind had gone, and then Shane's arms around him, Shane's voice bringing him back.

“Ilya,” Dr. Klein urged, “Remember, you can’t move forward if you don’t open up.”

Ilya hesitated, now wanting to say it directly. Not wanting to say it at all. Hadn't that been exactly what he'd been thinking? That he needed to be worth the trouble he caused? That he needed to offer Shane something more to balance the scales? Then his body had just gone into autopilot. And Shane had melted into one of those faceless, nameless men who required his performance, who used his body as his mind went somewhere else.

Ilya shifted in his chair, suddenly feeling trapped. The familiar leather that had once felt comforting now seemed to be closing in around him. His hands gripped the armrests more tightly.

"After Shane told me about Faber," he finally said, the words coming out stiff, "I tried to..." He swallowed hard. "I offered to let him fuck me."

Dr. Klein's expression didn't change, but he noticed the slight pause before her next question. "And that's something you haven't done before?"

"No." Ilya shook his head. "Never."

"May I ask why you made that offer?"

Ilya looked away, focusing on the plant by the window again. The words felt like stones in his mouth, heavy and difficult to move. "Thought if I could give him that, maybe would be worth the trouble."

"And what happened?"

The memory was sharp, painful. Shane's concerned face. The panic rising in his chest. The sudden, terrible disconnect between his mind and body.

"I couldn't do it," Ilya admitted. "Body remembered too much. I..." He struggled to find the words. "I went somewhere else in my head. Shane noticed. Stopped everything."

Dr. Klein nodded slowly. "That dissociation is a common response to trauma. Your body was protecting you from something it perceived as a threat."

"But Shane is not threat," Ilya said, frustration edging his voice. "Is Shane."

"It's not about logic," Dr. Klein explained gently. "It's about triggers and associations. Your body responded to a situation that reminded it of past trauma."

Ilya's jaw tightened. "So is permanent? I am broken forever in this way?"

"No," Dr. Klein said firmly. "Not broken. And not forever. But healing takes time, and sometimes there are setbacks."

"I want to be fixed," he said, his voice low. "For Shane."

"What about for yourself?" Dr. Klein asked.

For himself? He'd spent so long thinking about being better for Shane that he'd almost forgotten what it meant to want things for himself. Had he ever wanted something for himself.

"What do you want, Ilya?" Dr. Klein pressed.

Ilya had no answer for that. The question settled in his chest, uncomfortable and persistent.

"Our time is up for today," Dr. Klein said, glancing at the clock again. "But I'd like you to think about that question before our next session.”

Ilya nodded, already standing. He stepped out of Dr. Klein's office into the hallway, the weight of her question still pressing on his chest. What do you want, Ilya?

He pulled his jacket tighter around himself, a shield against the chill that seemed to follow him regardless of the building's temperature. The receptionist smiled at him—the same smile she gave him every week—and he managed a nod in return. His name on her schedule: Ilya Rozanov, 4:00 PM. Just a name. Just an appointment.

But who was Ilya Rozanov really?

The council continued discussing logistics, but Shane's mind was already racing ahead. If they moved Ilya to the summer palace, who would accompany him? Would Shane still be assigned as his personal guard? Or would the king use this opportunity to separate them, placing Ilya under guards whose loyalty was unquestionable?

"Sir Shane," the king's voice cut through his thoughts.

Shane snapped to attention. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

"You've been silent during these deliberations. As my son's personal guard, what is your assessment of moving him to the summer palace?"

Every eye in the council chamber turned toward him. Shane could feel the weight of their stares, particularly Captain Lukov's measuring gaze. He chose his words carefully.

"The summer palace has advantages, Your Majesty. Fewer entry points, a smaller staff to monitor. But it also means fewer guards and major inaccessibility if another attack occurs."

The king's eyes narrowed. "And your recommendation?"

Shane met his gaze steadily. "If Prince Ilya is to be moved, I would suggest a decoy transport. Send a royal carriage with a full guard detail along the main road, while the prince travels by a less obvious route with a smaller, elite guard."

Captain Lukov nodded approvingly. "A sound strategy."

The king leaned back in his throne, studying Shane with calculating eyes. "Very well. Captain Lukov will oversee the arrangements. Prince Ilya, Princess Rose, and a small contingent of guards will depart for the summer palace tomorrow at dawn." He paused, his gaze still fixed on Shane. "You will continue as my son's personal guard, Sir Shane. Do not disappoint me again."

The dismissal in his tone was clear. Shane bowed low, relief washing through him even as anxiety twisted in his gut. He would remain with Ilya—that was what mattered. But the king's final words carried an unmistakable threat.

As the council dispersed, Shane caught Ambassador Forger watching him with an unreadable expression. The Valestrian diplomat inclined his head slightly before turning away to speak with Chancellor Petrov, their heads bent close together in hushed conversation.

Shane slipped from the chamber, his pace quickening as he moved through the palace corridors. He needed to tell Ilya about the relocation immediately. The prince would not take kindly to being shuffled away like a piece on a chessboard—especially not to the summer palace, which held so many painful memories of his mother.

When he reached Ilya's chambers, he found the prince standing on the balcony, his back to the door. Shane hesitated for a moment, watching how the evening light caught in Ilya's curls. Even after days of illness, Ilya still held himself with that particular royal posture—shoulders back, chin lifted—though Shane could see the slight tremor in his hands where they gripped the stone balustrade.

"I know you're there," Ilya said without turning.

Shane stepped forward, crossing the threshold to the balcony. “The king made a decision.”

Ilya turned then, his blue eyes sharp despite the lingering shadows beneath them. "What is it? More guards? Locked in my room? Maybe a nice set of gold shackles to match my crown?"

"The summer palace," Shane said simply, watching Ilya's face carefully.

The effect was immediate. Ilya's expression hardened, his jaw tightening. “No one goes to the summer palace.”

“Apparently you do now. We leave at dawn tomorrow.” Shane moved closer, lowering his voice though they were alone. "You, me, Princess Rose, and a small guard detail."

“I haven’t been to the summer palace since I was twelve,” Ilya said. He turned back to the view, his knuckles whitening where they gripped the stone. “It was my mother’s favorite palace. She died there.”

Shane wanted to reach for him—to offer something—but they were too exposed on the balcony. Anyone looking up from the gardens below might see.

"I'll be with you," he said instead.

Ilya turned to face him fully. His expression softened marginally. “Yes. It’s the only good thing about this.” His expression darkened. “But everyone else will be guards I don’t know and don’t trust.”

Shane took a step closer, still maintaining a respectable distance, though every muscle in his body urged him to close the gap between them. "Your father says it's for your protection."

"It's for his convenience," Ilya countered, turning back to face the gardens below. "Out of sight, out of mind. Less chance I'll embarrass him while he continues negotiations without me. He’s just happy he has an excuse."

The bitterness in Ilya's voice was familiar. Shane had heard it often enough when the prince spoke of his father, but there was something sharper to it now, something that made his chest tighten with concern. The king wanted his son safely tucked away while he dealt with the political fallout of the assassination attempt. And the summer palace, with its isolated location and limited access, would make it far easier to keep Ilya contained.

“I know,” Shane admitted quietly. “But at least at the summer palace, we might have more freedom to…do things.” Heat crept up his neck despite himself.

Ilya smiled slyly. “Fewer eyes watching.” He moved closer to Shane, close enough that Shane could smell the subtle scent of the soap the servants had used during his bath. Close enough that it took every ounce of Shane's willpower not to reach for him. “Less chances of someone hearing you scream my name while my cock is buried deep inside you.” Ilya pulled on his own bottom lip with his teeth.

Shane's breath caught in his throat, the words sending heat rushing through his body. He glanced over his shoulder at the open balcony doors. "We should go inside," he said, voice dropping to a whisper.

That familiar mischievous glint returned to Ilya’s eyes. He stepped even closer, close enough that Shane could feel the heat radiating from his body.

"Are you worried someone will see us, Sir Knight?" Ilya breathed, his lips barely an inch from Shane's ear.

"Always," Shane admitted with a shaky smile, suppressing a shiver as Ilya's breath ghosted across his skin.

Ilya's hand found the small of Shane's back, fingers pressing firmly as he guided him backward through the balcony doors. Shane’s heart hammered against his ribs as he stepped back, one step, then another, until they crossed the threshold into the dimmer light of the bedchamber. The stone floor gave way to thick carpet beneath his boots.

Before Shane could speak, Ilya's mouth was on his—hot and demanding. Shane's back hit the wall beside the balcony doors with a soft thud, and he surrendered to it, his hands coming up to tangle in Ilya's curls. The prince's body pressed flush against his, every point of contact sending heat spiraling through Shane's chest. Ilya’s tongue swept into his mouth—claiming, not asking, and Shane responded with equal fervor. His fingers tightened in those golden-brown curls, tugging just enough to make Ilya groan against his lips. The sound went straight through Shane, pooling low in his belly.

Then Ilya's mouth left his, trailing hot kisses along his jaw. Shane tilted his head back against the wall, his breath coming faster as Ilya's lips found the sensitive spot below his ear. The prince's teeth grazed the skin there, then bit down—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to send a jolt of pleasure-pain through Shane's body that made his knees weak.

"Ilya," Shane gasped, his hands sliding from Ilya's hair to grip his shoulders for support.

Ilya worked his way down Shane's throat, alternating between kisses and small bites. He could feel Ilya's hands at his waist, fingers working at the fastenings of his uniform jacket. Reality crashed back into Shane’s mind with sudden force. They were leaving at dawn. He hadn't packed. Ilya hadn't packed. There were preparations to make, arrangements to finalize. And here they were, pressed against a wall.

"Wait," Shane managed, though his body protested. His hands moved to Ilya's chest, applying gentle pressure even as every nerve ending screamed at him not to stop. "We don't have time."

Ilya's lips stilled against his throat. "We could make time."

"We need to pack," Shane said chuckling lightly.

Ilya pulled back slightly, frustration evident in the tight line of his mouth. For a moment, Shane thought he might argue, might push back against the logic that duty demanded.

Instead, Ilya's hand came up to cradled Shane’s jaw. “Fine. You win.” He kissed him again quickly before pulling away.

***

The carriage jolted over another rut in the road, and Ilya braced his hand against the window frame to steady himself. The countryside grew progressively wilder over the past few hours—manicured palace grounds giving way to dense forest that pressed in on either side of the narrow road. Ancient oaks and pines formed a canopy overhead, their branches interlacing to block out most of the afternoon sun.

Ilya watched the shadows flicker across the carriage floor, his stomach tight with an emotion he refused to examine too closely. He hadn't been to the summer palace in fifteen years. Hadn't wanted to go back. The memories were too sharp, too painful—his mother's laughter echoing through marble halls, her hand in his as they walked through the gardens, her pale face on the pillow during those final days.

Across from him, Rose sat with her hands folded in her lap, her expression thoughtful as she gazed out her own window. She hadn't pressed him with questions during the journey, seeming to sense his mood. The silence between them was easy—almost companionable.

Shane rode alongside the carriage on horseback, close enough that Ilya could occasionally glimpse him through the window. The knight's posture was rigid with alertness, his hand never straying far from his sword hilt. Six other guards flanked them—Captain Lukov had personally selected each one, though Ilya recognized none of them. Strangers. Most of them. Men whose loyalty was to his father first, to duty second, and to Ilya himself a distant third.

The carriage lurched again, harder this time, and Rose made a small sound of discomfort.

"How much further?" she asked, pressing a hand to her stomach.

"Not long now," Ilya replied, though his own stomach churned for entirely different reasons. "We should see the gates soon."

As if summoned by his words, the forest began to thin. The road widened, and suddenly they emerged into a clearing. Ilya's breath caught despite himself.

The summer palace rose before them like something from a dream—or a memory he'd tried to forget. White marble gleamed in the afternoon light, its facade adorned with delicate carvings of flowers and vines that his mother had commissioned. Tall windows reflected the surrounding forest, making the building seem almost translucent, as if it might vanish if he looked away. The architecture was lighter than the capital's imposing fortress, more elegant, designed for beauty rather than defense.

The carriage rolled through the iron gates—wrought in intricate patterns of roses and thorns—and up the curved drive. Ilya's hands tightened in his lap as familiar details emerged. The fountain in the courtyard, still flowing after all these years. The climbing wisteria on the east wing, now thick and ancient, its purple blooms long since faded with the season. The balcony off the main hall where his mother used to stand and wave to him when he played in the gardens below.

The carriage drew to a halt before the main entrance, and servants emerged to greet them—fewer than would have attended them at the capital, but still a respectable number. An older woman in a housekeeper's dress descended the steps, her gray hair pulled back in a severe bun.

"Your Highness," she said, curtsying deeply as a footman opened the carriage door. "Welcome to the summer palace. We have prepared chambers for you and Princess Rose."

Ilya stepped down from the carriage, his legs stiff from hours of travel. The marble steps beneath his feet were smooth and familiar, worn by countless footsteps over the years. He breathed in the scent of pine and earth, so different from the city air of the capital.

Shane dismounted and moved to Ilya's side immediately, his presence a solid comfort. Their eyes met briefly, and something passed between them—an acknowledgment, a promise. Whatever ghosts haunted this place, Shane would be there.

"Thank you, Mrs. Rogova," Ilya said, recognizing the housekeeper from his childhood. She had aged, new lines creasing her face, but her eyes were the same—kind, watchful.

