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Chapter Text

Dawn bled quietly into the corridors of the royal palace, brushing the gold trim of the drapery in Prince Jisung’s chambers with a soft, almost pitying light.

He sat unmoving before the mirror.

The room was silent, save for the tick of the ivory clock behind him and the distant murmur of morning guards changing post. Outside, the capital was likely waking—bakers lighting hearths, nobility calling for bathwater—but here, in the polished hollowness of the east wing, time folded in on itself. Nothing moved except the dust drifting like ash through light.

Jisung blinked once. His reflection did not blink with him.

The collar of his nightgown sat too high today. The lace was stiffer than usual, biting against h is throat like a reprimand. His resting veil—an opalescent lace mesh—hung heavy across the upper half of his face, obscuring most of his features. His gloves were fastened too tight around his wrists. Each breath caught somewhere in the middle, like a sin he hadn’t asked to carry.

The wedding was set. The crown had already been forged. His mate-to-be, a foreign alpha noble with dead eyes and an ancestral claim to cruelty, would arrive in less than two fortnights for the first of many ceremonial rites. There would be hymns, banquets, breeding contracts. The commoners of the kingdom would cheer.

Jisung would smile, bow, bleed politely beneath the silk.

He hadn’t cried today—not yet—but the stiffness in his throat warned him he was close.

It wasn’t fear, not really. It was knowing. Knowing this future, this fate, had been carved into his spine before he’d even learned to speak. A future in which his value was measured by lineage and beauty and the art of obedience. And Jisung—dutiful son, the only pup, perfect prince, omega of the Solvain Line—had spent his entire life learning to carry that weight with grace.

Until now.

Until lately, when the weight stopped settling on his shoulders and started settling in his chest. When his body, ever the polite vessel, began to reject its own destiny.

There had been episodes.

Shaking. Shortness of breath. A seizure, two nights ago, quieted only by incense and a golden comb drawn slowly through his waves by his personal servants. On top of all this, his heat cycle had completely ceased—not even the medicinal herbs the clerics brewed into elixirs could induce it. 

He was slipping. Everyone could see it. And yet the ceremony drew nearer, closer, like a blade poised just above his throat.

The knock came softly.

Once. Then twice more, firmer.

Jisung didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

“Your Highness?” a voice called—familiar. Cavalier Captain Changbin.

“Enter,” Jisung said. The word tasted foreign, he hadn’t spoken in nearly two days, after all.

The chamber door opened with a click, and two figures stepped in—Changbin and Commander Chan, both still in their ceremonial armor, polished gold embellishments catching the candlelight.

They bowed in unison. Eyes forward, respectful.

“Forgive the early disturbance,” Chan said. “But an incident occurred during the change of guard.”

Jisung did not turn to face them. He kept his eyes fixed on the mirror. His reflection looked regal, composed. He was grateful for the veil.

“There was an intruder,” Changbin said. “An alpha. Armed. Breached the southern gate perimeter just before sunrise.”

Jisung’s breath didn’t hitch, but his spine straightened by instinct.

“Was he caught?”

“He was intercepted by the royal guard before he reached the inner halls. He’s in the dungeon now. Disarmed, bound. He resisted, but only verbally. And—” Chan hesitated, choosing his words. “He asked to see you.”

At that, Jisung turned.

“To see me,” he echoed. His voice didn’t tremble. “Why?”

“He wouldn’t say,” Changbin replied. “Refused to speak to anyone else. Demanded you by title.”

“And you do not know who he is?”

Chan shook his head. “We suspect he may be of noble blood. Possibly exiled. There’s something in his bearing… but nothing confirmed. His clothing does not resemble any presently known neighbouring kingdom’s attire.”

A noble. A possible exile. Armed. An alpha. Asking for him?

The chamber felt colder now. Jisung let the silence stretch, let the weight of the question settle.

“I wish to see him,” he said at last.

Both guards blinked. “Your Highness—”

“I will dress appropriately and meet you at the southern stairwell. You will escort me.”

Changbin looked uneasy. “He may be dangerous.”

“Then it is good you’re coming with me, isn’t it?” Jisung said simply.

Chan opened his mouth to protest, then stopped. He bowed.

“We will wait for you outside.”

The door shut behind them with a heavy click.

Jisung rose slowly. His limbs ached—not from illness, but from disuse, from sleep too thin and beds too cold. He moved like a doll stitched with ceremony, each step measured, delicate, precise.

He went to his wardrobe.

White and gold. Lace gloves. High-necked silk collar, embroidered with symbols of the Solvain Dynasty. 

The gown he slipped over his frame fit tight at the waist, framing the swell of his hips—scandalous, by modest standards, but Jisung was nothing if not deliberate. He was a prince, a vision, a weapon sculpted in velvet and grief.

Then he shrugged on a fitted coat lined with lace, extending to his knees. Embroidered with sun-motifs in threads of golden thread. The sleeves tapered into gold-laced gloves, buttoned to the elbow. He fastened a pearl belt around his waist, emphasizing the curve of his hips beneath layers of woven silk.

A ruffled cravat adorned his throat, layered high to shield the scent gland there—his most vulnerable point. No alpha would scent him. No stranger would see him raw.

And over his face, he draped the veil. Pearl-encrusted, delicate but blinding in its extravagance, trailing past his waist. 

This was what it meant to be an omega of status: hidden, preserved, pristine. A symbol of abstinence, purity, innocence. A locked box, to which the key belonged to his mate-to-be.

Or, did it truly have to belong to him? 

The earlier mention of the captive, locked within the bowels of the dungeon below the castle—Jisung had felt a sudden bout of heat rush down his body, even at the mere thought of this mystery hostage. 

How he had demanded to see Jisung, and only Jisung.

Perhaps it was another spell of sickness dawning upon him, festering heat and the unexplainable racing of his heart in his chest.

That was what Jisung attempted to convince himself of, anyways—there was no way he could possibly entertain the ridiculous idea that popped into his head—

Was the exiled prince’s appearance at the castle a work of fate itself?

Were his prayers against his seemingly inevitable bethrothement to his arranged mate-to-be finally answered?

Who even was the hostage, and why was he so adamant on seeing Jisung, rather than requesting an audience of his far more authoritative parents?

Was he… his soulmate—

“Prince Jisung, is everything quite alright? No haste, of course, but you have been in there for quite a while.”

“Ah, apologies—I’ll be right out.”

The palace halls were silent as Jisung exited his room.

Two guards flanked him on either side as they started walking toward the dungeon, though their steps barely registered. His own felt distant, almost imagined—like his body was gliding over the stone tiles rather than stepping on them. 

With every breath, the scent of lilies from the gardens outside mixed with the sharper tinge of iron and oil that came from deeper within the castle.

The air grew colder as they descended.

He did not speak. Neither did Chan or Changbin.

There was no need for words. Only the ritual of it—the way noble blood is escorted through danger not as a person but as an emblem. A walking relic. A soft thing in a glass case. Untouchable, sacred, always at risk of shattering.

The stairs to the dungeon were steep, ancient things carved into the bedrock beneath the palace long before his lineage ever learned to gild itself. The torches lining the stone walls flickered violently as they passed, casting their shadows into long, trembling ghosts.

It was so quiet, Jisung could hear the soft rustle of his own veil with every step.

When they reached the final landing, Changbin raised a hand. “We’ll wait here,” he said, voice low. “He’s just beyond the arch. The cell to the right.”

Jisung turned to him slowly. “I want privacy.”

“My prince—”

“I am not afraid,” Jisung said, too softly to be anything but final. “And I won’t be seen as such.”

The silence that followed was taut, but obedient.

“As you command,” Chan murmured. He took a position beside the arch, eyes lowered. Changbin mirrored him on the opposite side.

Jisung was alone again.

He stepped into the corridor.

The hallway ahead was narrow, carved from old stone and lit only by two wall-mounted torches. There were no cries, no groans of suffering. Only silence—and that made it worse. That made it intentional.

The air changed as he walked.

Thicker. Warmer. Not entirely unpleasant, but charged—like the static before a storm. And then there was the smell. Not pungent, not dangerous, but different. Faint. Clean. Controlled. Whatever alpha lay behind that door had been scrubbed of all scent, gloved, obscured—as an alpha of noble status would, he noted. But there was still something lingering beneath the surface, something that curled at the edge of Jisung’s lungs. Something enticing. Familiar in a way that made no logical sense.

He didn’t understand it.

But his hands began to tremble beneath the lace anyway.

The cell was just ahead.

The iron bars glinted in the dim light, thick with age. Behind them, sitting against the far wall in a posture too proud for someone in chains, was the man.

He wasn’t looking at Jisung.

He was staring ahead—at the opposite wall, hands bound at the wrists in enchanted steel. He was dressed like no one Jisung had seen in years: the finery of a foreign prince, half-worn, half-war-torn. 

Black and silver, embroidered with an extinct sigil Jisung couldn’t immediately place, but the moon motifs looked strikingly familiar. The cloth was fine—dark velvet, silk, thick with noble threadwork—but it clung to a frame built like a blade. His gloves were still on. His collar remained high.

A noble, yes. An alpha, no doubt. But not like the others Jisung had met.

