“You’re slowing down,” Kiyan noted, his voice even, his stance loose yet coiled with potential energy. He circled Adrien, amber eyes tracking every shift in weight, every fleeting indication of his next move.

Adrien, panting but grinning, pushed a damp lock of hair from his forehead. “And yet,” he countered, feinting left before pivoting into a low slash, “I’m still standing.”

Kiyan deflected the strike effortlessly, angling his blade to guide Adrien’s momentum off balance. The prince barely managed to recover, boots skidding slightly against the polished wooden floor. For all his skill, he couldn’t match the raw speed and endurance of a witcher. And yet, he fought as if he could. As if sheer willpower alone could bridge the gap between them.

It was infuriating. It was intoxicating.

Their swords met again, sparks flying as Kiyan pressed forward, driving Adrien back step by step until his back nearly crashed into the spine of an ancient tome resting on a nearby shelf. The scent of worn leather and ink filled Kiyan’s lungs, mingling with the salt of sweat and the faintest hint of expensive perfume oils Adrien had smuggled into his morning routine.

Then, in one fluid motion, Kiyan locked their blades, twisted, and forced Adrien against the wooden frame. The prince gasped, his back hitting the shelf with a dull thud, and Kiyan took the opening—steel kissing the column of Adrien’s throat, the pulse beneath it fluttering like a caged bird.

A victorious smirk threatened to curl Kiyan’s lips, but he held it back. “Yield,” he commanded instead, his voice quiet but firm. The heat of exertion burned in his muscles, but it was nothing compared to the fire in Adrien’s dark eyes.

Silence stretched between them, thick with the tension of combat—of something more. Then, Adrien’s mouth curled into that signature, insufferably self-assured smile. For a heartbeat, time seemed to pause as Kiyan’s eyes burned into Adrien’s, watching him swallow hard. A challenge mingled with mischief.

In a husky whisper, Adrien murmured, “You have the most beautiful amber eyes, Kitty.”

Kiyan inhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening on the sword hilt. His heart pounded in his chest, and though Adrien’s words sent a familiar surge of desire through him, he forced himself to remain composed. He knew this was a diversion—a calculated attempt to distract him, to tempt him into submission. He had no intention of indulging in Adrien’s little tricks.

“This won’t work,” Kiyan said, his voice steady despite the warmth curling low in his stomach. He knew this game too well. Adrien loved to push, to provoke, to see how far he could bend before breaking. “But you can compliment me after you concede.”

Adrien, unrepentant, shifted just enough to press his thigh between Kiyan’s legs. “Oh, I don’t know,” he mused, feigning innocence as he rolled his hips with slow, deliberate precision. The friction was exquisite. Undeniable.

Kiyan’s body reacted before his mind could catch up, heat pooling low, blood rushing hot beneath his skin. Adrien’s smirk deepened, dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He no doubt felt Kiyan hardening in response to the teasing.

“I think it’s working rather well,” he murmured.

Kiyan growled low in frustration. That bastard.

His blade was still at Adrien’s throat. If this were a real fight, it would be over. The kill would be his. But there was something far more satisfying waiting to be won. The witcher had entirely different plans for the prince’s throat—and for claiming his victory.