“Your chambers have been aired and prepared. The Princess's rooms are in the west wing." Mrs. Rogova glanced at Rose, who had emerged from the carriage with considerably more grace than Ilya had managed. "If you'll follow me?"

They entered through the main doors, and Ilya's chest constricted. The entrance hall was exactly as he remembered—high ceilings painted with clouds and birds, a grand staircase that curved upward to the second floor, portraits lining the walls. And there, prominently displayed at the landing, was his mother's portrait.

She smiled down at him, frozen forever at thirty-five, her golden-brown hair—so like his own—cascading over one shoulder. The artist had captured the warmth in her eyes, the gentle curve of her mouth. Ilya stopped, unable to tear his gaze away.

"Your Highness?" Mrs. Rogova's voice seemed to come from very far away.

Ilya forced himself to move, to follow the housekeeper up the stairs, past his mother's painted gaze. Each step felt heavier than the last. The portrait's eyes seemed to track him, and he wondered what she would think of him now—sneaking around with his guard, defying his father at every turn, dreading the marriage alliance she would have probably supported for the good of the kingdom.

They reached the second floor, and Mrs. Volkov led them down a familiar corridor. Ilya's heart sank when he realized where they were heading.

"I've prepared the Prince's chambers," Mrs. Rogova said, stopping before a set of double doors. "The same rooms you occupied during your last visit, Your Highness."

Ilya's throat tightened. His chambers. The rooms he'd occupied as a child, where he'd hidden under the covers after his mother died, where servants had found him three days later.

"Thank you," he managed, his voice steadier than he felt.

Mrs. Rogova pushed open the doors, and the scent hit him first—lavender and beeswax, the same polish the servants had always used. The sitting room beyond was bathed in golden afternoon light streaming through tall windows that overlooked the gardens. The furniture had been updated since his last visit, but the layout remained identical. His eyes tracked across familiar spaces—the alcove where he'd built forts from cushions, the window seat where his mother had taught him to read.

"I'll leave you to settle in, Your Highness," Mrs. Rogova said. "Dinner will be served at seven in the small dining room. Princess Rose, if you'll follow me to your chambers?"

Rose glanced at Ilya, her green eyes searching his face. She must have seen something there—some crack in his composure—because she stepped closer and touched his arm briefly.

"We'll talk later?" she asked quietly.

Ilya nodded, not trusting his voice. Rose followed Mrs. Rogova back into the corridor, their footsteps fading. Shane moved to close the doors behind them, then turned to face Ilya.

"Do you want me to—" Shane began.

"Stay," Ilya interrupted. The word came out rougher than intended. "Please."

Shane crossed the room immediately, his hand finding Ilya's elbow. The touch grounded him, pulled him back from the edge of memories that threatened to drown him. Ilya closed his eyes and breathed—in through his nose, out through his mouth, the way his mother had taught him when anxiety made his chest tight.

Ilya opened his eyes and looked around the sitting room again, really looked this time. Someone had tried to erase the past—new furniture, fresh paint on the walls, different curtains. But the bones remained the same. The fireplace where he'd roasted chestnuts with his mother. The corner where his toy soldiers had staged elaborate battles. The door to the bedchamber where she'd tucked him in every night, singing old Zakorian lullabies until he fell asleep.

"This was a mistake," he said finally. "I shouldn't have come here."

"Your father didn't give you much choice."

"No." As usual, he hadn’t even cared how being at the summer palace might affect Ilya.

“Hey,” Shane whispered pulling Ilya’s attention away from his own thoughts. Shane carressed his cheek pulling him closer until Ilya let himself fall into Shane’s embrace resting his forehead on his shoulder. Shane's arms tightened around him, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Ilya's head. The embrace was careful, as if Shane feared Ilya might shatter if held too firmly.

"I hate this place," Ilya murmured against Shane's shoulder. The admission felt like weakness, but he was too tired to maintain his usual armor.

Shane's hand moved in slow circles against his back, the touch speaking what words couldn't. They stood like that for a long moment, the afternoon light shifting across the floor as time passed. Ilya focused on the steady rhythm of Shane's breathing, using it to anchor himself against the tide of memory threatening to pull him under.

A knock at the door made them spring apart. Shane's hand went immediately to his sword hilt, his body positioning itself between Ilya and the door.

"Your Highness?" Mrs. Rogova's voice came through the wood. "The servants have brought your trunks."

Ilya straightened, smoothing his jacket with hands that trembled slightly. “Come in.”

The door opened to admit three servants carrying luggage. They moved efficiently through the sitting room to the bedchamber beyond, their eyes carefully averted from both prince and guard. Mrs. Rogova followed them in, her expression neutral but her gaze sharp as it moved between Ilya and Shane.

"Will there be anything else, Your Highness?" she asked.

"No, thank you." Ilya forced his voice into the practiced tones of royal courtesy. "That will be all."

Mrs. Rogova curtsied and departed, the servants trailing behind her. The door closed with a soft click, and the silence that followed felt heavier than before.

Shane moved to the windows, checking the locks with methodical precision. "These overlook the gardens. Three-story drop. No convenient trees for climbing. Good." He moved to the next window, then the next, his inspection thorough and professional.

Ilya watched him work, grateful for the distraction. Shane's presence transformed the space somehow—made it less about the past and more about the present. About safety. About something Ilya couldn't quite name but felt in his chest whenever Shane was near.

"The bedchamber," Shane said, moving toward the connecting door. "I should check it."

Ilya followed him through to the room beyond. His breath caught despite his best efforts to remain composed. The bed was different—larger, with new hangings—but the rest remained achingly familiar.

Shane moved through the room with practiced efficiency, checking the windows, the locks, the connecting doors to adjacent chambers. He paused at one door, his hand on the handle.

"What's through here?"

"The adjoining room," Ilya said quietly. "It was meant for a spouse or... personal attendant." The implication hung between them, unspoken but clear. Shane could stay there. Close. Without raising suspicion.

Shane opened the door carefully, sword half-drawn until he'd confirmed the room was empty. It was smaller than the main bedchamber but well-appointed—a comfortable bed, a writing desk, a window that overlooked the same gardens. Private, but connected. Perfect.

"This will do," Shane said, and something in his tone made warmth bloom in Ilya's chest.

Ilya moved to the window, pressing his palm against the cool glass. The gardens spread out below, wilder than he remembered—roses grown thick and untamed, hedges that needed trimming, pathways disappearing beneath creeping vines. His mother would have been horrified at the neglect.

"She loved it here," Ilya heard himself say. “She said it felt like home more than the capital.”

Shane's reflection appeared beside his own in the window. The knight stood close enough that Ilya could feel the warmth radiating from his body, but not touching. Never touching where they might be observed, even here. Ilya hated it.

"You don't talk about her much," Shane said quietly.

"No. My father doesn't like it. Says dwelling on the past is weakness." His jaw tightened. “He had most of her things removed from the main palace a month after she died. All her painting, her furniture, her clothes. Like she never existed.”

The bitterness in his own voice surprised him. He'd thought he'd made peace with his father's coldness years ago, but being here—surrounded by the last place his mother had been happy—made the old wounds feel fresh.

"But he kept this place," Shane observed.

"He never comes here." Ilya turned away from the window. “No one does. It just…exists.” Just like him. Decorative. Inconvenient.

A commotion in the corridor outside made them both tense. Voices—raised, urgent. Shane's hand went to his sword as he moved toward the door, positioning himself between Ilya and whatever threat approached.

The door burst open before Shane could reach it. Captain Lukov stood in the doorway, his weathered face grim, his uniform dusty from travel.

"Your Highness," he said. "We have a problem."

Ilya's stomach dropped. "What kind of problem?"

"We didn’t want to alarm you while still on the road but—," Lukov said, stepping into the room. Two other guards followed him, their expressions equally serious. "A group of three assassins attempted to attack the carriage while we were en route."

Shane moved closer to Ilya's side, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. "Attacked how?" he demanded.

"One from the trees. Two from the flank," Lukov replied. "They might have succeeded if I hadn’t stationed men in the forest along our path." He paused, his eyes finding Ilya's. “It’s clear they knew exactly when we departed and which carriage was the decoy and which one held you and princess.” He glanced at Shane. “Seems you were correct, Sir Shane. There is a traitor inside the palace.”

The room went cold. Ilya's fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. Three assassins. On the road. They'd known exactly where he would be, when he would be traveling, which route they would take despite all the precautions.

Shane's jaw tightened, the muscle jumping beneath the skin. "Did you capture any of them?"

"Two are dead. The third escaped into the forest." Lukov's expression darkened further. “And if the poisoner is anything to off of, that one will be dead by the time we find him.”

Someone at the palace—someone with access to the king's inner circle—had betrayed them. Had arranged not just one attempt on Ilya’s life, but two. The poison had failed, so they'd tried again on the road. And they would keep trying until they succeeded.

"Where's Princess Rose?" Ilya demanded, his voice sharper than intended.

"Safe in her chambers with two guards posted outside," Lukov assured him. "I've doubled the guard rotation here at the summer palace. No one enters or leaves without my personal authorization."

Shane shifted beside him, and Ilya could feel the tension radiating from the knight's body. "We need a list of everyone who knew our travel plans. Everyone with access to that information."

"Already being compiled," Lukov said. "But the list will be short. Only the king's most trusted advisors, Ambassador Forger, and some Valestria guards were informed of the actual route." He paused, his weathered face growing grimmer.

“What would any of them gain from killing me?” Ilya asked before he could stop himself.

"That's what we need to determine, Your Highness. Until then, you're not to leave these chambers without an armed escort. That means me or Sir Shane, no one else."

“A prisoner as always then.” Ilya's voice came out flat, emotionless, though fury burned beneath his ribs.

"You're alive," Shane said quietly, and something in his tone made Ilya's anger falter. "That's what matters."

Captain Lukov bowed slightly. "I'll post guards outside your door. Sir Shane will remain with you at all times." He gestured to the two guards who'd accompanied him. "Sergei, Kirill—you're on first watch. No one enters without my authorization or Sir Shane's."

The guards saluted and filed out, taking positions on either side of the door. Lukov followed, pausing at the threshold.

"Your Highness," he said, his voice dropping lower. "Be careful who you trust. Even here."

Then he was gone, the door closing with a finality that made Ilya's skin prickle. He stood frozen in the center of the room, his mind trying to process everything that had just happened. Three assassins. Someone inside the palace. A traitor in the palace. And he was stuck here, in this place full of ghosts and memories, while someone plotted his death.

Shane moved to the door, checking the lock, then moved to check the windows again, though he'd already inspected them minutes before. His movements were sharp, efficient, but Ilya could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand kept drifting to his sword hilt.

"Shane."

The knight paused mid-stride, his back still to Ilya.

"Look at me."

Shane turned slowly, and the expression on his face made Ilya's chest tighten. There was guilt there, raw and unguarded, the same look he'd worn after the poisoning when he'd thought Ilya might die.

“Don’t say anything I can see written all over your face,” Ilya said before Shane could open his mouth. “Don’t apologize. Don’t tell me it was your fault.” Ilya crossed the distance between them in four steps. He stopped close enough to see the dust from the road still caught in the fine hairs along Shane's jaw, close enough to hear the slight catch in his breathing. “You’re not a god, Shane. You can’t stop everything.” He reached up and pressed his palm flat against Shane's sternum, feeling the hard beat of his heart beneath the formal jacket.

Shane looked down at Ilya's hand, then back up at his face. The guilt hadn't gone anywhere—Ilya could still see it, carved into the lines around his mouth—but something else was rising through it. Something rawer.

“This is the second time someone has tried to kill you,” Shane said. The words came out rough, scraped from somewhere he didn't usually reach. “If Lukov’s men hadn’t been positioned correctly—”

“Then I’d be dead,” Ilya interjected. “I’m a prince, Shane. My life is always in danger. But you’d have surivived and gone on with your life.”

"No." The word was immediate, almost involuntary. Shane seemed to hear himself say it, seemed to register what it meant, because something shuttered briefly in his eyes before he exhaled. "No. I wouldn't have just gone on."

The room had grown dim around them, the afternoon light surrendering to early evening. Outside, Ilya could hear the faint sounds of the summer palace settling into its night routines—footsteps in the corridor, a door closing somewhere in the west wing, the distant sound of servants in the kitchens below. The ordinary sounds of a household that had no idea what had happened on the road.

Ilya's fingers curled slightly in the fabric of Shane's jacket.

Shane's hand came up and covered Ilya's where it rested against his chest. His fingers were warm despite the cooling air.

"Ilya—"

Ilya threaded his fingers through Shane's and kissed him. Whatever Shane had been about to say dissolved against his mouth. Ilya felt it happen—the slight parting of Shane's lips, the breath that escaped before he surrendered to it. His fingers tightened through Shane's, holding on.

I love you.

The words were right there, sitting at the base of his throat, warm and terrible and true. He kissed Shane harder to keep them from escaping. Because saying them would make something real that he could not afford to have be real. Saying them would be selfish and catastrophic and would break them both in ways that couldn't be mended. He was going to marry Rose—even Rose, who was kind and clever and deserved better than a political arrangement, even she was part of the cage. He was going to be king. He was going to stand in some grand cathedral with his father watching and vows on his lips that had nothing to do with the man he actually wanted, and there was nothing either of them could do about it.

So he kissed Shane instead. He kissed him and kept kissing him, walking him slowly backward through the dimming room.