Not the type to beg for penance. Not the type to kneel before his authority. 

And then—

The man turned his head.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

And Jisung’s breath stilled in his throat.

There was no recognition. No name that came rushing back to him. Only a soundless jolt of heat, low in his belly, that hit too fast and too deep. As if his body had realized something his mind hadn’t yet learned.

The alpha met his gaze.

And smiled.

Not a full smile. Just the edge of one. Just enough to make Jisung’s knees feel weak beneath the silk.

“Your Highness,” the man said, voice rough like he hadn’t spoken in years, but still smooth. Confident. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Jisung didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

His heartbeat had already moved to his throat.

The air between them thickened.

Jisung didn’t move from where he stood—just outside the reach of the bars, spine straight, chin slightly tilted upward in the practiced posture of royal scrutiny. His veil caught the light like frost, and for a long, reverent moment, Minho didn’t speak.

He only looked.

No— watched.

Like something starved finally allowed to sit before a feast, forbidden still, but close enough to smell.

Like a predator, drooling, gaze keenly locked upon his prey that wandered right into the maws of the wolves’ den.

And Jisung—Jisung felt it. 

Felt the way those half-lidded eyes traced over his covered form, from the ornate curve of his shoulder to the hem of his gold-stitched coat, down the curve of his hips and thighs. 

Felt heat rise beneath the gloves, the silk, the thousand layers designed to shield his skin from this exact scrutiny. From this exact hunger.

But worse than the stare was the way his body responded.

Something low and tight fluttered in his stomach. A warmth coiled between his thighs, getting shamefully slick, seeping slow and inevitable into the lining of his undergarments. Hidden by layers of finery, yes—but felt. His body trembled once, a subtle shift of weight from one heel to the other, and still it didn’t relent. 

Jisung hadn’t even had a proper conversation with the hostage, didn’t even know who he was yet and already, already, he was…

Wanting.

Why?

Minho tilted his head.

“You’re quiet, Your Highness.”

Jisung’s jaw tightened. His voice came quieter than intended, a breath wrapped in glass. “State your name.”

Minho’s smile deepened, slow and measured.

“Not a thank you for requesting your company?”

“You did not request it. You forced it.”

“And yet, you’re here.”

Jisung’s hands curled into delicate fists beneath his sleeves. “Out of obligation. Not desire.”

Minho laughed—soft and low. “Mmm. Of course.”

He pushed himself up from where he sat, moving with a grace that betrayed the shackles at his wrists. The chains groaned softly but didn’t slow him. Now standing, the full height of him became clear. Taller than Jisung remembered—wait, remembered ?—no, suspected. Broad-shouldered. Intimidating.

His gloved hands rested at his sides. He didn’t approach the bars. He didn’t have to. His presence filled the space between them like it belonged there.

“You asked my name,” he said finally. His tone had shifted—less teasing now, more ceremonial. “I’ll offer it, as courtesy demands.”

Jisung forced his heartbeat to still. “Then speak.”

“Lee Minho.” A pause. “Of a fallen lineage, once bound to a kingdom I no longer serve. I am—” another pause, this one thinner, laced with the bitterness of truth, “—an exiled prince.”

Confirmation. Jisung’s shoulders tightened.

Chan and Changbin had been right.

And yet…

Something about the name. Minho. It rippled through him like an old composition, notes half-forgotten but never erased. He felt its syllables deep in his chest, like it had been sewn into his ribs without his consent.

“I see,” Jisung said softly.

Minho leaned his head just slightly to the side, his gaze flicking lower.

Jisung did not flinch—but he knew. Knew Minho could smell it now. Beneath the perfumes and pressed silks, beneath the formality of bloodlines and veils and titles, his body was betraying him.

Minho’s lip curled.

“That’s a lovely scent, by the way.”

Jisung’s spine snapped straight. “Excuse me?”

“Your perfume,” Minho offered innocently, though there was nothing innocent in the way his eyes lingered. “They must have mixed it special for you. Rich. Intoxicating. Sweet.”

The prince’s throat tightened. “That’s inappropriate.”

“Is it?” Minho’s voice dipped. “It was meant to be noticed, wasn’t it?”

“It is meant to be endured,” Jisung hissed. “Like all things.”

Something about that made Minho smile wider. “Then allow me to endure it a little longer.”

Jisung felt the slick again, heavier now, humiliatingly present.

He said nothing.

“You’re trembling,” Minho noted softly, tilting his head just enough for a lock of dark hair to slip free from its perfect styling. “Afraid?”

“I am not afraid of you.”

“No,” Minho agreed, stepping closer to the bars now, stopping just short of touching them. “Not of me. But of something.”

Jisung swallowed. He didn’t move back.

“I was told you came here armed,” he said, shifting the tone. Cold, calculated. “That you demanded an audience.”

“I did.”

“You threatened my guards.”

“I didn’t lay a finger on them.”

“But you intended to,” Jisung pressed, too sharp, too suddenly breathless. “You came here for something, and until I know what it is, you are a threat to this court and this crown.”

Minho looked at him for a long moment.

And then, slowly, he smiled again.

“That’s the voice you use in the throne room, isn’t it?” he murmured, like tasting the words on his tongue. “So calm. So rehearsed. But your hands are shaking.”

“They are not,” Jisung snapped—and the vehemence in his tone was enough to betray it entirely.

Minho didn’t laugh this time. He watched.

And that was worse.

“I came here,” Minho said, quieter now, “because I had no choice. Because I saw something rotten growing in this kingdom. And I needed to see it for myself.”

“You invaded my home.”

“I sought an audience with you. That is all.” His voice gentled. “And now I have it.”

Jisung’s lip curled beneath the veil. “You’re no different than the other alphas.”

Minho’s smile faded just enough to draw attention to the stillness beneath it.

Jisung hated the silence that came next.

Because in it, he could hear everything.

His own breathing—unsteady, shallow. The subtle slick heat between his thighs, traitorous and growing. The rush of blood in his ears. And worst of all, the sound of Minho’s calm, steady breathing behind the bars.

Like he wasn’t affected. Like he wasn’t standing there, soaking in the sight of a veiled prince losing control piece by piece under his gaze.

“I’m not like them at all,” Minho simply murmured, voice barely a whisper.

And Jisung hated that he believed him.

“I find it difficult to trust the words of a self-proclaimed exile,” Jisung said, voice sharp again, though the edge had dulled beneath the weight of everything else.

Minho’s gaze held him, slow and unwavering. “Yet you came anyway.”

“I came because—”

“Because you couldn’t help it,” Minho interrupted, low. “Because something in you knew you needed to.”

Jisung’s breath hitched.

Minho stepped closer to the bars again, now so near Jisung could feel the heat radiating from his body, even through the reinforced armor and the thick layers of silk between them. 

He didn’t touch him yet. He didn’t have to. Every inch of him was a presence—anchored, certain, watching Jisung crumble like velvet soaked in wine.

“Don’t you feel it?” Minho murmured, voice curling around the space between them like smoke. “How our bodies yearn for one another?”

Jisung froze.

“I—” He licked his lips, then instantly regretted it, the motion too soft, too wanting. “That’s not—”

“Not what?” Minho asked, tilting his head slightly. “Not proper? Not princely?”

Jisung’s hands, clenched at his sides, trembled in their gloves.

“You’re trying so hard,” Minho said, softer now, like he was speaking to something fragile, “to stay composed. To act like I’m just another prisoner in chains. But I see how you breathe when I speak. I see how your legs shift.”

Minho leaned in, his mouth now a breath from the veil, his voice no longer teasing—but intimate. Like he already knew every part of Jisung and was simply waiting for the prince to realize it too.

“I can smell what you won’t admit. How warm you are. How badly your body wants me to touch you, to free your skin under all those garments.”

Jisung flinched—visibly.

His cheeks burned hotter than the torches behind him. His knees betrayed him again, only slightly, but Minho noticed. Of course he did.

“Shut up,” Jisung whispered, too breathless to sound commanding.

Minho smiled like he’d won something.

And then—

Clink.

The chain fell.

Jisung barely saw the motion. Barely had time to process the flicker of strength before the broken restraints hit the floor, echoing through the dungeon like a drumbeat in his ribs.

The cell door creaked open.

Jisung’s instinct screamed to call for the guards.

Minho stepped out.

His mind tried to urge his body to run, far away from Minho—back to his room, to his sanctuary away from the alpha’s prying, intense gaze—

But his lips stayed shut.

His feet refused to move.

Minho crossed the threshold, each step deliberate, predatory. Not cruel—no, there was no malice in his eyes. Just something deeper. Something longing. 

His gaze never left Jisung’s, even as he approached slowly, like the careful reverence one shows a divine relic—something sacred, but meant to be claimed.

Jisung’s breath caught.

He’d never felt this before.

Not with any alpha. Not with anyone.

He thought he’d known submission. Had learned it through etiquette and duty, through prayers and posture. But this wasn’t obedience. This was far deeper than that. The unbearable desire of needing to be claimed.

Minho stopped just before him.

So close.

Jisung’s veil quivered with the force of his breath.

Minho raised one gloved hand. Slowly. Patiently. As if giving Jisung a chance to stop him.