Shane's free hand came up to grip his shoulder, and Ilya could feel the tension in it—the slight resistance, the war Shane was perpetually losing with himself. He knew that war. He was losing the same one.

The backs of Shane's knees caught the edge of the bed and he stopped.

"Dinner is at seven," Shane said against his mouth, breathless. "Mrs. Rogova will send someone up if we don't go.”

Ilya pulled back just far enough to look at him. Shane's eyes were dark, his lips parted, his careful composure entirely undone. Ilya had done that. The knowledge of it settled somewhere in his chest like an ember.

"Then we have two hours," Ilya said, and kissed him again before Shane could find another argument.

This time Shane didn't offer one. His hand slid from Ilya's shoulder to the back of his neck, and Ilya felt the last of his resistance give way—felt it in the way Shane's grip tightened, pulling him closer instead of holding him at distance. Ilya walked him the rest of the way down onto the bed, one knee pressing into the mattress beside Shane's hip as he followed him down.

The room had gone to deep amber shadow, the last of the daylight retreating. Ilya worked at Shane's jacket with fingers that were steadier than he felt, unhooking the brass fastenings one by one while Shane's hands moved through his hair, and Ilya had to pause twice because he couldn't concentrate when Shane touched him there, in that particular way. He pulled the jacket off Shane's shoulders and dropped it somewhere he didn't care about. Shane's hands found the hem of his shirt and tugged it free, palms pressing flat against his sides. The warmth of it shot through him.

Ilya took his time. After the road, after Lukov's grim face in the doorway, after every day of the past weeks with their careful distances and their careful pretending—he wanted to take his time. He worked his way down Shane's throat. The faint scar along his collarbone that Ilya had memorized in darkness, he now traced with his mouth in the last of the evening light. Shane's hands moved restlessly against his back, his shoulders, his hair—never quite still.

"Ilya." Shane's voice had gone rough.

"Mm." Ilya pressed his lips to the join of his neck and shoulder.

"You're going to be the death of me."

"You keep saying that," Ilya murmured against his skin. "You keep surviving."

Shane laughed, low and unsteady, and the sound of it did something to Ilya that he refused to examine. He lifted his head and looked down at Shane properly—at the dark eyes watching him with an openness that Shane never allowed himself during daylight, at the slight curve of his mouth, at the way the amber shadows fell across his face. He kissed him again, softer this time. Shane's hand came up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing his cheekbone in a gesture so gentle it made Ilya's ribs ache.

The rest of their clothes went slowly, unhurried, and Ilya let himself simply be here—in this room that smelled of lavender and old grief, in this bed with its new hangings and its old bones, with Shane warm and real beneath him. He let himself have it. He had so few things that were actually his. Shane was quiet in a way that felt different from his usual careful control—not restrained, but present. Fully present, in a way Ilya had only seen glimpses of. His hands moved without hesitation. His eyes stayed open.

Ilya had him turned and arranged against the pillows, and the golden-brown light was almost gone now, the room slipping into proper dusk. He pressed his lips to the back of Shane's shoulder, felt the slow shudder move through him.

"Ilya." Shane's voice was barely audible. His hands had found the pillow, fingers curling into it. "I don't—" He stopped. Started again. "I don't know what I would have done. If the road had gone differently."

Ilya stilled.

"I keep thinking about it," Shane continued, his voice low and stripped of everything careful. "I keep thinking—I would have stood there and watched them lower you into the ground and I would have had to—" His grip on the pillow tightened. "I don't know how to exist in a world without you in it anymore."

The words hit Ilya somewhere deep enough to hurt. He felt them leave before he could stop them.

"I love you."

Two words. Three. Quiet as breath, pressed into the back of Shane's neck, and then they were out in the room and there was no taking them back. Ilya closed his eyes. His forehead dropped to rest between Shane's shoulder blades, and he waited for the world to end.

It didn't.

Shane went very still beneath him—not the stillness of withdrawal, not the bracing stillness of a man about to pull away, but something suspended. Like the moment before a bell sounds—when it’s already ringing and you just can’t hear it yet. Then Shane turned. Not all the way, not quickly, just enough to look back over his shoulder, and Ilya made himself meet his eyes. Whatever he'd expected to see there—discomfort, panic, the careful closing-off he knew so well—it wasn't what he found. Shane looked at him the way he had on the road, in the carriage, in the palace corridors when he thought no one was watching. Like Ilya was something he'd been trying not to look at directly for months because it cost too much.

"Say it again," Shane said.

Ilya's throat worked. "Don't ask me to—"

"Ilya." Shane turned the rest of the way, shifting beneath him, and his hands came up to frame Ilya's face in the dark. His thumbs pressed just below his cheekbones, firm and warm. "Say it again."

Ilya exhaled through his nose. His hands had found Shane's waist, gripping without meaning to.

"Ya tebya lyublyu," he said, softer this time, and then in Shane's language because he deserved to understand it: "I love you."

Shane kissed him. Not tentatively, not with the usual half-second of hesitation that Ilya had learned to anticipate and work around. He kissed him like he'd been waiting for permission and had finally, finally been given it, one hand sliding into Ilya's curls and the other pressing flat between his shoulder blades, pulling him down and in. Ilya went. He went completely.

“I love you too.”

The dusk had finished its work while they weren't paying attention—the room was dark now, properly dark, only the thin silver line of moonlight beginning at the gap in the curtains. Ilya couldn't see Shane clearly anymore. He didn't need to. His hands moved over Shane with a thoroughness that had nothing to do with urgency. He had time. Two hours—and a kind of hunger that didn’t come from deprivation, but from knowing—knowing that this was finite, that the summer palace would end, that everything ended. He wanted to memorize him. He wanted to press the memory of this into his bones where it couldn't be taken away.

Shane’s hands moved over his back, his sides, tracing the line of his spine with a concentration that made Ilya's breath go uneven. He was learning him the same way. Ilya understood it—the same desperate archiving, the same instinct to hold onto something before it could be lost.

"Look at me," Ilya said against his mouth.

Shane did and all Ilya saw was the man underneath the knight, the one Ilya had been pulling at the edges of for months, and here he was—completely visible in the last of the amber light. Ilya kissed the corner of his jaw. The place below his ear that he had discovered weeks ago in the dark of the capital. Shane's breath caught on the sound of it, his head tilting back against the pillow, and Ilya felt the movement go through his own chest. He worked his way across Shane's collarbone, down his sternum, taking his time in a way that was almost cruel—deliberate and slow when Shane's hands were restless against his hair, his shoulders, gripping and releasing as if he couldn't settle. Ilya smiled against his skin.

"You're not as patient as you pretend," Ilya murmured.

"I have plenty of patience," Shane said, his voice rough. His hands contradicted him entirely.

Ilya pressed his lips to the scar along his ribs—the old one, from before, from whatever battle or border skirmish had left its mark before Ilya ever knew him. He felt Shane's sharp inhale. He kissed the scar again, more slowly, and Shane's fingers tightened in his curls.

"Ilya—"

"Mm."

"You're doing that on purpose."

"Yes," Ilya agreed, and pressed his mouth to the next inch of skin.

Shane's breath left him in a broken exhale when Ilya's mouth found the inside of his hip, and his hand tightened involuntarily in those golden-brown curls.

"Ilya." The name came out wrong—too much in it, too much of everything he'd been carefully not saying for months that had spilled out in this moment.

Ilya looked up at him from the dark repositioning him against the pillows. Shane let himself be moved. Ilya pressed close, his body warm and solid, and Shane felt the full length of him and his breath went short. His hands found Ilya's back, his shoulders, pressing flat against muscle and skin that had been burning with fever not a week ago. That memory lived alongside this one now. He couldn't entirely separate them.

"Still with me?" Ilya murmured against his throat.

"Yes," Shane said. Unequivocally.

Ilya reached for the small bottle of oil he'd taken from his trunk that morning—some part of him had been thinking about this since before they left the capital, had packed it with a kind of careful hopefulness. He warmed it between his palms.

"Okay?" he said quietly.

"Yes." Shane's voice was barely above a breath. His hands had gone still in Ilya's hair, resting there, trusting. "Yes, Ilya."

The sound of his name in Shane's mouth like that—not Your Highness, not even sir barked across a practice yard, just Ilya, just his name said like it was the only word that mattered—did something to him that he had no armor against. He pressed his forehead briefly to Shane's temple, just for a second, just to breathe. Shane turned his head and their mouths found each other in the dark, and Ilya kissed him while his hands moved with careful patience, thorough and slow, reading every shift and sound until Shane was making low broken noises against his mouth and his grip had tightened in Ilya's curls to the edge of pain.

“Ilya, f-fuck…” It sounded more like an exhale than actual words.

He worked until Shane was trembling beneath him, until the controlled, meticulous knight had been entirely replaced by someone who made desperate sounds and turned his face into the pillow to muffle them. Ilya pulled the pillow away. He wanted to hear him.

"Don't," he said softly. "Let me hear you."

Shane looked up at him in the dark with eyes that were completely undefended. He moved over him, settling his weight with care, and Shane's legs shifted to accommodate him with a naturalness that felt like something they'd always known how to do. Ilya pressed his lips to Shane's forehead, his temple, the corner of his mouth—small anchoring kisses, the kind that said here, I'm here, stay with me—and then he pressed forward, slow and steady, watching Shane's face the entire time.

Shane's breath left him in a long, shuddering exhale. His hands found Ilya's back and dug his fingers in. Ilya stilled. Waited. Let Shane breathe.

"All right?" he said against his cheek.

"Yes." Shane's voice had gone to something low and raw that Ilya had only heard in fragments before, pieces of it breaking through the armor at unguarded moments. Here it was whole. "Don't stop."

Ilya moved. Slowly, at first—deliberately, torturously slowly, because he wanted to feel every fraction of this, wanted to commit it to the kind of memory that lived in the body rather than the mind. Shane's head tipped back against the pillow and the sound he made went straight through Ilya like a current. His hands moved up Shane's sides, feeling the shift of muscle beneath his palms.

Shane’s grip on him tightened pulling him down and in, and Ilya went, dropping his weight more fully, and the angle shifted in a way that made Shane gasp sharply. Ilya pressed deeper into Shane, watching his face transform with each careful thrust. The slide of their bodies together sent waves of pleasure coursing through him. Shane's hands moved restlessly across his back, his shoulders, like he couldn't get enough contact.

"You feel so good," Ilya whispered as he lost himself in sensation. The tight heat enveloping him was almost overwhelming.

Shane's eyes fluttered open, dark and unfocused. A flush had spread across his cheeks and down his neck. "More," he gasped, his hips lifting to meet Ilya's next thrust.

Ilya obliged, adjusting his angle slightly. He knew he'd found the right spot when Shane's back arched off the bed, a broken moan escaping his lips. The sound ignited something primal in Ilya's chest. He wanted to hear it again, wanted to make Shane forget everything but this moment, this connection between them.

“Oh fuck! Shit—” Shane's words dissolved into another moan as Ilya repeated the motion. His fingers dug into Ilya's back hard enough to leave marks.

Ilya leaned down to capture his mouth, swallowing the next sound Shane made. He kept his pace measured and deep, savoring each tremor that ran through Shane's body. The knight was coming undone beneath him, all that careful control shattered, and knowing he was the cause made heat pool low in Ilya's belly.

“I love you,” Ilya murmured against Shane’s jaw like, once this moment broke, he would never be able to say it again. “Especially when you look like this. So beautiful.”

Shane's eyes met his, vulnerability raw and unguarded in his gaze. His lips parted on a gasp as Ilya shifted again, pressing deeper. He freed a hand to cup Shane’s jaw before sliding a thumb into his mouth. Shane sucked it in happily eyes never leaving Ilya’s as he continued his thrusting. The way Shane responded to his touch was intoxicating, his eyes half-closed and lips parted in pleasure. Shane swirled his tongue around Ilya’s fingertip. His eyes rolled back as he moaned around Ilya's thumb. Ilya increased his pace, driving deeper with each thrust as if he could meld himself to Shane. Ilya pulled his thumb from Shane's mouth and kissed him deeply, driving into him with a new urgency. Shane's thighs trembled against his hips, muscles clenching around him with each thrust. Ilya wanted to feel every inch of him, to mark him in ways that wouldn't show when they returned to their roles tomorrow.

"God, Shane," Ilya gasped against his neck, his rhythm faltering as pleasure built at the base of his spine. He was lost in the absolute euphoria of the moment. His hands gripped Shane’s hips pulling them to meet his thrusts.

Shane’s hands were fisted in the bed sheets. His head was thrown back and his words had become unintelligible. Ilya had avoided death twice, but he felt he wouldn’t mind dying right now if that was the cost of seeing this view. Ilya's hand slipped between their bodies, wrapping around him with sure fingers. Shane's hips bucked involuntarily at the contact, driving Ilya deeper inside him. The dual sensation was overwhelming.

“I can’t—Ilya, fuck—I’m gonna—Oh f-fuck—” Shane gasped as if he couldn’t control the sounds coming from his mouth. His voice rose with each word.

Ilya suddenly remembered the guards posted outside his door. The last thing either of them needed was for Sergei and Kirill to hear the king's personal knight crying out his name in pleasure. He clamped his hand over Shane's mouth, pressing just firmly enough to muffle the sounds without hurting him. Despite this, his hips started snapping forward with renewed vigor. Shane's eyes widened in realization, then rolled back as Ilya drove into him with merciless precision. The feel of Shane's hot breath against his palm, the vibration of his muffled moans—. He gripped Shane harder with his other hand, stroking him in time with his thrusts, watching as Shane’s back seemed caught in a permanent arch off the bed.

Ilya felt almost possessed, moving with a frantic energy he couldn't control. The sound of skin against skin filled the room as he pounded into Shane, the bed frame creaking beneath them. He angled his hips just so, hitting that spot that made Shane's entire body jerk with each thrust.

Shane's fingers dug into his shoulders hard enough to bruise. His muffled sounds grew more desperate against Ilya's palm, and Ilya could feel him getting closer, tightening around him. The sensation was maddening, perfect.

"Come for me," Ilya commanded in a harsh whisper, his rhythm growing erratic as his own release built. "Now, Shane."

Shane's eyes locked with his—vulnerable, desperate, completely undone. His entire body went rigid beneath Ilya, muscles clenching around him with brutal force. Ilya felt the hot pulse of Shane's release coating his hand, his stomach. The sight of Shane coming apart, combined with the tight heat gripping him, pushed Ilya over the edge. His vision blurred at the edges as pleasure tore through him like lightning.

Ilya buried his face in Shane's neck to muffle his own sounds as his body shook with the force of his orgasm. Wave after wave crashed over him, leaving him trembling and breathless. Beneath him, Shane's toes had curled, his heels digging into the mattress as his body convulsed with aftershocks.

Slowly, carefully, Ilya removed his hand from Shane's mouth. Shane dragged in a ragged breath, his chest heaving. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound in the room was their labored breathing gradually returning to normal.

Ilya pressed his forehead against Shane's, his body still quivering with residual pleasure. "You okay?" he whispered, brushing damp hair from Shane's temple.

Shane nodded, seemingly unable to form words just yet. His eyes were half-closed. Ilya smiled through his heavy breathing pressing a soft kiss against Shane’s cheek.

“If I do die,” Ilya said lightly, “I wanted to make sure you had a memory of mindblowing sex.”

Shane glared at him through hooded lids, his chest heaving still. Though there was a small smile on his flushed face. “Not.” Breathe. “Funny.” Breathe. "Making jokes about dying when someone's actually trying to kill you."

Ilya couldn't help but laugh, the sound warm and genuine despite everything. "You're right. It was terrible. Maybe I should make jokes about how we're never getting caught instead."

Shane let out a breathy laugh. He looked at Ilya for a long moment, his expression softening in the darkness. Then he wrapped his arms around him, pulling Ilya close against his chest. His lips brushed against Ilya's ear, breath warm as he whispered, "You said you love me."

Ilya felt his heart stutter in his chest. He nodded against Shane's shoulder, even as fear coiled in his stomach—fear of what those words meant, what they could cost them both. "And you said it back," he murmured.

Shane's arms tightened around him. "How fucked are we, Ilya?" His voice was laced with equal parts wonder and dread.

He brushed his teeth and pulled on a t-shirt before making his way to the kitchen. He passed through the living room. Ilya was on the couch, apparently having abandoned the kitchen. Both hands wrapped around his coffee mug, staring somewhere far beyond the room. Shane watched Ilya, concern tugging at the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t the first time he’d found him like this—lost somewhere else, expression blank, eyes fixed on something Shane couldn’t see. He didn’t want to pry—didn’t want to push into the trauma he knew still haunted him no matter how often Ilya insisted it didn’t. He approached quietly, not wanting to startle him.

"Hey," Shane said softly. "You okay?"

Ilya blinked, his eyes refocusing as he turned toward Shane. For a split second, confusion flickered before recognition settled in.

"Yes. Just thinking." Ilya lifted the mug to his lips, taking a long sip.

Shane sat beside him, debating whether to push. Sometimes Ilya talked about what happened during therapy, sometimes he didn't. He knew there were things he still didn’t know about Ilya’s past, things Ilya didn’t want him to know and couldn’t talk about himself. Shane had learned not to press.

“Remember the tailor is coming today,” Shane said instead. “In about 2 hours. My mom is having our wedding suits custom made so he needs to take measurements.”

Ilya's eyes widened slightly. "That's today? I forgot."

"Yeah," Shane said, sitting up straighter. "Don't worry about it. We can reschedule if you want."

Ilya shook his head, setting his mug on the coffee table. "No. Is fine. Just..." He trailed off, then met Shane's gaze. "I am still not used to this. Planning wedding. Having tailor come to home. Like I am important person."

Shane reached for Ilya's hand, brushing his thumb across the platinum band. "You are."

Ilya's mouth curved into a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Da. To you."

"And to your family," Shane added. "They love you."

A shadow crossed Ilya’s face—gone so fast Shane almost missed it. "Yes. Is strange."

Shane ran his thumb over the back of Ilya's hand, feeling the calluses from years of hockey sticks. "You know my mom's going to drive us crazy with wedding details, right? She's already talking about centerpieces and specialty cocktails."

"As long as food is good, I don't care about flowers," Ilya said, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He shifted on the couch to face Shane more directly. "How are you feeling? About big project at work?"

Shane hesitated. He hadn't told Ilya about Gerald's comments or the lingering doubt that had followed him home from the boardroom. "It's a lot of pressure," he admitted. "Three hundred million dollars is... significant."

"You are worried," Ilya observed, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Shane's face.

"A little," Shane conceded. "The board approved it, but I'm not sure they all believe in me. Not like they believed in my father.”

Ilya's expression hardened. "Then they are idiots."

The simple declaration, delivered with such certainty, made something warm bloom in Shane's chest. "I just don't want to screw up."

"You won't." Ilya squeezed his hand. "But if you do, we sell everything and move to cabin in woods. Live off land. Very romantic."

Shane laughed, the tension easing from his shoulders. "You'd last about three days without Wi-Fi."

"Four, maybe," Ilya conceded with a small smile.

“At least everyone is distracted enough by Wellman’s gala to not worry about the board.”

Ilya raised a brow. “Gala?”

Shane nodded leaning back on the couch. “It’s mostly just people in expensive clothes pretending they’re not networking. And as newly appointed CEO, I hav to go.”

Ilya went still, his mug hovering halfway to his lips. That world again. The one with designer suits and champagne flutes and people who spoke in careful euphemisms. The world where money wasn't just something you had, but something you were.

"You should come with me," Shane continued, not noticing Ilya's sudden stillness. "I mean, we're getting married. It would be good for people to meet you officially as my fiancé."

Ilya set his mug down carefully. Shane meant it lovingly, casually—as if he were suggesting they try a new restaurant or watch a hockey game. As if it were simple.

"I think you will be fine without me," Ilya said, keeping his voice light. "These business people want to talk about investments and markets, not hockey drills. I would be bored."

Shane shook his head. "Come on, it's not that bad. There's an open bar and decent food. Some of the conversations are actually interesting."

He didn't understand what he was asking. Couldn't see how those rooms felt to someone like Ilya—someone who had once been bought and sold in similar ballrooms, who had poured drinks for men in expensive suits while wearing nothing but a collar.

"You haven't been to one of these since the night I proposed," Shane pointed out, his expression softening. "And that turned out pretty well, didn't it?"

Ilya's smile faded slightly. He looked down at his hands, at the platinum band that still sometimes felt foreign on his finger.

"You walk into a room like that, everyone knows exactly who you are," he said quietly. Not accusing, just stating a fact.

"That's not a bad thing," Shane replied, reaching for Ilya's hand. "People respect you. You're the assistant coach for the Canadiens now. You belong there just as much as anyone."

Ilya met his gaze. Shane truly believed that—believed in the power of his name, his position, to make Ilya acceptable in those circles. And maybe he was right. Maybe things were different now. But the thought of walking into that ballroom, of feeling all those eyes on him, knowing what they might be thinking even if they didn’t know everything...

“You belong in those places,” Ilya said quietly. “I don’t.”

Shane took Ilya’s hand rubbing circles on the back. He didn’t avert his gaze from Ilya’s. “Ilya…no one knows about you, about before. We made sure of that. If that’s what you’re worried about…”

Ilya turned his face away. Shane's words were meant to be comforting, but they hit like a knife between his ribs. Of course Shane believed it was that simple. But Ilya knew better.

"Is not just about that," he said quietly.

Shane's brow furrowed. “Then what is it?”

Ilya took a deep breath, struggling to find words that wouldn't hurt Shane but would make him understand. "Those rooms—they don't feel like places I belong. Even now."

"But you're not—" Shane stopped himself, seeming to realize what he was about to say.

"Not what? Not a whore anymore?" Ilya finished for him, his voice low but steady. He rarely used that word, the one Marcus had branded into his skin with repetition and humiliation. It felt bitter on his tongue, but sometimes necessary.

Shane's face paled. "That's not what I was going to say."

"But is truth," Ilya said. "I am not that person anymore. But those places—the way men look at each other across room, the quiet conversations, the deals made over drinks. Too familiar." He swallowed hard. "Too much like before."

Shane's expression softened with understanding. He shifted closer, his hand finding Ilya's knee. "I'm sorry. I didn't think about it that way."

Ilya shrugged, trying to make his body language dismiss the heaviness of the moment. "Is okay. You go, charm everyone with your CEO smile. I will stay home, watch hockey highlights."

"What if..." Shane hesitated, then continued, "What if we went together, but only stayed for an hour? Just long enough to make an appearance, then we could leave. Get takeout on the way home, eat in our pajamas."

Ilya looked at Shane—really looked at him. The hope in his eyes, the genuine desire to find a compromise. After everything, Shane still wanted to include him in every part of his life, even the difficult parts. Even when it would be easier to keep those worlds separate.

"One hour," Ilya finally agreed. "And I choose restaurant for after."

Shane's face lit up with a smile. "Deal." He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Ilya's lips. "Thank you."

Ilya kissed him back, trying to ignore the knot of anxiety already forming in his stomach. He could do this. One hour in a room that reminded him of his past. One hour of shaking hands with men who might have been clients in another life. One hour, for Shane.

***

The chauffeur opened the door of the limousine. December air hit Ilya’s face, sharp and cold, carrying with it the scent of expensive perfumes and winter. He blinked against the sudden glare of camera flashes that cut through the evening darkness. So many people crowded the sidewalk—photographers, reporters with microphones extended, guests in formal attire making their way up the red-carpeted stairs.

Ilya took a deep breath. Straightened his shoulders. Touched the sapphire cufflinks Shane had given him that morning.

"Ready?" Shane asked beside him, voice steady and warm.

Ilya nodded once. He stepped out of the car onto the red carpet, feeling the immediate weight of the tailored suit against his body. The fabric was soft—midnight blue with subtle stitching that caught the light when he moved. The tailor had called it "the perfect complement to your eyes." But it felt like armor now, something to hide behind.

Shane emerged after him, a vision in classic black. He moved with such natural confidence, like he had been doing this his whole life. He probably had. His smile appeared instantly, practiced and flawless, directed at the waiting cameras.

Ilya took half a step backward, falling just behind Shane's shoulder—an old instinct, to make himself less visible.

Shane's hand found the small of his back, pushing him forward to stand beside him. He looked at Ilya and smiled. Ilya corrected his position, forcing himself to stand shoulder to shoulder with Shane. The cameras clicked faster. He knew how to perform in rooms like this. The thought came unbidden, bitter. Just... a different kind of room. A different kind of performance. Different expectations.

Shane's hand remained at his back as they began walking toward the entrance. The noise hit Ilya first—glasses clinking against each other, hundreds of voices layered into a deafening hum, music from a string quartet floating above it all. The space beyond the doors was cavernous and gleaming—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, too many mirrors reflecting light in every direction. Too open. Too exposed. No corners to slip into. Nowhere to disappear.

"Shane Hollander!" A silver-haired man in an expensive suit approached immediately, hand extended. "So glad you could make it."

“Donald,” Shane replied warmly, accepting the handshake. "Wouldn't miss it."

More people materialized around them—men in tuxedos with perfect haircuts, women in glittering gowns with diamonds at their throats. Names and titles blurred together as Shane greeted each one with the same easy charm. Board members. Investors. Partners. Competitors.

"And who is this?" asked a woman in emerald silk, her eyes sliding to Ilya with practiced politeness.

"This is Ilya Rozanov," Shane said, his voice carrying a note of pride that made Ilya's chest tighten. "My fiancé."

“That’s right.” The emerald woman lightly smiled, but her gaze was all assessing. “You haven’t made an appearance since you two got engaged the Hollander charity event. That was almost a year ago, wasn’t it? Quite the spectacle. Shane, why have you been hiding this handsome face away?”

Ilya watched the rest of their reactions—quick, polite scans of his face, his suit, his posture. Some smiles grew wider, too wide. Some expressions flickered with momentary confusion before resetting. Others recalculated visibly, adjusting whatever mental picture they'd had of Shane Hollander's personal life.

Ilya cataloged them automatically. The older man with the bowtie whose smile never reached his eyes. The woman whose gaze lingered too long on his ring. The young executive who looked between them with barely concealed surprise before recovering. The balding man whose eyes narrowed slightly, assessing Ilya's worth in this new context. It was instinct, this cataloging. The same instinct that had helped him survive those other rooms, with those other men. Knowing who to watch. Who might be dangerous. Who wanted what.

"Well, he’s usually busy. Ilya coaches for the Canadiens," Shane was saying, his hand still steady against Ilya's back.