Jisung did not move.

Minho’s fingers brushed beneath the veil, catching the edge of the pearls where it draped across Jisung’s flushed cheeks. And then—slowly, gently—he lifted it.

Jisung’s face was revealed.

His lips were parted, breath trembling. His cheeks burned with shameful heat. His eyes—wide, glassy, rimmed red, pupils dilated—locked onto Minho’s as if it was second nature.

He looked like he might cry.

He looked beautiful.

Minho didn’t speak at first.

He only looked.

At Jisung’s flushed cheeks, the way his breath trembled against the veil’s absence. At the way his lower lip glistened with nervous moisture. At the way his chest rose and fell so delicately, visibly, with every unsteady inhale.

Minho leaned in just slightly. Close enough for Jisung to feel the heat of him. Close enough that their breaths nearly touched.

And then—

“I heard,” Minho murmured, his voice low and dangerous and tender all at once, “they intend to wed you to the heir of Thornevalis.”

Jisung’s entire body flinched.

His eyes flickered away for just a moment. That was all it took. The break in eye contact. The stiffness in his posture. The betrayal in his scent—a sudden spike of anxiety, of something bitter curling beneath the still-burning sweetness of his slick.

Minho’s voice dropped further. “Ah. So it’s true.”

“That is none of your concern,” Jisung snapped, breathless—too breathless to be taken seriously. “Who I am obligated to wed is not yours to question.”

Minho’s hand, still hovering near Jisung’s cheek, didn’t fall.

“Obligated,” he repeated softly. “You say that word like it isn’t a life sentence.”

Jisung’s gaze wavered, a vain attempt at recollecting his bearings, to appear composed again. “It is my duty.”

“No.” Minho’s voice turned to iron. “It’s a punishment.”

Jisung opened his mouth, but no answer came.

Minho stepped closer—closer still—and this time, his gloved hand curled around Jisung’s jaw, guiding his gaze back up with such shocking tenderness it nearly made Jisung collapse. His thumb brushed just beneath his eye, slow and tender.

“You’re not meant for that man,” Minho murmured, voice laced with possession now, with something darker and deeper than desire. “You’re not meant for anyone else.”

Jisung’s breath caught. He felt like he couldn’t even blink.

“The only person you must wed,” Minho whispered, “is me.”

Jisung shuddered.

Minho leaned in, nose brushing just along the curve of his jaw. Not touching his skin—never fully. Just barely there, almost as if scenting him. Claiming without doing so. His mouth hovered by Jisung’s ear.

“I am yours. And you are mine,” he breathed.

Jisung let out a small, involuntary whimper.

“And that’s why I came,” Minho continued. “Why I broke your gates. Risked being torn apart at the border. Because I knew if that wedding happened—if he even so much as touched you—if he scented you, marked you—” his voice caught, just barely, “—I’d never forgive myself.”

Jisung’s thighs squeezed together, the heat between them now so unbearable it almost numbed. His head was spinning. 

The scent of Minho—muted and masked, but there—flooded his lungs. It wasn’t overpowering. It was controlled. Like the alpha in front of him had leashed his own instincts to not overwhelm him. But the undertone… it was addictive. 

“I don’t even know you,” Jisung whispered weakly.

Minho pulled back just enough to look into his eyes again. “No, you don’t. But your body does.”

That made his heart flutter in his chest, almost as if it was a confirmation of Minho’s words.

Jisung inhaled sharply, lips parting, tears burning at the corners of his eyes again. Not from fear. Not even from shame.

But from how perfect it all felt.

How right.

And it shouldn’t be. He was the crowned omega prince of Solvain. Minho was a disgraced exile. They shouldn’t be anything but distant history written in blood.

But now Minho’s fingers were cradling his jaw like it was precious. Like he belonged there.

“I feel like I’m going mad,” Jisung whispered, eyes glossy.

“You’re not mad,” Minho said. “You’re waking up.”

Jisung almost sagged into him, only catching himself at the last second—spine stiffening, hands clenching into trembling fists at his sides.

“I am—” he tried, voice shaking, “I am still a prince. I—this can’t—”

“You are a prince,” Minho interrupted, softly. “And I am the one who came to save you from the maws of the corrupt, ruthless alpha they will bind you to.”

His breath tickled Jisung’s ear.

“Let me, my prince.”

And Jisung—God, Jisung’s knees nearly gave again.

His body screamed yes.

But his lips, trembling, still clung to dignity.

“You’re speaking of fate like it owes you something,” he managed to say. “Like you already own me.”

“I don’t,” Minho said simply, with full confidence in his tone, a smirk teasing the corners of his lips. “But I will.”

Jisung’s breath hitched, mind racing so intensely he could hardly hear over the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. 

He didn’t notice the quiet footsteps behind him. Didn’t hear the guards descending the final steps of the dungeon corridor again. His world had shrunk to the space between his mouth and Minho’s.

But Chan and Changbin stood just a few feet away, weapons untouched.

They had drawn their blades halfway down the staircase—instinct, duty—but the moment they saw them, they froze.

Because there Jisung stood, trembling but upright, flushed but not afraid, and more alive than he had looked in weeks. Maybe months. The prince who had curled into himself, wasted behind silken curtains, who coughed blood and wept in silence and shook beneath the weight of an impending marriage he could not fight—

He was glowing.

And Minho, dangerous as he was, didn’t hold him like a captor.

He held him like he loved him. Like they’d been intertwined for a lifetime.

Neither guard moved. Neither dared to interrupt.

Jisung leaned in. A tiny sound—a needy, pitiful little whine—escaped the back of his throat as Minho’s gloved hand slid upward, threading into the soft waves at the base of his skull. Fingers combed gently, tugging once, just enough to make Jisung gasp softly.

And Minho—

Minho stilled.

Not because he was startled.

But because he saw them.

His gaze flicked lazily over Jisung’s shoulder. Saw the guards standing there, eyes wide, breath held. Saw that they had not drawn their swords. That they had not called for help. That they, too, felt the gravity of what this meant.

Minho’s eyes returned to Jisung, and he smiled.

Then—he pressed the faintest kiss to the corner of Jisung’s mouth.

Just a brush of lips, soft and deliberate, a promise spoken with skin.

Jisung inhaled sharply, eyes snapping open. His lips trembled. He blinked—once, twice—and then noticed them.

Chan. Changbin.

Their expressions unreadable. Not hostile. Not confused. Just… watching.

Jisung flushed so deeply it burned all the way down to his chest.

Minho pulled back slowly and reached up to lower the veil again. His fingers adjusted the pearls with gentle precision, covering Jisung’s face once more like restoring the seal on something holy.

“You have an audience, my prince,” he murmured.

Jisung opened his mouth, shut it, then cleared his throat softly.

“Captain… Commander,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “A few more moments, if you would.”

The guards didn’t speak.

They bowed, wordless, and stepped back into the shadows.

Jisung turned back to Minho.

His composure was fraying again, even under the veil. “You must… return to your cell. For now.”

It wasn’t a command. Not really.

More of a plea.

Minho tilted his head, eyes lidded, voice like warm wine. “As you wish.”

But he didn’t move immediately. He took Jisung’s hand, lifting it between them. His thumb brushed over the gold-stitched glove, then pressed his lips to the knuckles. Peppered long, lingering kisses to each one.

And then—

He parted his lips.

Jisung gasped, breath stuttering as Minho’s tongue dragged slowly over the glove’s edge, just above the seam of his wrist. The silk barrier offered no protection from sensation.

Jisung whimpered.

Minho smiled against his hand, then stepped back.

With graceful ease, he turned toward the open gate. Stepped inside. Picked up the broken chain, wrapped it around his wrists, and held them in place as if they had never fallen.

He looked at Jisung through the bars.

Calm. Confident.

Claimed.

“If your body can no longer bear the distance between us,” he said, voice low and rich, “you know where to find me.”

Jisung’s face burned. “You’re insufferable.”

“No,” Minho chuckled deeply. “I’m yours.”

Jisung’s lips parted, but no reply came.

He turned—slowly—and walked away on unsteady feet.

He didn’t look back.

But his fingers, hidden in the folds of his coat, curled into a trembling fist.

Because for the first time in his entire life, he didn’t feel broken. Didn’t feel disoriented. Didn’t feel fear, the misery he had grown far too familiar with in the past few months.

He felt loved.

And it terrified him.

Chapter Text

The stairs were too narrow.

Jisung’s breaths came shallow with each careful step upward, the soles of his shoes clicking gently against cold stone. The echo followed him—not the sound of his feet, but the memory of Minho’s voice, pressed like velvet into the curve of his ear.

“I’m yours.”

He shuddered. Swallowed it down.

He had to stay composed now. Dignified. Had to maintain the facade of being untouched.

But his gloves still tingled. His lips still buzzed with phantom warmth. The veil had been lowered once again, concealing his flushed complexion, but it could not diminish the trembling beneath his skin.

As he reached the top of the stairwell, Chan and Changbin waited silently on either side of the arched entrance. Their gazes were neutral, but Jisung could feel it—something had changed. Something sacred now lingered in the quiet between the three of them.