"Assistant coach," Ilya corrected, finding his voice. It came out lower than he intended, the accent thicker under stress.

"That's fascinating," said a woman whose name Ilya had already forgotten. "Have you always been involved in hockey?"

The question was innocent, but Ilya felt his body tense. Always? No. There had been years—too many years—when hockey had been nothing but a distant memory, a dream from childhood that had died long before Marcus found him.

"Since I was child," he answered simply. True enough.

More people joined their circle. More introductions. More handshakes. Ilya accepted a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, grateful for something to occupy his hands. The bubbles felt sharp against his tongue, too sweet. He remembered serving drinks like these, wearing underwear or nothing at all, invisible except when someone wanted their glass refilled or their body serviced.

As the evening wore on, Shane became the center of the growing circle, his voice confident and steady as he outlined Hollander Tech's latest initiatives. Ilya watched him work the room, answering questions about sustainable technology with such natural authority that even the skeptics leaned forward to catch every word.

"The future isn't just about profits," Shane was saying, his hands moving in those precise gestures that accompanied his most passionate arguments. "It's about responsibility. About leaving something better than we found it."

The silver-haired man—Donald—nodded approvingly. "Bold stance, especially for a new CEO."

"Not bold," Shane countered with that perfect smile. "Necessary."

Ilya felt a swell of pride watching him. This was Shane in his element—commanding attention not through force but through conviction. The way these people looked at him—with respect, with admiration—was exactly what Shane deserved. He belonged here, in this world of influence and power, using it for something good.

Yet as the minutes ticked by, Ilya felt himself slipping further away, as if standing on the opposite shore of a widening river. His shoulders tensed beneath the expensive fabric of his suit. The smile he'd carefully maintained began to feel like a mask stretched too tight across his face. He nodded at appropriate moments, laughed when others laughed, but felt increasingly hollow.

He glanced at his watch. Forty minutes. Not much longer.

"And what do you think about that approach, Mr. Rozanov?"

The question caught him off guard. The emerald woman was looking at him expectantly, along with several others in their circle. He had no idea what they'd been discussing.

Shane leaned closer, his breath warm against Ilya's ear. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Ilya replied automatically. But he wasn't fine. The room felt too hot, the lights too bright, the conversation too much like a performance he hadn't rehearsed for.

He could do this, though. Twenty more minutes. For Shane.

His attention drifted beyond their circle, scanning the crowded ballroom. That's when he saw them across the room—an older man in an expertly tailored suit, silver at his temples, confidence in every line of his posture. The epitome of wealth and power. And beside him, a younger man, handsome in a generic way. But what caught Ilya's attention wasn't his appearance but his bearing: perfectly still, contained within himself. His smile never wavered, yet never reached his eyes. Those eyes—Ilya recognized their emptiness immediately.

The realization hit him with physical force. Not a guess. Not a suspicion. Certainty.

He knew that look because he had been that look. Standing beside someone. Being an accessory. Being silent. Dreading what came later when the public performance ended and the private one began.

Ilya's stomach clenched. He turned away quickly, but not quickly enough. The older man had caught him staring, and now their eyes met across the crowded room. In that brief moment, something passed between them—recognition flowing both ways. The older man's eyes narrowed slightly, then widened with understanding. He knew what Ilya was seeing. He knew that Ilya knew.

And Ilya felt suddenly, terribly exposed. As if all his careful rebuilding had been stripped away in an instant, leaving him naked under these crystal chandeliers.

Ilya moved closer to Shane without thinking, instinctively seeking the solid warmth of him. The familiar scent of Shane's cologne cut through the suffocating atmosphere of the ballroom. He pressed his shoulder against Shane's, needing the contact, the reminder that this wasn't that life anymore. That he wasn't that person anymore.

Shane turned toward him immediately, his eyebrows drawing together in concern. "Ready to go?" he asked quietly, his voice low enough that only Ilya could hear.

"Yes," Ilya nodded, keeping his face carefully neutral. He needed to get out. Now. The walls of the ballroom seemed to be closing in, the crowd pressing too close, the air too thick to breathe.

"Let me just say goodbye to Donald," Shane said, his hand finding the small of Ilya's back again—grounding, steadying. "Two minutes, tops."

"I will meet you at coat check," Ilya replied, already stepping away. "Need bathroom first."

Shane nodded, concern still evident in his eyes, but he didn't push. One of the things Ilya loved most about him—he knew when to give space.

Ilya made his way through the crowd, keeping his head down, avoiding eye contact. The bathroom was mercifully empty when he pushed through the heavy door. Silence. Finally. He exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours, his breath shaky as it left his lungs. The marble countertop felt cool beneath his palms as he leaned against it, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

The suit fit him perfectly. His hair was neatly styled, his jaw clean-shaven. He looked... good. Put together. Respectable. He knew what he looked like now. And he knew what he used to look like—eyes hollow, cheekbones sharp from meals skipped to maintain the body Marcus demanded, bruises hidden beneath carefully applied concealer. The contrast should have been comforting. It wasn't.

Ilya turned on the faucet, letting cold water rush over his hands. The sensation anchored him to the present—the chill against his skin, the quiet hiss of water hitting marble. He focused on his breathing. In for four counts. Hold for seven. Out for eight. The technique his therapist had taught him for moments like this.

A sound behind him. The door opening.

Ilya's body went still before he consciously registered why. Instinct. Years of training that his body remembered even when his mind tried to forget. He didn't need to turn to know who had entered. He already knew.

"How much did he pay for you?" The voice was smooth, cultured, curious—the man from across the ballroom. The one with the empty-eyed companion.

Ilya didn't flinch. Didn't react. Just stillness. He turned slowly, keeping his face carefully blank as he reached for a paper towel to dry his hands.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

The man smiled—relaxed, certain, predatory. The smile of someone used to getting what he wanted. "I think you do." He stepped closer, his expensive cologne filling the small space between them. "I have to admit, I didn't expect Shane Hollander to be the type. But I suppose everyone has their... indulgences."

The man's eyes traveled over Ilya's body with practiced assessment, lingering on the breadth of his shoulders, the cut of his jaw, the shape of his mouth. Ilya knew that look. Had felt it on his skin too many times to count.

"I'll pay you double whatever he did," the man said, his voice dropping lower as he stepped closer. "You can leave with me tonight. My current companion would enjoy the company, I'm sure." His hand reached out, fingers brushing against Ilya's hip.

Ilya's body locked instantly, breath shortening to shallow pants. For a split second, old instinct surfaced—the training ingrained through pain and fear. Comply. Survive. Detach. Let your mind go somewhere else while your body does what it must.

Then, like a switch flipping, something else took over. The present, not the past.

"I am Shane's fiancé," Ilya said, his voice steady and controlled despite the hurricane raging inside him. He placed his palm against the man's chest and pushed him back firmly, creating space between them. His heart raced wildly in his chest. His hands trembled slightly, but his voice held steady. "I am not for fucking sale."

The man paused, his eyebrows lifting slightly. Surprise, then disbelief crossed his features. His eyes narrowed, assessing this new information, clearly not believing it. But this wasn't a private room. This wasn't somewhere he could push further without consequences.

"My mistake," he said finally, his tone dismissive, almost bored. “I just didn’t expect little Hollander to be with someone so…pretty.” He stepped aside with exaggerated courtesy, his smile never reaching his eyes. “Enjoy your evening.”

Ilya maintained his composure until the bathroom door swung shut behind the man. Then his legs nearly gave out beneath him. He leaned heavily against the counter, his entire body shaking now. Bile rose in his throat, bitter and burning. He swallowed it back, forcing himself to breathe. If that man, a stranger, had noticed something just by looking at him, then maybe he hadn’t changed at all. Maybe he couldn’t change and he would always be the lucky Russian whore.

He pushed through the door back into the hallway, the noise of the gala immediately assaulting him. His eyes darted across faces, searching for the man who had approached him, terrified of seeing him again. The weight of the past pressed down on his shoulders, making each step feel like wading through cement.

Then he saw Shane waiting by the coat check, scanning the crowd with worried eyes. The sight of him—solid, real, safe—cut through the panic instantly. Shane's face brightened when he spotted Ilya, relief evident in his expression. Ilya moved toward him, feeling the invisible tether between them pulling him to safety.

"There you are," Shane said, reaching for him. "I was getting worried."

Ilya stepped into Shane's space, close enough to feel his warmth but not touching. The urge to collapse against him, to bury his face in Shane's neck and tell him everything, was overwhelming. But not here. Not surrounded by eyes that might see, might judge, might recognize.

"Are you okay?" Shane asked, his voice low, brow furrowed as he studied Ilya's face.

"Yes," Ilya answered too quickly, the word leaving his mouth before he could stop it. Not true. He was not okay. Not even close.

"Let's go," Shane said, his hand finding Ilya's elbow.

They collected their coats in silence. The heavy wool settled across Ilya's shoulders, another layer between him and the world. He pulled it tight around himself as they stepped outside into the December night.

***

Shane stood under the shower spray, hot water cascading over his shoulders and down his back. Steam filled the bathroom, fogging the glass and softening the world at its edges. He leaned his forehead against the cool tile, letting the water pound against his tight muscles. Shane closed his eyes, replaying the evening. He should have known better than to ask Ilya to attend. Even for just an hour. The business world—all those people in their expensive clothes, making deals over champagne—it was too reminiscent of his past. Of the life Marcus had forced him into.

He pressed his palm flat against the tile. Ilya had been doing so well lately. Coaching suited him. He smiled more easily, laughed more freely. The nightmares still came, but less frequently. And now Shane had dragged him back into a world that reminded him of everything he'd fought to escape. Water ran into Shane’s eyes. He blinked it away. This was the part that scared him the most—the way Ilya sometimes disappeared while still being physically present. The way he could sit right beside Shane and still be somewhere else entirely—somewhere Shane couldn’t reach.

Was Ilya actually okay? Or had he just gotten better at pretending? The question haunted Shane more than he wanted to admit. There were parts of Ilya's past he still didn't know—the worst parts, the ones Ilya refused to speak about. Shane had made a choice early in their relationship: not to push, not to force those stories out of him. If Ilya wanted to tell him, he would. When he was ready. But that didn't stop the worry. It didn’t stop the fear that one day, those unspoken horrors might pull Ilya too far away for Shane to bring him back.

Shane reached for the faucet and turned the water off. Silence rushed in, broken only by the soft plink of water droplets hitting the tile. He stood there a second longer than necessary, water running down his body, gathering himself. He needed to ask if Ilya was okay. Needed to know if there was something he could do.

He wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped out of the shower. The bedroom door was open. Through it, he could see the TV casting flickering blue light across the walls. Shane ran another towel over his hair, hung it up, and walked into the bedroom. Ilya lay on the bed, shirtless, the sheets pooled around his waist. His eyes were fixed on the television, but Shane could tell immediately he wasn’t watching. There was a stillness to him—a delay in his blinking, a distance in his eyes Shane had come to recognize all too well. Ilya's body was here, but his mind had gone somewhere else again.

Shane pulled on a pair of sweatpants, leaving his chest bare. He moved to the bed, lifting the covers and slipping in beside Ilya. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, but Ilya didn’t turn. Shane leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to Ilya's shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin against his lips.

No response.

He moved higher, placing another kiss on Ilya's neck, then his jaw. Still nothing—just the barest flicker of recognition in those blue eyes.

Come back to me, Shane thought desperately. Wherever you are—please come back.

He slowed, making his movements more deliberate. He pressed a kiss to Ilya's cheek, then finally to his lips—soft, brief, a question rather than a demand. And there—finally—Ilya's eyes cleared, his focus snapping back to the present. His gaze met Shane's, recognition flooding in.

Relief washed over Shane, immediate and powerful. There you are.

Ilya turned toward him then, his hand coming up to cup Shane's face as he kissed him back. The kiss was slow at first, tentative, but it deepened naturally into their familiar rhythm. Shane let Ilya lead, careful not to take control. He'd learned early on how important that was in moments like this—letting Ilya set the pace, following rather than directing.

Their hands found each other, fingers intertwining as their bodies shifted closer. It wasn't rushed or desperate. It was grounding, reconnecting, reassurance that they were both here, together, safe.

"You were good tonight," Ilya murmured, his voice low against Shane's skin. "At the gala. With all those people."

Shane stilled slightly, surprised by the words.

"You're good at your business," Ilya continued. "At being CEO. Making people listen."

A beat passed between them. "I was proud you were mine," Ilya whispered.

The statement landed harder than anything else had that night. Pride. Love. And something heavier—a sense that Ilya somehow thought Shane didn't see him the same way. As if Ilya believed he was lucky to have Shane, but not the other way around.

Shane kissed him again, slower now, more intentional. You're not something I tolerate, he thought fiercely. You're everything.

Shane pressed his body closer to Ilya's, letting his fingers trace along the strong lines of his shoulder, down his arm, feeling the muscles shift beneath his touch. Words felt inadequate in this moment. Instead, he poured everything into his kiss—his pride, his love, his certainty that Ilya was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

The heat between them built slowly, like a tide coming in. Shane didn't ask about what had happened at the gala, about the distant look that had filled Ilya's eyes. For a moment, he could leave the demons undisturbed. Ilya's hands grew more insistent, sliding down Shane's bare chest, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. Shane's breath hitched as Ilya's palm flattened against his stomach, warm and sure. He arched into his touch.

Ilya shifted, moving over him with practiced grace, his weight settling between Shane's thighs. The familiar pressure made Shane's heart race, his body responding instantly to the promise of what was to come. Ilya's mouth found his neck, lips and teeth and tongue working in concert to draw a moan from deep in Shane's throat.

Shane's hands roamed across Ilya's back, feeling the subtle ridges of scars beneath his fingertips. He knew their pattern by heart now—where they began and ended, which ones were raised and which had faded to barely-there silver lines. A map of survival that he'd memorized over countless nights like this one. Ilya pushed Shane's sweatpants down his hips, his movements unhurried but deliberate. Shane lifted his hips to help, kicking the fabric away until he lay naked beneath Ilya's still-clothed lower half. The contrast—his vulnerability against Ilya's control—sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine.

“I still can't believe you are mine," Ilya murmured, his eyes taking in every inch of Shane's exposed skin.

Shane reached up, cupping Ilya's face in his hands. "I am. Always." Please believe me.

Ilya turned his head, pressing a kiss to Shane's palm before lowering himself down, trailing his mouth along Shane's chest. Each kiss felt like a brand, a claim, a reminder that they belonged to each other. When Ilya's tongue flicked across his nipple, Shane gasped, his back arching off the bed. Ilya smiled against his skin, clearly pleased with the reaction. His hand slid lower, wrapping around Shane's hardening length with confident familiarity. He stroked slowly, the dry friction just this side of too much, making Shane's toes curl against the sheets.

Ilya reached across to the nightstand, retrieving the bottle of lube without letting go of Shane. The click of the cap opening sent another wave of anticipation through Shane's body. Ilya's hand returned slick and warm, the glide now perfect as he continued stroking, twisting his wrist at the head in the way he knew drove Shane crazy. Shane lost himself in the sensation, in the heat of Ilya's body against his, in the weight of his gaze. He wanted Ilya to feel it too—this connection, this intimacy, this reminder that no matter where he disappeared to in his mind that he had something to come back to.

Ilya's fingers moved lower, circling Shane's entrance with gentle pressure. Shane spread his legs wider, inviting him in. The first finger pressed inside, the slight burn giving way to pleasure as his body adjusted. Ilya worked him open patiently, adding a second finger when Shane began to rock against his hand. Shane’s hands fisted in the sheets. Ilya obliged, scissoring his fingers, stretching him carefully. When he curled them just right, brushing against that spot deep inside, Shane's vision blurred with pleasure. A third finger joined the others, the fullness making him moan.

“Fuck, please, Ilya…” Shane gasped. “Please fuck me.”

Ilya's eyes darkened at the words. He withdrew his fingers slowly, leaving Shane feeling empty and aching. Ilya stood, his movements fluid as he pushed his own pants down his hips, revealing his hard length. Shane couldn't tear his eyes away as Ilya slicked himself with lube, his hand moving in long, firm strokes. Ilya positioned himself between Shane's thighs again, lining up against his entrance, gaze locking with Shane's. Ilya pushed forward then, entering him in one slow, steady thrust that took Shane's breath away. The stretch burned deliciously, his body yielding to the familiar intrusion. Ilya stilled when he was fully seated, giving Shane time to adjust, his eyes never leaving Shane's face.

Shan wrapped his legs around Ilya’s waist urging him to move. Ilya began to move, setting a rhythm that was neither rushed nor teasing—perfect strokes that hit exactly where Shane needed them. Each thrust pushed a soft sound from Shane's throat, half-gasp, half-moan.

"Look at me," Shane whispered—and Ilya did—keeping his eyes locked on Ilya's even as pleasure threatened to overwhelm him. Shane wanted Ilya to see everything in his gaze—desire, yes, but also love, trust, a depth of emotion that still stunned him sometimes.

"Fuck, Shane..." Ilya's voice broke as he thrust deeper, his rhythm becoming more urgent. His fingers dug into Shane's hips, leaving marks that would bloom purple by morning.

Shane wanted those marks. Wanted physical proof that Ilya had been here, present, with him. That whatever darkness had pulled him away earlier couldn't keep him.

"I love you," Shane gasped. "God, I love you so much."

Shane reached up, pulling Ilya down for a kiss that was all heat and need. Their bodies moved together with practiced synchronicity, finding that perfect rhythm that built pleasure with each thrust. Ilya shifted his angle slightly, and suddenly he was hitting that spot with every stroke, making Shane cry out against his mouth. The sensation sent electric shocks up Shane's spine, his body clenching around Ilya as pleasure built to an almost unbearable peak. Ilya's hand found Shane's cock again, stroking in time with his thrusts, the dual stimulation pushing Shane closer to the edge with each passing second.

His fingers dug into Ilya’s shoulders as Ilya’s breathing ragged, sweat glistening on his brow. The heat between them built to a fever pitch. He could feel Ilya’s control slipping, his movements growing sloppy. The sight of Ilya coming undone above him—eyes dark with desire, lips parted as he fought for breath—was almost enough to push Shane over the edge. Ilya’s hips snapped forward with increasing urgency. His hand tightened around Shane's cock, thumb swiping over the sensitive head with each stroke. He arched off the bed, crying out Ilya's name as pleasure coursed through his body in relentless waves. Ilya followed seconds later, his rhythm faltering as he buried himself deep inside Shane, his entire body shuddering with release.

For several heartbeats, they remained locked together, breathing heavily, sweat cooling on their skin. Then Ilya lowered himself carefully, pressing his forehead against Shane's. Their breath mingled in the small space between them, intimate and warm.

"I love you," Ilya whispered, the words soft but certain.

Shane's heart swelled. He knew how much those words cost Ilya sometimes—how hard it still was for him to say. He held Ilya against his chest, fingers tracing slow circles on his bare back. The sweat had cooled on their skin, their breathing returned to normal. In these quiet moments after making love, Shane often felt closest to Ilya—when the walls came down and there was nothing between them but shared warmth and tangled limbs. He pressed a kiss to Ilya's temple, breathing in the familiar scent of his shampoo mixed with the musk of sex. The television still played in the background, casting blue shadows across their bodies, but neither of them paid it any attention. Shane was too focused on the weight of Ilya in his arms, solid and present. Here. With him.

But something nagged at the edges of Shane's mind. The distant look in Ilya's eyes when they'd left the gala. The way his body had tensed when Shane touched him in the car. Something had happened, something beyond the general discomfort of being in that environment.

"Ilya," Shane said softly. "Did something happen at the gala?"

Ilya’s body went rigid against him—just for a second before deliberately relaxing again. Too deliberate. Too controlled.

"What do you mean?" Ilya asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Shane ran his hand along Ilya's spine, trying to maintain the connection between them. "I mean, did something specific happen? You seemed... I don't know…"

The silence stretched between them, filled only by the muffled sounds from the television. Shane waited, giving Ilya the space to answer in his own time.

Finally, Ilya shifted in his arms, pulling back just enough to meet Shane's eyes. "In bathroom," he said quietly. "Man approached me."

Shane's stomach dropped, a cold feeling spreading through his chest. "What man? What did he say?"

Ilya looked away, his jaw tightening. "He saw me watching him. He had... companion with him. Young man. Bought for sex." Ilya's voice grew harder, more distant. "I recognized look in his eyes. Knew what he was."

"What happened?" Shane asked, struggling to keep his voice steady despite the dread building inside him.

"He followed me to bathroom," Ilya continued. "Asked how much you paid for me. Offered to pay double if I left with him tonight." His voice was flat now, emotionless. "Said his companion would enjoy company."

White-hot anger surged through Shane, so sudden and violent it took his breath away. His muscles tensed, his jaw clenched so hard it hurt. The thought of someone approaching Ilya like that, treating him like he was still for sale—it made Shane want to find the man and tear him apart with his bare hands. But the rigid set of Ilya's shoulders told him what his fiancé needed right now wasn't rage. Shane forced himself to take a deep breath, then another, his arms tightening around Ilya as if he could physically shield him from the memory.

"I'm so sorry," Shane whispered against Ilya's hair. "I shouldn’t have asked you to go."

"Not your fault," Ilya said, his hand finding Shane's and squeezing. "You didn't know."

Shane swallowed hard. "What did you say to him?"

A ghost of a smile touched Ilya's lips. "I told him I was not for fucking sale."

Pride bloomed in Shane's chest, momentarily displacing some of the anger. That was his Ilya—fierce, defiant, refusing to be defined by his past. But the pride was quickly overwhelmed by renewed fury at the man who had put Ilya in that position.

"What was his name?" Shane asked, trying to keep his voice level despite the rage coursing through his veins. He'd find out who it was. Make sure he never worked in Montreal again. Make sure he understood exactly what happened to people who thought they could treat others like property.

Ilya shook his head. "I don't know his name."

"But you'd recognize him?" Shane pressed. "If you saw him again?"

"Yes." Ilya's voice hardened. "Would never forget face."

Shane nodded, his mind already racing with possibilities. He had connections now, influence. If he could figure out who the man was—

"Shane." Ilya's voice cut through his thoughts. "Let it go."

"How can I let it go?" The words came out sharper than he intended. "He treated you like—"

"Like whore," Ilya finished for him. He said it so casually. And when Shane looked down at him, he could see the shame he was trying to hide.

Shane moved one hand into Ilya’s hair kissing the top of his head. “You’re not.”

Ilya closed his eyes. “I know.”

But the words sounded hollow, even to Shane's ears. Not because they weren't true, but because he knew Ilya didn't fully believe them himself. He could see it in the tightness around Ilya's eyes, the slight downward turn of his mouth. No matter how many times Shane said those words, a part of Ilya still carried that identity with him. Ilya’s fingers traced idle patterns on Shane’s skin. he silence stretched between them, filled with all the things neither of them knew how to say. Shane wanted to fix it—to find the perfect words that would erase the pain from Ilya's past, that would make him see himself the way Shane saw him. But he knew those words didn't exist.

Instead, he tightened his arms around Ilya, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "I love you," he whispered. It wasn't enough, but it was true.

Ilya kissed Shane’s chest right over his heart. "I love you too."

They lay together, their breathing gradually synchronizing. Shane felt the exact moment when Ilya's body relaxed fully against his, when the tension finally drained from his muscles. He'd come back—back from whatever dark place his mind had taken him. For tonight, at least.

"Has there been any change?" the physician asked, moving to the bedside.

“He stopped thrashing a few hours ago,” Shane said, his voice rough with disuse. “I think he’s sleeping now. Not unconscious.”

Dr. Ivanov hummed under his breath and placed weathered fingers against Ilya’s wrist. He counted silently, eyes fixed on the watch hanging from his vest. Shane watched his face for any hint of what he was thinking.

After what felt like an eternity, Dr. Ivanov pressed his palm to Ilya’s forehead. The physician’s expression eased.

“His pulse is stronger,” he said. “More regular. And the fever is breaking.”

Shane hadn’t realized how rigid he’d been until those words loosened something in his chest. He exhaled shakily, his shoulders dropping as the tension drained out of him. His hands shook where they rested on his knees.

“He’ll recover?” The words came out smaller than he meant them to.

“I believe so,” Dr. Ivanov said as he packed away his instruments. "The worst has passed. His body is fighting back now." He paused, studying Shane’s face. “You should rest, Sir Shane. You’ll be no use to him if you collapse.”

Shane shook his head. "I'm fine."

The physician gave him a look of plain disbelief, but didn’t argue. "I'll return this evening. Send for me if his condition changes."

When the door closed behind the physician, Shane leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. The relief hit hard enough to make him dizzy. Ilya would live. The knowledge settled deep in his bones, easing an ache he’d carried since the moment the prince collapsed.

A soft sound from the bed pulled his attention up. Ilya’s eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened. He squinted into the daylight, confusion clouding his gaze. Shane was on his feet immediately, leaning over the bed.

"Ilya?" he whispered, forgetting protocol entirely.

Ilya's eyes found his, taking a moment to focus properly. Recognition came slowly, followed by the ghost of his usual smirk. He always seemed larger than life—all swagger and sharp edges—but now he looked smaller somehow, vulnerable in a way that made Shane’s chest ache.

“You look awful,” Ilya said after a moment, his voice rough but stronger. His gaze moved over Shane’s rumpled uniform, the dark circles under his eyes, the stubble along his jaw.

Shane almost laughed, the sound catching in his throat. Only Ilya would wake from near death and insult someone else’s appearance.

“You should see yourself,” he said, trying to match Ilya’s tone.

Ilya's lips twitched. "That bad?"

“Worse.” Shane sat on the edge of the bed, unable to keep the proper distance. He needed to be closer, needed the warmth of Ilya’s body to reassure himself that he was really recovering.

Ilya’s eyes narrowed as he studied Shane’s face. “You stayed.”

It wasn't a question, but Shane answered anyway. "Of course I stayed."

Ilya looked away, something vulnerable flickering across his face. His fingers worried at the silk sheets. "What happened? I remember dinner, and then..."

"Someone poisoned your wine," Shane said, his voice hardening. "Belladonna, mixed with something else. The servant disappeared before we could catch him."

Ilya absorbed this information. "My father?"

"Furious. The palace is in lockdown." Shane hesitated. "He came to see you. Once."

A bitter smile touched Ilya’s mouth. "Of course. Probably left when they confirmed I was no longer in danger of dying.”