Jisung didn’t speak for a moment. He steadied his breath. He lifted his chin. His voice, when it came, was soft but firm—

“This… stays between us.”

The silence that followed was thick. Reverent.

Then, both men bowed deeply—Chan first, then Changbin.

“You have our word, Your Highness,” Chan murmured. “We’ll speak of nothing we saw.”

“Not a soul,” Changbin added, his voice gruff with quiet loyalty.

Jisung nodded once. It was all he could offer.

Then Chan stepped forward. “Forgive the timing, but… you’re needed in the throne room.”

Jisung blinked, slow. “Now?”

“There’s already an assembly,” Chan said. “The aristocrats have been summoned. So have the royal reporters—”

“Chroniclers,” Changbin corrected gently.

“Yes. Them. Your mother and father requested your presence personally. You’re to give account of the intruder.”

The words hit like a sword pierced between his ribs.

Jisung’s heart clenched. “They want me to speak?”

“You were the only one he asked for,” Chan said carefully. “The court wants to hear it from your lips.”

A low, familiar dread curled beneath Jisung’s ribs. He was to lie, then. Or say nothing of worth. Of truth. Of fated bonds sealed in whispered breath and trembling touches.

He gave a faint nod, and the guards fell into formation—flanking him as he exited into the palace proper.

The corridors aboveground were warm and sunlit, filled with the distant rustle of silks, the scent of incense and roses, the glittering blur of gold leaf along the high ceilings. But Jisung barely registered any of it.

Because in his mind, he was still in the dark.

Still breathing in Minho’s scent, how addictive it was despite the alpha’s protective measures to encase the true aroma of it.

Still feeling the ghost of gloved fingers along his jaw, the press of lips at the corner of his mouth like a blessing he’d never been worthy of.

The corridor curved sharply as they approached the double doors of the throne room. Jisung’s spine straightened reflexively, shoulders pulled back, veil of pearls encasing the still persistent flush of his cheeks. But his body betrayed him still—heat simmered low in his gut, every breath like a spark threatening to ignite it.

Focus.

He had to focus.

But even here, even in the high court’s sacred hall, surrounded by nobles and ancient tapestries, his thoughts refused to obey.

Because all he could think about was the way Minho’s voice had dropped when he said “let me, my prince.”

The grand doors opened.

The throne room stretched wide before him—opulent and gilded, lined with high pillars of pristine marble and golden banners bearing the crest of Solvain’s sun. Nobles lined the walls in stiff postures, voices hushed. The Heraldic Order stood just beyond the dais, parchment at the ready. They wore the ceremonial black robes of chroniclers, their quills dipped in gold-leaf ink, waiting to carve his every word into the kingdom’s permanent record.

Jisung entered, with the grace befitting of his princely status.

Head high. Hands folded. Gown sweeping behind him like an embodiment of the sunlight caught in lace.

And still—

He felt Minho’s fingers along his jaw. The idea of it. The memory of what it could become.

I’m yours.

You’re mine.

No title, no throne, no name could protect him from the truth echoing through his blood. He was claimed. Not marked—but claimed nonetheless. And some part of him—ashamed, trembling, yearning—had accepted it without protest.

A guard gestured for him to approach the center of the room.

Jisung, with a level of obedience that could not compare to how stagnant he stood underneath Minho’s gaze, sauntered forwards.

Every step felt like blasphemy. Every breath a betrayal.

Because he wanted to go back.

He wanted Minho’s hands on him again, wanted the alpha’s smirk-teased lips against his own, the gravel-wrapped voice calling him my prince like it meant something holy. Something far more than a mere formality, more than a title of authority. 

He stopped at the appointed spot before the gathered council. The sunlight through the high stained windows painted his veil in gold.

The Chancellor spoke first.

“Your Highness. Thank you for joining us, especially on such short notice. The matter before us is grave: an armed intruder, one who breached our defenses and sought only you.”

The murmurs around the room swelled. Whispers of scandal. Danger. The unknown.

Jisung nodded once.

“I understand.”

“Then please,” the Chancellor said, gesturing slightly to the Heralds, “if you would recount your exchange. It will be recorded for the kingdom’s protection and historical accuracy.”

One of the scribes raised his quill. His eyes did not meet Jisung’s.

But Minho’s had.

Minho had looked at him like a relic. Like something divine. No fear in his gaze, no scrutiny. Far more than mere perversion or lust had inhabited his pupils—there was… love.

And Jisung—

Jisung had looked back. Returned the same intense, affectionate, pure eye contact that he had recieved.

He tried to breathe. Tried to speak. The words sat heavy on his tongue, fragile as spun sugar.

“He… demanded to see me,” Jisung said, voice delicate under the veil. “He refused to speak to anyone else.”

“And when you met with him?” another council member asked. “What did he say?”

He had said numerous words. Words that had Jisung questioning if he truly was as hopeless as he thought of himself to be, come the impending events of his arranged marriage.

Words that had made Jisung imagine a life away from the crown. A life of self-exile, rescued and taken away by a man he hardly knew anything about, other than his name, his status—

And how his body had already become so hopelessly devoted to the alpha’s presence.

You’re not meant for him.

Your body knows mine.

Let me.

Jisung’s lashes fluttered behind the veil.

“He identified himself as a noble in exile,” he replied slowly. “But not his kingdom of origin.”

A murmur passed through the nobles at his reply—shoulders shifting, whispers exchanged behind fans and gloved hands. The Chancellor inclined his head slightly, a subtle signal to the heraldic scribe beside him. The man dipped his quill again.

“And did he state his intentions for entry?” the Chancellor asked, gaze piercing beneath his jeweled circlet. “Surely someone of noble origin, even disgraced, would not risk armed trespass unless driven by great purpose.”

Driven, yes. By fate.

By instinct.

By something that the royal court, that nobody except Jisung and Minho himself, could ever understand.

Jisung’s throat burned. “He…” he hesitated, the word lingering too long on his tongue.

They were all watching him now. Dozens of nobles cloaked in velvet and brocade, advisers with rings on every finger, the entire court wrapped in silence—all waiting for the prince to deliver clarity, caution, command.

But Jisung couldn’t breathe.

The room felt too vast, the ceiling too high, his own skin too tight around him. His gloves were soaked with the memory of Minho’s mouth. His jaw still pulsed where the alpha had held it so gently, tenderly, like he knew it belonged to him.

“I believe he sought an audience with the crown,” Jisung managed, voice smoother than he felt. “To offer knowledge, perhaps. Or to make a request.”

“A request he made only to you,” one of the aristocrats noted, brows raised.

Another leaned in from her high-backed chair, lips pursed. “And was there any suggestion of prior acquaintance, Your Highness? A familial tie? Shared history?”

Minho’s eyes had searched his like he had known him forever.

Minho’s voice had said you’re mine like it was the final word in a prophecy.

And Jisung—Jisung had let him. Had believed him.

“I did not recognize him,” he lied softly.

A scribe glanced up, waiting for more. Another noble tapped a gloved finger on their seat.

“The matter is urgent,” spoke an elderly councilor. “This man bypassed multiple layers of royal guard, broke into the sanctum of the crown, and spoke your name as if he owned it.”

Jisung felt the sting of that.

He did own it, didn’t he?

No.

No.

He couldn’t afford to think like that.

Not here.

Not when his future had already been sealed in wax and scrolls and bloodline contracts.

Not when, in two fortnights, he was to be mated to a man who only ever looked at him like a possession.

He fought the tremor in his hands.

“I intend to keep him contained until I know his origin. Until I can confirm if his presence is a threat.” Jisung said at last. 

“And is that your honest belief, Your Highness?” came a sharp voice—his distant aunt, the Duchess of Solvain, leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “That he is a threat?”

He was a risk.

He was a promise.

He was everything Jisung had ever dared to want.

“…Yes,” Jisung whispered.

Silence again. The heralds scratched furiously at parchment. A courtier whispered something in a chronicler’s ear. The room buzzed like a hive around him, but Jisung barely heard any of it.

He was still underground. Still veiled in candlelight and the soft rasp of Minho’s voice.

“Is there anything else we should know?” the Chancellor asked gently.

Jisung hesitated.

His tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth. His body screamed with words he would never be able to speak.

He lifted his chin.

“I will assume full responsibility,” Jisung ordered, voice quieter now, but no less firm. “For the prisoner’s containment. His questioning. His care. He will be under my supervision. No one else’s.”

That did it.

The whispers returned, louder now. The stir of silks. Disbelief. Scandal. One noble covered his mouth with a hand in surprise. Another turned to whisper rapidly into a herald’s ear.

“That is unprecedented, Your Highness,” a councilwoman said, tone clipped. “Even in matters of diplomacy, it is never the sole duty of a royal heir to oversee a captured intruder.”

“Precisely,” said another. “If this individual is as skilled and as secretive as your report implies, he may be a spy—or worse. You would be placing yourself in direct involvement—”

“I am already involved,” Jisung snapped, the words spilling from his mouth before he could stop them.

The air thinned.

Across the room, several of the scribes froze, quills hovering mid-air.

Jisung steadied his breathing again.

“I mean,” he amended, quieter, “he has made me involved. I was the one he sought. The one he… spoke to.”

The one he claimed.

The one he kissed.

The one he looked at like he’d been searching for him through lifetimes.

“He is not an ordinary trespasser,” Jisung continued. “So let him be handled with extraordinary care.”

Silence reigned once more.

And Jisung—despite his racing heart, despite the tremor in his hands—stood like a sovereign.

“It is not typical,” the Duchess finally said, cautious. “For a matter of palace security to fall solely under the purview of the heir—”

“But it is not forbidden,” Jisung interrupted.

The council stilled again.

“My word is not a suggestion. It is law.” His voice did not rise, but it hardened, silken and edged with command. “This will not be subject to vote. This is not a negotiation.”

A few scribes blinked rapidly, hands moving even faster across parchment.

The Chancellor’s eyes narrowed, but he did not argue.

“Of course, Your Highness,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “It shall be written.”

Jisung nodded once.

But beneath the veil, sweat beaded down his brow—his lower lip trembled, tears of frustration beading in his eyes.

Because while the court recoiled in uncertainty, while nobles whispered of impropriety and danger and scandal, Jisung had already made his decision.

He would protect Minho.

From them.

From execution.

From being exiled again.

He would shield him with his own body if he had to. Not because it was smart. Not because it was duty.

Because he needed him.

And that was a truth no veil could conceal.

The moment he stepped out of the throne room, Jisung nearly stumbled.

The weight of the crown was gone from his shoulders—but it didn’t make him lighter. It made everything worse. He clutched the silk at his waist like it could keep him tethered, even as his legs threatened to give beneath him.

Changbin and Chan were waiting in the corridor.

They didn’t speak at first. Just fell into step beside him as he moved forward, his breath still too shallow, his steps too fast.

He didn’t want to walk. He wanted to run 

Back to the dungeons.

Back to Minho.

Back to the heat of someone who had said mine and meant it.

“Your Highness,” Chan said quietly as they turned the corner. “If we may speak freely—”

“You may,” Jisung whispered, not even turning his head.

“We talked,” Changbin said. “After you left the dungeons. About what we saw.”

Jisung clenched his jaw. “You said you wouldn’t speak of it.”

“Not to them,” Chan replied. “Never to them. But we would be lying if we said it didn’t… concern us.”

Jisung stopped walking.

The corridor was empty. The windows here were tall and thin, casting long, soft shadows along the ivory stone floor. His reflection swayed faintly in the polished gold trim of the wall sconces. He looked like a ghost of himself.

He turned to face them.

“If you’re here to stop me—”

“We’re not,” Changbin said immediately. “We’re not here to question you.”

“We’re here to tell you,” Chan said gently, “that we’ll stand beside you. No matter what happens with him.”

Jisung blinked.

For a moment, he didn’t speak.

“You’ll… what?”

“We’ve been worried for months,” Changbin muttered. “You don’t eat. You don’t sleep. You’re always pale. Shaking. The physicians blamed nerves, but we know it was more than that.”

Chan nodded. “We thought it was the engagement. And now… we’re sure of it.”

Jisung’s fingers curled in at his sides.

“We’ve never seen you look the way you looked at him,” Chan continued. “We’ve never seen anyone look at you like that.”

Jisung’s throat felt like it was collapsing in on itself.

“So,” Changbin said, “whatever this is—whatever you decide—we’ll guard it. We’ll guard him, too. You have our word. No one sees him without your approval. Not even the king.”

Jisung’s lips parted, a pathetic noise nearly falling out.

He swallowed it. Bowed his head.

“…Thank you,” he whispered.

“Rest well, Your Highness,” Changbin said. “We’ll be just below.”

They didn’t press any further. Just bowed in turn, and turned down the corridor once he opened the door to his chambers.

Jisung shut it quietly behind him.

Locked it.

And collapsed against the inside.

He couldn’t breathe.

He tore the veil from his face first. Tossed it to the floor, its delicate pearls scattering like drops of milk across the tile.

His gloves were next—ripped from trembling hands, discarded without care. His fingers curled into his own chest as he stumbled to the vanity, desperate for something—anything—to stop the way his body was aching.

Minho had licked his wrist. Had kissed each knuckle like he was worthy of worship. Had looked at him through the cell bars like Jisung wasn’t just a prince—but a promise.

And Jisung…

Jisung had believed it.

He began unfastening his coat, fingers fumbling at the clasps. His breath caught, legs trembling. He stepped out of layer after layer, silks and lace and brocade falling around him like shed skin. Until only the thinnest lace undergarments remained—barely there. Nearly transparent in the sunlight.

He didn’t care.

He stood before the mirror and looked.

What he saw nearly destroyed him.

Flushed, sweat-slicked skin. Collarbone damp with heat. Hair sticking to his temples. His inner thighs—trembling, glistening, shamefully wet. And his lips—red, bitten, trembling.

Minho hadn’t even kissed him.

Not truly.

Not yet.

And still, he looked like he’d been ruined.

His hand rose to his mouth. His fingers brushed the corner of his lips.

He kissed him there.

Not even a full kiss. Not even skin to skin.

But Jisung could still feel it.

His eyes welled. His chest heaved.

Would Minho still want him like this?

Like this—soft, flushed, open. Slick pooling shamefully into his undergarments, cock straining against the delicate fabric. His eyes glassy. His body bare beneath the weight of need.

And his mind utterly consumed by Minho, and nothing else—

Would Minho still say I’m his?

Would he still look at me like I’m beautiful?

Because no one had ever said it before.

Not the foreign prince, who had only ever looked at him like something to be traded. Like a duty to fulfill. Like a caged dove, freedom stripped away from his being, reduced to an embodiment of grace that existed only for display. 

Jisung had tried—so hard—to win his favour. Had painted his lips and kept his hands folded and bowed when necessary, spoken when prompted. Had forced down his nausea and smiled when touched.

He hadn’t looked at Jisung even once.

But Minho—

Minho had seen all of him in a single meeting. Had unveiled him, touched his bare skin underneath the pearls, still thought of him as desirable without any makeup—hardly any grooming at all—besides what he had managed to do the night before, in a struggle due to his ongoing illness. 

And Jisung— weak, trembling, desperate Jisung—wanted to be seen again, in his rawest, most desperate state. Without any luxuries or adornments encasing his body, binding him to innocence and chastity. 

He wanted to be loved. Not lusted over, not revered for his authority, not casted aside like a mere possession.

And Minho… his heart knew that Minho could provide all of that, and more.

He stumbled to the bed, the hem of his lace undergarments clinging sticky to the delicate insides of his thighs.

The sheets were cool against his skin.

He let himself fall into them face-first, burying his flushed face into the pillows, the same pillows that still smelled like lavender and milk from yesterday’s oils. A fragile luxury that now felt mocking. Too clean. Too innocent.

Because he wasn’t.

Not anymore.

The bed didn’t soothe him. It exposed him.

He rolled onto his back, arms limp at his sides, legs falling open without command. The sun through the open curtains poured golden light across his body, catching in the sheen of sweat along his collarbones, glowing through his long, wavy hair like a halo he didn’t deserve.

His chest heaved.

The lace clung wet to his cock, to his stomach, his thighs. It did nothing to contain the heat anymore. Nothing to preserve his modesty, or his dignity.

He wasn’t even sure he had any left.

A trembling hand lifted from the sheets and hovered above his stomach. Hesitant. Breathless.

And then it dropped.

He pressed it down—gently, shamefully—over himself.

A soft, desperate whine escaped him, the sound caught in his throat like prayer.

What if it was Minho’s hand?

What if those gloves were gone, and it was Minho’s bare palm sliding over the skin he wasn’t supposed to touch? What if Minho saw him like this—stripped, flushed, ruined by a kiss that didn’t even count?

Did Minho even have any idea about the effect his mere existence had on Jisung?

His hips twitched upward, searching for pressure, for relief.

It was unbearable.

Minho wasn’t here. And that should’ve stopped this.

But his body didn’t care.

His body remembered the way Minho’s thumb had stroked the edge of his jaw. How gently he had adjusted the pearls back into place, as if putting a pristine frame on a masterpiece.

If only Minho were here. If only his hands were caressing down his jaw again, then further downwards—and further— to where Jisung needed him the most.

Shameful. It all felt shameful, but Jisung couldn’t get enough. Couldn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop his hand from slipping under the delicate waistband of his lace undergarments, soaked through and practically transparent at this point.

His trembling fingers wrapped around the leaking tip of his cock, a whimper slipping past his lips as he shoved his face into the plush pillows underneath him.

His other hand clutched at the sheets, pulling them taut as he rutted his hips forward just slightly, trying to mimic the sensation he imagined Minho might give him.

But it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t him.

And no matter how tight he squeezed, no matter how hard he pressed, it wouldn’t work.

His body ached. His thighs were trembling. Slick coated his skin like a curse, and he was burning.

But the fire wouldn’t catch.

Nothing would tip him over.

“Please…” he whispered to no one.

He didn’t even know who he was begging.

He’d never… done this before. Not like this. There had never been time, never been need. The herbs he took were meant to keep this sort of thing caged. To preserve him. To keep his body untouched and manageable until it was someone else’s problem—until he was married, mated, marked.