Shane wanted to argue, to defend the king, but he couldn't find the words. Because Ilya was right. The memory of King Grigori’s cold assessment still sat badly with him.

Shane looked down at him, the weight of the last twenty-four hours crashing over him all at once. The words came out before he could stop them.

"I thought I was going to lose you."

The rawness in his own voice surprised him. He hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t meant to expose the terror that had gripped him while Ilya convulsed on the dining hall floor.

Ilya gave a weak shrug and winced. “It would take more than some incompetent poisoner to kill me.” His attempt at lightness fell flat between them.

“No, you don’t understand. When I saw you collapse, when I thought—” He swallowed hard, his voice dropping. “I’ve been a soldier my entire adult life. I’ve seen men die in battle. But watching you…”

Ilya stared at him as if seeing him clearly for the first time.

“You were really afraid,” Ilya said softly, the realization settling in his eyes.

"Terrified," Shane admitted. He reached for Ilya’s hand, no longer caring about protocol. His fingers wrapped around Ilya’s and squeezed. "I couldn't do anything. I just had to watch. Do you know what that feels like? To be completely helpless while someone you—" He caught himself, unable to finish the sentence.

Ilya's fingers tightened around his. "While someone you what?"

Shane looked away, his throat working. The unfinished words hung between them, dangerous and impossible.

"It doesn't matter," he said finally. "What matters is that you're alive."

A knock at the door interrupted whatever Ilya might have said in response. Shane pulled his hand away from Ilya's as the door swung open. Rose slipped into the room and closed the door softly behind her. Her usually immaculate appearance was rumpled, her hair pulled back in a simple braid instead of the elaborate style she normally wore. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and Shane realized she looked nearly as exhausted as he felt.

"You're awake," she said, relief washing over her face as she approached the bed. "Thank God."

Shane stood to make room for her beside Ilya, his body protesting after so many hours in the chair. Every muscle ached.

"Rose," Ilya acknowledged, his voice still rough. "You look terrible."

Rose laughed, and for a moment the grimness of the room lifted. "Says the man who just survived being poisoned." She pressed her palm to Ilya’s forehead with a familiarity that made something tight pull in Shane’s chest. "Your fever's broken. That's good."

"I'm fine," Ilya muttered, though the weakness in his voice betrayed him.

"Of course you are," Rose said, rolling her eyes. "Nearly dying is just a typical Tuesday for you, I'm sure." She sat on the edge of the bed where Shane had been moments before. "Should I be worried this is going to become a habit? Because I'm not sure my sanity can handle it."

Ilya's lips quirked upward. “Then we have to make sure the future queen of Zakoria is sane.”

Shane watched their easy rapport with a tangle of emotions he did not want to examine. Relief that Ilya could joke. Gratitude that Rose genuinely cared. And something darker, more selfish, that he shoved down immediately.

Rose's expression sobered. She glanced at Shane, then back to Ilya. "I wish I had better news, but I thought you should know. They haven't found the assassin."

Shane straightened. “What?”

"They've searched everywhere," Rose continued. "The palace is still on complete lockdown. No one in or out. But whoever did this... they've vanished."

Ilya's fingers tightened in the sheets. "How is that possible?"

"Captain Lukov thinks they had help," Rose said, her green eyes serious. "Someone inside the palace."

Shane’s mind started racing. If someone inside the palace had helped the assassin—someone with access to schedules, rooms, guard rotations—then nowhere was truly safe. Not even here.

***

Dr. Ivanov moved methodically around the bed, packing various vials and instruments into his worn leather bag. The physician’s hands moved with the practiced efficiency of a man who had tended royal ailments for decades. He paused to check Ilya's pulse one final time, nodding slightly to himself before continuing to pack.

"His fever has broken completely," Dr. Ivanov said, closing his bag with a soft click. "The worst is behind him now. He needs rest—several days at minimum—but I believe he will make a full recovery."

Shane nodded, relief washing through him again despite having heard similar reassurances hours earlier. Every confirmation that Ilya would live felt like a gift.

Dr. Ivanov turned, his rheumy eyes settling on Shane with unexpected sharpness. "You, however, are another matter entirely."

"Sir?" Shane straightened slightly, confused by the shift in focus.

"When did you last sleep, Sir Shane?" The physician's tone was mild but held the authority of someone used to being obeyed.

Shane’s mind went blank. When had he last slept? Before dinner. Before the poison. Before Ilya collapsed. "I'm fine," he said automatically.

"That wasn't my question." Dr. Ivanov's bushy eyebrows drew together. "You've been awake for what—thirty hours now? Longer?"

"I need to stay alert." Shane's jaw tightened. "The assassin is still at large."

"And you believe you can protect the prince in your current state?" The physician gestured toward him. "You can barely stand straight."

Shane hadn’t realized how heavily he was leaning against the wall until the physician pointed it out. He forced himself to stand taller, ignoring the deep ache of exhaustion in his muscles. "I'm fine," he repeated, more firmly this time.

Dr. Ivanov sighed. "Sir Shane, I must insist. You need rest. The prince has guards posted outside his door. Captain Lukov has doubled the rotation. You cannot serve His Highness if you collapse from exhaustion."

"I'm not leaving him."

The physician opened his mouth to argue further when Rose stepped forward from where she'd been sitting quietly in the corner. She moved with practiced grace, her voice measured and calm when she spoke.

Rose stepped between them. “Perhaps a compromise. Sir Shane can rest here. That way he remains close to Prince Ilya while still getting sleep." She gestured to the cushioned settee against the wall. “That would serve both duty and necessity, would it not, Doctor?”

Dr. Ivanov considered for a moment, then nodded. "A reasonable solution, Princess. I'll have a servant bring fresh linens." He turned to Shane, his expression softening. "The prince is stable now. A few hours of sleep will make you more effective in your duties, not less."

Shane wanted to argue further but found his resistance crumbling under the combined weight of Rose's diplomatic intervention and his own bone-deep exhaustion. He nodded stiffly.

"Excellent," Dr. Ivanov said, gathering his bag. "I'll return in the morning. Send for me if there's any change, though I don't anticipate one." With a respectful bow to Rose, he departed, closing the door softly behind him.

The chamber fell quiet. Shane could hear only the soft sound of Ilya's breathing from the bed and the distant call of night birds outside the window. The candles had burned low, casting the room in amber light that softened the furniture and deepened the shadows in the corners.

Rose moved toward him, her steps nearly silent on the thick carpet. When she reached him, she lowered her voice to just above a whisper.

"You really should get some rest," she said. "You look terrible."

"I'm fine," Shane insisted, though even to his own ears, the words lacked conviction. His body felt leaden, his thoughts sluggish.

Rose studied him for a long moment, her green eyes far too perceptive. Then she said, "You almost lost him."

There was no accusation in her voice, only quiet understanding, which somehow made it worse. He couldn't answer. His throat had closed around any possible response, the truth of her statement too raw to acknowledge aloud.

Rose glanced toward the bed where Ilya slept peacefully, his breathing deep and even now, his golden curls tousled against the pillow. Then she looked back at Shane.

“Don’t worry about being here,” she said softly. “No one will question it. I’ll make sure of that.”

Shane swallowed hard. "Princess—"

"Rose," she corrected gently. "And please, you don't need to explain anything to me." She touched his arm briefly. "We both care about him. That's enough."

She moved toward the door, pausing with her hand on the latch. "I'll have food sent up for when he’s awake. And for you." Her smile was small but genuine. "Try to sleep, Sir Shane. He'll need you at your best tomorrow."

After she left, Shane stood motionless for several long moments. His gaze drifted to Ilya's sleeping form. The relief that had flooded him when the fever broke still hadn’t fully settled, leaving him hollow and strangely vulnerable.

Rose's words echoed in his mind. You almost lost him.

Yes, he had. And the realization of what that would have meant—not just for the kingdom, not just for his position, but for him personally—was too overwhelming to contemplate in his current state.

Shane moved to the settee, intending to at least rest his eyes, but he found his feet carrying him back to Ilya's bedside instead. The room had fallen into deeper shadow, the candles burning low. Someone had thought to draw the curtains partially closed, softening the moonlight that spilled across the floor.

He sank into the chair beside the bed. Exhaustion pulled at him like a physical weight, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from Ilya's sleeping form. Ilya looked peaceful now, his breathing steady, the unnatural flush gone from his skin.

Shane leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The quiet of the night settled around him. For the first time in days, they were truly alone.

With no one to witness, Shane allowed his guard to drop. The carefully maintained mask of the dutiful knight slipped, leaving only the raw truth underneath.

“You scared me,” he whispered, his throat tightening around the words. "Don't do that again, okay?"

He wasn't expecting an answer. Wasn't prepared for Ilya’s eyes to open—blue, clear, fully alert.

"Okay," Ilya said softly.

Shane froze, heat rushing to his face. How long had Ilya been awake? How much had he heard? He tried to recover his composure, to slip back into the role of royal guard, but it was too late. The vulnerability in his voice had given him away.

Ilya held his gaze. Neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them, charged with everything neither of them had ever said aloud.

Then, slowly, Ilya's hand moved across the silk sheets. His fingers trembled with weakness as he reached out and brushed Shane’s cheek, the touch so gentle it made Shane’s chest ache.

"Stay," Ilya whispered, the single word carrying the weight of a command and the vulnerability of a plea.

Shane didn’t hesitate. He didn’t think about protocol, duty, or the guards outside the door. He simply moved, sliding onto the bed beside Ilya.

***

Ilya woke to darkness, blinking up at the familiar shadows of his bedchamber. His body still felt heavy, his limbs burdened with lingering weakness. But his mind was clearer than it had been in days. The poisoning had happened only days ago, but it felt like he had been ill for weeks.

He turned his head and found Shane asleep beside him. Since that first night Ilya had asked him to stay, Shane had been slipping out of the adjoining room in the middle of the night and into Ilya’s bed. Ilya had never slept more soundly in his life, and it frightened him how much he liked it—how badly he wanted it to continue, even knowing it couldn’t. Shane’s breath came in slow, even exhales against his shoulder. Sleep softened the knight’s perpetually serious expression, erasing the furrow between his brows. His dark hair was tousled against the pillow, longer than regulation allowed. He hadn’t had time to cut it with everything that had happened.

Ilya lay there and watched him, taking in the rare sight of Shane completely unguarded. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting Shane’s face in silver and shadow. Ilya’s chest expanded as he studied the sleeping knight. The feeling was unfamiliar. Not lust. Not the thrill of seduction. But something deeper, and far more frightening, that he had no right to feel. Especially not for the man who would one day stand at attention while Ilya married someone else.

And yet, here they were.

Ilya shifted slightly, wincing. His body still ached from the poison, joints stiff and head throbbing dully. Shane stirred beside him, dark brows drawing together as if he could sense Ilya’s discomfort even in sleep. His hand moved across the sheets and came to rest against Ilya’s side, a protective gesture that tightened Ilya’s throat.

This was dangerous—this growing feeling that bound them more surely than any royal decree. Ilya had never intended for this to happen. He had pursued Shane out of desire and rebellion, out of the need to claim something—someone—for himself. He hadn't expected to care. Hadn't expected Shane to matter. But he did. And he didn’t think he could just give him up, not even for his country, not even for his crown.

A sound from the antechamber made him tense. The outer door opening, followed by hushed voices—servants, probably, bringing fresh water or linens. He should wake Shane, send him back to his own room before they were discovered. Instead, Ilya found himself drawing closer, pressing his forehead against Shane's shoulder. Just a moment longer. Just one more breath of this impossible peace before reality intruded again.

The voices faded. The outer door closed with a soft click. Ilya exhaled slowly, relief washing through him. Safe, for the moment. Shane’s breathing shifted, then his eyes opened. For a moment, he looked disoriented, blinking at the darkness around them. Then his gaze found Ilya's, and awareness flooded his features.

“You should be sleeping,” Shane murmured, voice rough with sleep.

"So should you," Ilya countered, unable to resist the small smile that tugged at his lips.

Shane touched a hand to Ilya’s forehead, checking for fever in a gesture that had become second nature over the last few days. His touch lingered, fingers sliding lightly through Ilya’s curls. The touch sent warmth spreading through Ilya’s chest.

"How are you feeling?" Shane asked.

"Better," Ilya replied. "Stronger." It wasn't entirely true—even this brief conversation was draining what little energy he had—but he didn't want Shane to worry. Didn't want to see that look of fear return to his eyes.

Shane shifted onto one elbow so he could see Ilya’s face in the dim light. His dark eyes moved over Ilya’s face, searching for any sign of pain. Even now, he was assessing, protecting. The thought should have irritated Ilya. Instead, it warmed him.

“I thought you were a better liar,” Shane said softly.

“I am,” Ilya said with a laugh, then winced as pain spiked through his chest. “But not with you.”

Shane's expression darkened. "They still haven't found who did this."

“I know.” Ilya reached up and touched Shane’s face.

Shane leaned into the touch and closed his eyes for a moment. When his eyes opened again, something raw and unguarded lingered there. “I should have stopped it.”

"Don't." Ilya's fingers tightened against Shane's jaw. “Stop saying that. It wasn’t your fault.” He shifted closer.

Shane's hand moved to cover Ilya's where it rested against his face. For a long moment, they only looked at each other. Then Shane bent down and rested his forehead against Ilya’s.

“Are you really okay?” he whispered.