Until the crown could hand him off like a gift with a ribbon tied between his legs.

He was supposed to be pure.

He was supposed to wait.

He had waited.

On the rare occasion Jisung had been turned on in the past, it was never like this. It was always possible for him to merely ignore the heat coiling in his abdomen, the slick beading out of his virgin hole. 

But this—this wasn’t just curiosity. This wasn't an aimless need or wandering fingers. This was painful. This was worse than the sharpest fever. It was in his bones, under his skin, behind his eyes. 

It felt like a need that wasn’t his, like someone else had poured their hunger into him and sealed the bottle.

Minho’s hunger.

And God, he wanted to be devoured.

But he couldn’t make it happen alone.

His strokes were messy now, inconsistent, desperate. He arched, twisted, changed angles—but nothing helped. The pressure built and built, but never broke. He whined into the sheets, grinding down pathetically into the mattress, hoping friction would do what his hand couldn’t.

It didn’t.

He let go.

Collapsed back against the soaked sheets with a strangled cry.

Nothing worked.

Because it wasn’t Minho’s hand. It wasn’t Minho’s voice.

It wasn’t Minho’s body, draped over his own, whispering that he was beautiful, worthy, made for him. 

Tears burned in his eyes. He brought a hand to his mouth and bit down, just to quiet the sound of himself sobbing.

Because he didn’t know what else to do.

He couldn’t even touch himself properly. Couldn’t even find the release his body begged for. He was a virgin in every sense, untouched by others, untouched by himself, bound by law and blood and ritual.

And now—

Now he was ruined by the gaze of an alpha he hardly even knew, but his body knew him now—very well, almost too well—a curse and a blessing at the same time. 

That was all it took.

One voice. One kiss to the corner of his lips.

One promise whispered through cell bars.

Mine.

Jisung sobbed into the pillows until his throat ached, until the sheets were damp beneath his cheek. His body wouldn’t cool. His hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

It wasn’t his heat. It wasn’t possible for him to have one, due to the herbs the clerics gave him monthly.

But it felt like what he imagined one to be.

A phantom cycle, ignited not by time or season—but by fate. By proximity. By the alpha truly meant for him looking at him like he was the only thing in the world worth keeping alive.

Minho.

He curled in on himself for a moment. Just a moment. Shaking, breathless, face buried in his own scent. Still wet. Still untouched. Still burning.

And then he moved.

Stumbled off the bed, bare feet landing on cold marble tile with a gasp. His legs nearly gave beneath him. He gripped the side of the vanity, chest rising and falling like he’d just run ten laps around the palace.

He had to do something. Anything.

He had to go to him.

His body wasn’t going to survive this otherwise.

Blindly, he reached for the first garment he could find.

It was white. Silk. Long, flowing, layered in feather-light drapery that clung to his waist, dipped at his spine, hugged the swell of his hips. He pulled it over his shoulders, let it settle around his frame like water.

Then another—gold-threaded lace, heavier, open in the front with ribbon ties at his sternum. He didn’t fasten it all the way. He couldn’t. His hands were too unsteady.

He slipped on a robe last—white, luminous, embroidered in sunbursts down the sleeves. It dragged behind him as he moved, elegant but pliable. Easy to remove.

Every piece was modest in theory. Covered every inch of his skin.

But they didn’t conceal anything.

They only wrapped the gift tighter.

His hair was a mess. His lips were swollen.

He leaned toward the mirror and picked up the pearl veil from where it had fallen on the floor.

It shook in his grasp.

Carefully, Jisung draped it over his head again. Let it cascade down his face in a curtain of pearls and lace. It only made him feel hotter. Claustrophobic. Like he was suffocating in divinity.

He adjusted the ruffled collar still bound around his neck—high, tight, white-gold, delicate lace over stiff boning, the topmost trim pressed right against his jawline.

He hadn’t removed it earlier. Hadn’t been able to undo the clasp with how badly he’d been shaking.

The pearl clasps clicked into place now with faint snaps.

Still trembling.

His thighs were soaked.

His undergarments—fresh ones he hastily managed to change into—already ruined again.

But he had to see Minho.

He had to do something about this. Anything.

He slipped out of his chambers like a shadow, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of want. He couldn’t take the main corridor—Chan and Changbin were still rotating the upper staircases, watching the court. They’d see him like this, usher him back to his room to rest. There was no possible way Jisung could coherently convince them to let him see Minho in this state, either.

So he took the servants’ route instead—thin and winding, lined with dusty tapestries no one had touched in years. The stone was colder here, rougher beneath his bare feet. The long robe trailed behind him like sunlight.

No one saw him.

Luckily for him, most of the people within the palace were currently gathered in the dining halls, eating their meals. The mid-day bell had rung some time ago.

He hadn’t been called to dine.

They had stopped asking weeks ago.

He hadn’t had the strength to keep pretending he wasn’t wasting away.

Eventually, he found his way towards the dungeon’s entrance. It luckily remained unguarded for the moment, as Chan and Changbin were stationed elsewhere at this time.

The stairs to the dungeons were dark.

He nearly fell once—gripping the wall with one hand, the other clutching at his skirts to keep from tripping.

Everything inside him was screaming.

The hunger wasn’t fading. It was burning hotter. Igniting within him like a forest fire, continuously spreading throughout every one of his aching limbs, sparking inside of him with every step.

By the time Jisung reached the corridor outside the dungeon, his vision was swimming.

His legs quivered beneath him. His hands were curled into the fabric at his sides, fisting the golden silk to keep himself from falling. The weight of his garments, the heat pulsing between his thighs, the veil sticking to the sweat on his cheeks—it was all too much. He wasn’t sure if he was shaking from nerves or from need.

Maybe both.

The door creaked open under his touch.

The familiar chill of the dungeon corridor licked against his burning skin. It didn’t help. He was too far gone for temperature to soothe him.

He stumbled forward.

The halls stretched out endlessly before him. The candlelight wavered along the walls. His footsteps echoed as he drifted further down, each one more uneven than the last.

And then—

He saw him.

Minho was resting against the back wall of the cell, legs outstretched, arms folded, head bowed slightly. Not fully asleep. But dozing, still and composed in a way that made Jisung hesitate.

His breath caught in his throat.

He shouldn’t have come. Minho looked peaceful. Serene. Jisung was nothing but a trembling wreck—wet, needy, flushed. His fingers hovered near the bars for a moment, as if maybe he could leave before—

Minho’s head lifted.

Eyes dark. Sharp. Focused.

The smirk that bloomed across his face wasn’t immediate—it was slow, like he had expected this. Like he had been waiting.

And then the chains fell from his wrists. Slipped off his lap like they had never truly held him together at all.

Jisung’s knees nearly gave.

Minho stepped out of the cell. No rush. No tension. Just quiet, deliberate control. The black silk of his noblewear, and the silver embellishments of the pieces of armour he still adorned over top, shimmered under the flickering torchlight.

He stopped in front of Jisung.

Lifted one hand.

Gently—so gently—he caressed up, up, and lifted the veil once again.

Jisung gasped.

He was crying.

Tears fell silently, trailing down his flushed cheeks beneath the pearls. His lower lip wobbled, already bitten red.

“Why,” Jisung choked out, “why does my body feel like this?”

Minho didn’t answer at first.

He just looked at him.

Really looked.

Eyes drinking him in like holy wine—his trembling hands, the collar clenched too tightly at his throat, the sheen of slick darkening the silk between his thighs. His voice, when it finally came, was quiet. Tender.

“I didn’t do anything to you,” Minho murmured.

And then he leaned down.

Pressed his mouth to Jisung’s lips.

A real kiss.

Soft. Chaste. Brief.

But it stole every thought from Jisung’s mind.

Minho pulled back slowly—just in time to catch him as he swayed forward, body going limp against his chest, waves sticking to his damp cheeks.

Minho’s arms wrapped around him, firm and warm, holding him up as Jisung sobbed softly into the crook of his neck.

“This is what’s supposed to happen,” Minho whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “This is how I know you’re meant for me.”

Jisung whimpered.

“Your body knew before you did. Knew you needed me. Knew you couldn’t bear the distance.”

Jisung nodded against him. Desperate. Shaking.

Minho’s hand pressed against the small of his back, steady and grounding.

“I can help you,” he said, voice low. “But I won’t touch you unless you want me to.”

And Jisung—sweet, naive, pathetic Jisung—pulled back just enough to look at him through his damp, fluttering lashes. 

“You’re still asking?” he whispered, stunned.

“Of course I’m asking,” Minho practically purred back in response.

That was what broke him.

He surged forward again, burying his face in Minho’s shoulder, fingers digging into the reinforced armor, searching for skin he couldn’t reach.

“I want you to come with me,” he whispered. “To my quarters. Please. Please, Minho.”

Minho smiled.

Not with cruelty. Not with smugness.

But with pure adoration.

“Then take me,” he murmured. “I’m all yours, my prince.”

Chapter Text

Jisung could barely walk.

Not from fear. Not from weakness.

From need.

His thighs ached with every step. His knees threatened to buckle each time his feet touched the marble floor. The silks around his waist clung tight, heavy with heat and ruined lace, dragging behind him like a wedding train. His breath caught with every movement, each inhale catching on the lace collar still fastened at his throat.

He leaned on Minho without meaning to.

He kept stumbling.

Minho never let him fall.

A hand at the small of his back, a palm against his waist—guiding, steadying. Every time Jisung’s body threatened to betray him further, Minho was already there. Not holding him back. Leading him forward.

By the time they reached the threshold of his chambers, Jisung was near tears again.

Not from pain.

From relief.

He fumbled with the latch—trembling fingers slipping once, then twice—and finally managed to twist it open. The door creaked on its hinges, and they slipped inside.

No one saw them.

The lock clicked shut just as Minho’s arm wrapped around his waist again.

And then—

He was lifted.

Jisung gasped.

Minho scooped him up with ease, one arm beneath his thighs, the other at his back, cradling him like something precious. Like something his.

Jisung’s arms curled around his neck instinctively, whimpering, hiding his face.

“Shhh,” Minho murmured, soft and sweet and so sure. “I’ve got you, my sweet prince.”

He carried him to the bed.

The same bed Jisung had sobbed into earlier.

The same sheets, still wrinkled and damp.

He placed him down gently, like he might break if handled with anything less than reverence. And then—he pulled back.

Jisung blinked up at him.

Minho stood at the edge of the mattress, eyes never leaving his face, breath calm even as his gaze drank in every trembling inch of Jisung’s body.

Jisung’s throat was dry.

His lips trembled.

He watched Minho’s fingers rise to his throat.

To the black and silver silk wound tight around his neck. One of the many variations of the garments noble alphas wore to contain their scent. The final barrier. The boundary of belonging.

He undid it slowly, almost teasingly. 

One clasp.

Then another.

And then—

He peeled it away.

The moment it hit the floor, Jisung whimpered.

Because the scent hit him like a wave.

Warm. Laced with musk. Wooded. Deep.

But the most intoxicating note within his scent—lavender.

His favourite. The one oil he always requested during massages. The one he laced into his bathwater, burned in incense near his bed. The one flower that grew in abundance just outside the palace terrace, in his personal royal garden. 

Minho smelled like home.

Jisung’s thighs squeezed together. His breath hitched. His body arched just slightly, without command.

Minho tilted his head.

Smirked faintly.

And then, slowly—he climbed over him. Straddled his hips without weight, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of Jisung’s trembling body.

Jisung’s eyes went wide.

Minho leaned in.

Pressed a kiss to his chin—soft, lingering, deliberate.

Then one beneath it.

And then another, just above the edge of the high lace collar still fastened to his neck.

“You love it, don’t you?” Minho purred against his skin, tongue laving softly across the angle of Jisung’s jaw. 

Jisung couldn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

Minho’s scent wrapped around him like a cloak. Heavy and familiar and divine. It curled down his throat, sunk into his lungs, rewrote the rhythm of his pulse.

He keened.

A soft, broken sound.

Minho smiled.

“Just as I thought.”

He reached for the veil still barely hanging around Jisung’s face, pushed it back gently, setting it aside.

And Jisung—

Jisung surged forward.

Buried his face in the curve of Minho’s neck, breath stuttering, mouth open. He didn’t even mean to. It was instinct. Muscle memory. He was drawn there like the sun chasing the moon, helpless to stop himself.

He nosed beneath Minho’s jaw.

Breathed him in like salvation.

Nuzzled him. Rubbed against him.

Whined.

Ground upward.

His hips rolled, seeking pressure, even though he didn’t know what to do with it. Didn’t mean to move like that. Didn’t mean to need like this. But, it wasn’t enough—

He needed more.

No matter how impure his desires were, how slick he became within his lace undergarments, no matter the inevitable possibility of how he would be breaking his vow of celibacy here and now—

Jisung needed more. Needed Minho.

Minho’s scent was dizzying.

Jisung ground up against him again, pathetic and helpless, face still hidden in the crook of Minho’s neck like he was afraid of what might spill out if he looked him in the eye.

It still wasn’t enough.

His thighs trembled where they pressed beneath Minho’s hips. His fingers fumbled uselessly at the front of Minho’s coat, trying to anchor himself, to pull himself closer, to do something. Anything to lessen the ache.

But the ache didn’t go away.

It only deepened. Spread. Sank into him like ink on parchment.

And suddenly—it hurt.

Not physically. Not in any way Minho had caused.

It was the pain of helplessness.

Of wanting something so badly that it hollowed him out from the inside. Of needing someone so deeply it felt like bleeding.

“I—” Jisung choked on the word. Pulled back enough to speak, lips quivering, face already wet with tears he hadn’t realized had fallen. “Why do I feel like this? I’ve never—never needed anyone like this—”

Minho stilled.

Didn’t move. Didn’t tease.

His hands rose slowly, cradling Jisung’s flushed cheeks in his palms. His thumbs wiped away the tears as they came. One. Then another. As if he had all the time in the world.

“I know,” he whispered.

Jisung sobbed softly. “I don’t understand—I barely know you, Minho—”

“But your body does,” Minho murmured. “And that’s enough.”

He leaned in, kissed the corner of Jisung’s trembling mouth.

Then pulled back again, gaze deep and steady.

“Let me help,” he whispered. “Let me take care of you.”

Jisung blinked up at him, glassy-eyed.

“I’ll do all the work,” Minho promised, brushing damp hair away from his forehead. “You won’t have to lift a finger. If anything doesn’t feel good—anything at all—I’ll stop. We don’t have to continue.”

Jisung shook his head. “No, I want to—I want this—”

“Then tell me what’s okay,” Minho said, voice velvet-soft. “Tell me what you need.”

Jisung whimpered.

His hands curled into Minho’s coat again.

“I just—” Jisung’s breath hitched. His voice came out softer, more fragile than before. “Just don’t put anything inside. Not until…”

He paused. Looked away, shame tightening his throat.

“Not until I’m mated.”

Minho stilled again.

And then he smiled.

Not teasing. Not mocking.

Warm.

Understanding.

His hands cradled Jisung’s face like he was something holy. His thumb brushed along the corner of his lips, catching a tear before it could fall.

“Of course,” Minho said, his voice a low, soft purr. “We don’t need to do anything like that until you’re ready, okay?”

Jisung’s lashes fluttered, nodding shyly in response. Pupils shining with immense gratitude underneath the burning desire.

Minho leaned in closer—mouth just barely grazing the shell of his ear now, breath hot enough to make him shiver.

“I can’t wait,” he whispered, “for the day you’re officially my omega. Until I can claim you, in every way. Until everyone will know you’re mine.”

Jisung whimpered.

The sound slipped out before he could stop it, raw and high and aching.

His entire body reacted—hips arching up into Minho’s lap, fingers tightening in the fabric of his coat, slick smearing between his thighs as his undergarments soaked through all over again.

The promise.

The implication.

Officially.

It made him feel lightheaded. Made him feel owned.

His fingers fisted tighter in Minho’s coat, body arching again—shameless now, slick and heat pooling beneath him, his chest heaving with the effort of trying to keep still. But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t do anything except squirm.

“Minho—” he choked, voice thin and wobbly, “it’s—it’s too hot—”

He pawed weakly at his robes, trembling hands fumbling against the damp silk still clinging to his skin. It was sticking to him, suffocating him, wrapping him too tightly in warmth that only made the ache worse.

“I can’t—I can’t get it off—please—”

Minho shushed him gently.

“Shhh, I’ve got you. I’ll help.”

His hands moved carefully, brushing Jisung’s shaking fingers away, taking over. He undid the remaining clasps, slow and steady, with every bit of the same reverence he’d shown before—like each knot he unraveled was part of a holy rite.

Jisung sobbed again, soft and overwhelmed, arms curling around Minho’s shoulders. His cheek pressed against Minho’s collarbone as his layers were pulled back—one by one—until only the lace undergarments remained.

Minho shifted, sitting upright to get a better look at him.

And then—

He peeled the lace off, carefully revealing Jisung’s most intimate regions.

His breath caught.

His eyes darkened.

Jisung’s skin—warm as honey and flushed, shimmering in sweat—seemed to glow under the light streaming in through the window. 

The flush across his chest was deep, bleeding up his throat, down over the swell of his ribs. His nipples were soft peaks of brown, taut and sensitive, rising and falling with each shallow breath.

Minho’s gaze travelled lower, lower, groaning softly at the sight he was met with between Jisung’s thighs—he was soaked, his untouched hole leaking slick like a fountain of holy water—cock leaking pre messily over his abdomen, flushed tip throbbing desperately. 

He exhaled low.

A growl rumbling faintly in his chest.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re perfect.”

Jisung gasped.

Clung tighter to him, shy and breathless, burying his face in Minho’s shoulder again as his chest heaved with embarrassment.

“I—I don’t know if—if you like—”

Minho didn’t let him finish.

His hands moved to cup the sides of Jisung’s waist, thumbs brushing tenderly over his skin. And then—he leaned down. Pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the soft plane just beneath Jisung’s collarbone.

Then another.

Then one to the center of his chest.

And then he looked up.

“I like everything, my prince, I love what I see,” he murmured. “Every single inch of you. You don’t need to hide from me. You’re such a pretty boy.”