Ilya wanted to make a joke, to deflect with humor as he always did when emotions became too intense, too real. But he couldn't find the words. Instead, he tilted his chin up, capturing Shane's lips with his own. The kiss was achingly gentle. Shane’s lips moved against his with careful restraint, as if Ilya might break under too much pressure. With each shared breath, Ilya felt something shift between them.

Even as they kissed, Ilya’s mind turned. What if he had died? He had lived most of his life as a pawn in a game he never wanted to play. And the most meaningful thing that had ever happened to him was the man holding him now like he was his whole world. It had almost been ripped away by court politics, nobles, kings, and wars he didn’t care about. What was a crown worth compared to this? What was duty worth compared to feeling alive for the first time? The poison had shown him one simple truth: his life could end at any moment, and he had spent most of it trapped in a gilded cage, performing for everyone but himself.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Ilya whispered against Shane’s mouth.

Shane pulled back slightly, his brows drawing together. "Do what?"

“Be a prince. Wear the crown. Marry her. Protect the alliance. I don’t care about any of it.” He tightened his grip on Shane. “When I was dying—and I knew it, at first—the only thing I could think was that I wanted more time with you.”

"Ilya—" Shane's voice held a warning. “You can’t mean that.”

Ilya's fingers traced Shane's jaw. “I know I can’t. But I do.”

Ilya could see Shane’s conflict in every line of his face. Duty, honor, everything that had been drilled into him through years of training and combat. But there was also a sense of longing, a desire for what they both knew they couldn’t have. If they ran, if Ilya truly forsaked his crown, the king would stop at nothing to find them. And when he did, Shane would be killed on site. Still, Ilya let himself imagine it for a moment—running together, leaving behind the palace walls and the crushing weight of duty. Somewhere far from Zakoria, where no one knew their names and it could just be the two of them.

“We can’t,” Shane said at last, shattering the fantasy as quickly as it had formed. "Your father would never stop hunting us. And when he found us..."

“I know.” Ilya buried his face in Shane’s neck as the first rays of daylight peaked through the curtains. “I know.”

***

Shane sat outside Ilya’s bedchamber, back rigid against an uncomfortable wooden chair. Three days had passed since Ilya’s fever broke, and Dr. Ivanov had finally allowed him to resume some normal activity—starting with a proper bath. The sounds of splashing water and servants' muffled voices filtered through the heavy oak door.

He rubbed his eyes, fighting a smile at the absurdity of his current position. After everything they had shared—after seeing every inch of Ilya in darkness, after touching and tasting and memorizing him—Shane still wasn’t allowed in the room while servants bathed the prince. Protocol, apparently. As if his presence during something as mundane as a bath would somehow be more inappropriate than what they'd done together in that very bed.

A servant hurried past with fresh linens, giving Shane a respectful nod before disappearing into the prince’s chambers. The door opened just long enough for Shane to catch Ilya's voice—something about the water temperature—before closing again.

The past few days had settled into a strange rhythm. During daylight hours, they maintained their roles impeccably—the dutiful guard, the recovering prince. But at night, when the palace slept, Shane would slip from his adjoining room into Ilya's bed. They hadn't done more than hold each other, Ilya still too weak for anything else, but those quiet hours in darkness had become precious beyond measure.

Shane shifted in his chair, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension that had built there. The king had questioned him twice more about the assassination attempt, his suspicion impossible to miss. Each time, Shane had reported exactly what he saw—the unfamiliar servant, the wine, Ilya’s collapse. Each time, he had felt the king’s displeasure at his failure to stop it.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor—the familiar, measured stride of Captain Lukov. Shane straightened, rising to his feet as the captain approached. Lukov's weathered face was grim, his posture rigid with tension.

"Sir Shane," Lukov greeted him with a curt nod.

"Captain." Shane inclined his head. "Any news?"

Lukov glanced around, ensuring they were alone in the corridor before stepping closer. "We've found him. The servant who poisoned the prince's wine."

Shane's pulse quickened. "Where?"

"That's the concerning part." Lukov lowered his voice further. "He was found in a barn, dead. Throat cut. About 5 miles from here. Looks like he was keeping a low profile, waiting for someone to meet him."

"Outside the perimeter?" Shane exclaimed. The palace had been sealed immediately after the assassination attempt—no one in or out without the king's personal authorization. Guards at every gate, every secret passage known to the royal family. "That's impossible."

"Apparently not." Lukov's eyes narrowed.

"Someone helped him escape." Lukov's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Someone inside the palace."

Shane's blood ran cold. An inside job meant someone close to the royal family, someone with access, knowledge of guard rotations, secret passages. Someone they might trust.

"I need you to come with me," Lukov said, straightening. "The king wants you to examine the body, see if you recognize anything that might identify who helped him."

Shane glanced at Ilya's chamber door. "I can't leave the prince unguarded."

"Already taken care of." Lukov gestured down the hallway where two royal guards approached. "Sergei and Kirill will watch him until you return."

Shane hesitated. Leaving Ilya, even with trusted guards, went against every instinct he'd developed over the past weeks. But finding who had tried to kill him—that was protecting him too, perhaps more effectively than standing outside his door.

"I'll inform the prince," Shane said, turning toward the chamber.

"Be quick," Lukov replied. "The king wants answers by nightfall."

Inside the bedchamber, servants were helping Ilya dress after his bath. The prince looked better than he had in days—some color had returned to his face, and he stood without assistance, though Shane could see the slight tremor in his hands that betrayed lingering weakness.

"Your Highness," Shane said formally, aware of the servants' presence. "I must step away briefly. Captain Lukov requires my assistance with the investigation."

Ilya's eyes met his, a flash of concern crossing his features before his expression smoothed into princely indifference. "Of course. How long will you be gone?"

"A few hours at most," Shane replied. He lowered his voice. "Sergei and Kirill will guard you in my absence."

Ilya nodded, the movement almost imperceptible. To anyone else, he appeared merely a prince acknowledging a guard's duty. But Shane caught the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his fingers curled into his palm—silent signals of his displeasure at being left with unfamiliar guards.

"Be careful," Ilya murmured, soft enough that only Shane could hear.

Shane inclined his head in acknowledgment before stepping back. "I'll return as soon as possible, Your Highness."

Outside, Shane briefed the replacement guards thoroughly—emphasizing that no one, not even the king, was to be left alone with the prince. He described Ilya’s schedule, his medication, his preferences, speaking with an intimacy that would have raised eyebrows if the situation had not been so grave.

Twenty minutes later, Shane rode through the palace gates beside Captain Lukov, a small contingent of guards following behind. The weight of his sword against his hip was reassuring as they traveled the dirt road leading away from the palace. Fields stretched on either side, peasants pausing in their work to stare as the royal guards passed.

Shane smelled it before he saw anything.

Death had a particular smell, one Shane recognized from battlefields and border skirmishes. But this was fresher, more immediate. His stomach clenched as they approached a weathered barn where several palace guards had formed a perimeter, keeping curious villagers at bay.

Shane dismounted, his boots sinking slightly into the mud. A light rain had fallen earlier, turning the ground soft and leaving everything with a slick sheen that reflected the afternoon light. He followed Lukov toward the barn, noting the guards' grim expressions as they parted to let them through.

"In there," Lukov said, gesturing to the barn's open door. "Farmer found him this morning when he came to fetch hay for his horses."

Shane stepped inside, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. The barn was largely empty—a few stacks of hay, some abandoned farm tools, a broken wagon wheel propped against one wall. And in the center of the dirt floor, illuminated by a shaft of sunlight from a hole in the roof, lay the body.

He approached slowly, his hand instinctively moving to rest on his sword hilt. Even before he reached the corpse, he recognized the blue livery of the palace servants, now stained dark with blood.

"It's him," Shane confirmed, crouching beside the body. "The same servant who poured the wine at dinner."

The man's face was frozen in an expression of surprise, eyes wide and staring at nothing. His throat had been cut with brutal efficiency—a single slash that had nearly separated his head from his body. Blood had pooled beneath him, soaking into the dirt floor of the barn. It wasn’t fresh. The blood had congealed, and the body had already started to stiffen.

"Killed last night, most likely," Shane said, examining the wound more closely. "Clean cut. Whoever did this knew what they were doing. One stroke. From behind." He demonstrated the motion in the air. "Quick. Silent."

"Professional," Lukov agreed grimly.

Shane rose to his feet, wiping his hands on his uniform trousers. "He didn't fight back. No defensive wounds on his hands or arms. Didn't see it coming."

"Or knew his killer," Lukov added. "Trusted them enough to turn his back."

Shane circled the body slowly, taking in every detail. The man's clothes were travel-stained but not ragged—he'd been on the move but hadn't been living rough for long. His boots were still palace-issue, the fine leather marking him as an indoor servant rather than someone who worked the grounds.

Shane searched the corpse's pockets, finding nothing but lint and a single copper coin. No identifying papers. No personal effects. Nothing that might connect this man to whoever had hired him. Even the servant’s purse was gone, with only the mark on his belt to suggest it had ever been there.

"Was he carrying anything when you found him?" Shane asked the nearest guard, a young man with a nervous twitch in his left eye.

"Nothing, sir. Just as you see him."

Shane frowned, examining the dead man's hands. The fingernails were clean—too clean for someone who'd been fleeing through the countryside. Someone had taken care to remove any evidence before killing him.

"When exactly was the body discovered?" Shane asked, rising to his feet.

The guard shifted uncomfortably. "Farmer found him at dawn, sir. Said he came to fetch hay and nearly tripped over the body. We were notified immediately."

"And the time of death?"

Captain Lukov stepped forward. "According to the physician who examined him, no more than twelve hours before discovery. Puts his death sometime last evening."

Shane's mind raced through the timeline. The assassination attempt had occurred five nights ago. If the servant had died last evening, that meant he'd survived a few days after fleeing the palace. Either he had been very good at hiding, or he had not spent those days in this barn.

“This was most likely a meeting place then,” Shane said slowly, the pieces clicking together.

Lukov nodded grimly. "Looks that way."

Shane circled the body again, his training taking over as he analyzed the scene with cold precision. “Whoever hired him arranged for him to be able to escape the palace grounds even during lockdown. Probably promised him passage out of the country—and then made sure he would never talk.”

That same someone had arranged his access to the palace in the first place. Had ensured he could deliver the poison to Ilya's wine. And now, had made certain he couldn't be questioned. This was a carefully orchestrated plot by someone with intimate knowledge of palace security and access to royal functions. Someone who could move freely without raising suspicion.

“Search the area,” Shane said, a chill settling in his gut. “Whoever killed him might have left something behind. And question the staff. The accomplice could still be in the palace.”

Which meant there was still a threat and Ilya was still a target.

***

Shane returned to Ilya’s chambers exhausted to the bone. Finding the dead servant had only deepened the mystery. Someone inside the palace walls had orchestrated the assassination attempt—someone with enough power to arrange both the servant's escape and his subsequent silencing. The list of people with such access and authority was disturbingly short.

The corridor outside Ilya's chambers was quiet, the evening guard change not yet complete. Shane nodded to Sergei and Kirill, who straightened to attention at his approach.

"Any disturbances?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

"None, sir," Sergei replied. "His Highness received a visit from Princess Rose this afternoon. She stayed for an hour. No one else has entered."

Shane felt a flicker of relief. "Good. You're dismissed. I'll take over from here."

The guards bowed slightly before departing, their footsteps echoing down the corridor. Shane waited until they had disappeared around the corner before knocking softly on Ilya's door.

"Enter," came Ilya's voice from within.

Shane stepped inside, closing the door firmly behind him. The chambers were dimly lit, evening shadows stretching across the ornate furniture. Ilya sat by the window, a book open in his lap, though his gaze was fixed on the darkening sky beyond the glass. He turned at Shane's entrance, the fading light casting half his face in shadow.

"You're back," Ilya said, relief evident in his voice despite his attempt to sound casual. "I was starting to think you’d abandoned me to Sergei and his terrible jokes."

Shane crossed the room, instinctively checking the shadows, the corners, the balcony doors—anywhere a threat might hide. Finding nothing out of place, he allowed his posture to relax slightly.

"Did you find him?" Ilya asked, closing his book and setting it aside.

Shane nodded grimly. "Dead. Throat cut. In a barn outside the village."

Ilya's expression hardened, the last traces of humor vanishing from his face. "So we still don't know who's behind it."

"No. But whoever it is, they're thorough." Shane moved closer, lowering his voice despite the empty chamber. "The servant was killed to silence him. Someone inside the palace is involved."

Ilya's fingers tightened on the armrests of his chair. His body was stiff with tension. Shane crouched in front of him and placed a hand on his knee.

“It’ll be fine,” he said softly.

"I know," Ilya said, his voice barely above a whisper. His blue eyes met Shane's, searching his face. "You look tired."

Shane shook his head. "I'm fine." But the truth was, exhaustion pulled at his limbs, making them feel weighted. The investigation, the constant vigilance, the worry—it was all taking its toll.

Ilya reached out, his fingers tracing the dark circles under Shane's eyes. "Now who is the bad liar?" he murmured, fondness in his tone.

Even after everything they had shared, small gestures like this still caught Shane off guard—the casual intimacy of Ilya's hand on his face, the open concern in his eyes. It made something twist painfully in Shane's chest, a feeling too dangerous to name, three words far too dangerous to say.

Ilya rose slowly from the chair. His movements were steadier now than they had been days ago. He held out a hand. “Let’s go to bed.”