Jisung whimpered, pupils dilating, back arching instinctively to get as close as possible to Minho. As if he couldn’t bare to be even a mere fraction of an inch apart from him. 

He could feel how much of a mess he was making, more slick pouring helplessly from his needy hole. He felt filthy, and yet not even a hint of guilt ebbed at his conscience. 

Never before did praise affect him like this. Jisung, countless times, had been complimented for his elegant appearance and mannerisms—fawned over by noblemen and noblewomen alike—

Yet something was different when he heard it from Minho’s lips. 

Something that made the heat coiling in his abdomen only more intense, had him writhing and sobbing pathetically at how helpless his body was. Made him impossibly more wet, both with his slick and the tears falling from his half-lidded eyes.

“Look at you,” Minho murmured, his voice impossibly soft now, barely louder than a breath. “You’re making such a mess, my darling.”

Jisung whimpered at the name—tiny, high, wrecked. His hands trembled where they gripped Minho’s sleeves, clinging like he might fall apart completely if he let go.

And he might.

Minho leaned in. Kissed him—just once, just sweetly—at the center of his chest again.

Then he whispered—

“You don’t have to think anymore, my sweet prince. Let me do it for you.”

Jisung gasped.

Minho’s hands never stopped moving, never stopped smoothing over him like he was calming a storm—palms gliding down his hips, over the soft, slick skin of his thighs, then up again to cradle his waist.

“I’ll do all the thinking,” Minho said, a little firmer this time. “You just lie there, all pretty for me. You don’t have to worry about anything. Don’t have to ask or beg or figure out what comes next.”

He leaned in again, mouth at Jisung’s throat, tongue dragging slowly over the spot where his pulse thrummed the loudest.

“I’ll give you everything you need.”

Jisung moaned.

It was quiet. Breathless. His eyes fluttered shut, lips parting with the sound.

“You’re such a good boy for me,” Minho whispered. “Letting me see you like this. Letting me have you.”

Jisung’s whole body shuddered.

Minho smiled against his neck. He kissed a trail down the line of his collarbone, then lower, mouthing at the skin just above one of his flushed nipples.

“ My good boy.”

That was all it took.

Jisung let out a sob, choked and wet and crumbling.

And then—he went still.

Not from resistance.

From surrender.

His whole body relaxed beneath Minho’s touch. His thighs stayed parted, his arms loose and open, his breath slowing into soft, uneven gasps. His hands had fallen to the sheets at his sides. His gaze was distant now, lids heavy, eyes glazed and dreamy.

Minho watched it happen with awe, pure possessiveness and admiration shining in his gaze. 

“There you go,” he whispered. “That’s it.”

He pressed a kiss to Jisung’s sternum. Another to his navel. His hands never stopped moving—always touching, always grounding, like he was reminding Jisung that he was here, that he was safe.

“You’re so beautiful like this, my darling,” he murmured. “So open for me. So trusting.”

Jisung made a soft, high noise in response—barely coherent, like his body understood more than his mouth ever could.

“You like being called that, don’t you?” Minho purred, peppering kisses from Jisung’s cheeks down to the crook of his neck—still caged within silks and lace he had yet to remove—still encasing his scent from wafting into the air, to mix with the sweetness of his slick and Minho’s pheromones.

“My good boy. My darling.”

A shiver rolled through Jisung’s body. His hips rolled upward, weak and instinctive, as if offering himself without needing to be asked.

Minho’s voice darkened—still soft, but reverent now, lower, more unwavering.

“You were made for this,” he said. “To be spoiled. Praised. Worshipped. And I’ll give you all that and more, darling.”

He leaned up, kissed the edge of Jisung’s jaw.

“Mine.”

And Jisung, lips parted, eyes unfocused, barely managed a sound between a sigh and a moan. His whole body pliant now. No resistance. No tension. Just pure, trembling submission.

Minho’s hands moved slow as ever.

Up, up, tracing the slope of Jisung’s flushed chest, fingers barely grazing across sweat-slicked skin—pausing just at the base of his throat.

And there it was.

The final garment still fastened around him.

The one that held the last barrier.

Soft ivory lace, threaded through with gold, tight and high and perfect against the column of Jisung’s neck. A preservation of purity. A silken promise.

The collar that encased his scent glands, preserved his modesty—or what was hardly left of it at this point, considering the pathetic state Jisung had fallen into. All at the hands of Minho, all because of the alpha’s praise and worship.

Jisung trembled beneath Minho’s palms.

But he didn’t resist.

Not when Minho reached for the clasps with slow, deliberate hands.

Not when the first pearl came undone with a gentle click.

Not when the second followed.

And not when the silk finally slipped free.

The fabric gave way like a graceful dove, sliding from Jisung’s neck and pooling silently onto the mattress beside him.

And the moment it left Jisung’s skin—

Minho growled.

Low and guttural, dragged from somewhere deep in his chest like it hurt to keep it in.

Jisung gasped, eyes fluttering open, dazed and glassy.

Because Minho’s expression had changed.

Gone was the careful restraint, the composed alpha holding back every instinct.

What looked down at him now was hungry. Unmasked. Overwhelmed.

“Fuck,” Minho whispered, voice hoarse. “You smell so sweet, so addictive,”

Jisung whimpered.

The air around them was already thick with slick, want, heat—but now?

Now it was saturated with lemongrass. Jisung predominantly smelled like lemongrass, bright and sweet, warm citrus and sharp like a sunny day. 

Tangled with honey and sunlight and something tender underneath—something that made Minho’s head spin, made his hands tremble as he reached down, as he breathed him in again.

“Fuck, darling,” Minho rasped, groaning against the bare skin of his throat. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He buried his face in Jisung’s throat.

Breathed him in.

And then—he kissed. Open-mouthed, hungry, groaning softly as he mouthed at the slicked, flushed skin of Jisung’s scent glands. His tongue dragged over one slowly, tasting the citrusy tang of the omega’s unbonded, untouched points. He groaned again, louder this time.

Jisung whined.

“Minho—”

“I want to bite you,” Minho growled, voice low and wrecked. “I want to claim you right here.”

Jisung keened beneath him, hips stuttering up, his scent thickening in the air with instinctual need.

“But I won’t,” Minho whispered, restraining himself. He kissed the gland again, slower now. “You’re too vulnerable, darling. You’re not ready yet. I won’t take something that’s meant to be given right now.”

Jisung sobbed again—his body was shuddering, desperate, spread wide and glowing in the golden light. His hair clung to his temples. His chest rose and fell in slow, hazy rhythm.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t ask.

Didn’t need to.

Because Minho was already moving.

Already lowering himself down.

Already kissing along the insides of Jisung’s trembling thighs now, warm breath ghosting over his slick-coated skin.

His scent was stronger here.

More intoxicating.

Minho inhaled deeply. Let it settle behind his ribs. His mouth was already watering.

Jisung could only whimper above him.

Minho looked up.

Jisung was spread open across the bed, flushed gold by the sun. His arms limp, eyes glassy. Chest rising in slow, shaky breaths. His cock leaked across his stomach, untouched, twitching slightly with every whisper of air. And lower—

His hole was slick and dripping, clenching around nothing. Something about the mere fact that Jisung had never put anything inside of himself was so exhilarating, only made Minho grow even more desperate to defile the omega.

Minho moaned again.

“Look at you,” he rasped. “You’re trembling for me, pretty boy.”

Jisung sobbed.

He couldn’t speak. Could only whine, only shudder, only reach down blindly with one hand like he didn’t know what he needed, just that he needed it now. That he needed Minho.

Minho didn’t wait any longer.

Didn’t give Jisung the chance to spiral, to panic, to pull away.

Instead—

He reached up.

Curled his hands beneath the plush backs of Jisung’s thighs.

And lifted.

Jisung gasped, whole body jolting at the sudden change in position—his legs hoisted gently over Minho’s broad shoulders, trembling as they bent at the knee, heels brushing against silk-threaded armor and black lace. His entire body was exposed now, open in a way that was shameless, that made slick pool faster between his thighs.

“Shhh,” Minho murmured instantly, steady as a tide. His fingers squeezed comfortingly at Jisung’s hips, grounding him. “It’s okay. I’ve got you, darling.”

Jisung could only whimper in response.

Minho leaned forward, nuzzling into the soft, flushed skin of his inner thigh and kissed.

Then kissed again.

Jisung’s body arched.

He was already panting, couldn’t stop himself from crying, and all Minho had done was look at him—taste just the skin near him.

The scent here was strongest.

Rich. Tangy. Bright with lemongrass, mellowed by something like spun sugar and sun-warmed honey. It made Minho’s head spin. Made his grip tighten on Jisung’s hips as he groaned low and long into the skin, feral with the need to taste more.

Jisung let out a trembling, strangled sob.

And Minho—

Minho didn’t tease anymore.

He lowered himself further between his legs, nuzzled into the mess of slick and flushed skin, and inhaled deeply—so deeply it rattled in his chest. His lips brushed so close it made Jisung writhe, made his back arch and his fingers claw at the sheets.

“I’m going to devour you, pretty boy,” Minho murmured, breath ghosting right over his soaked entrance.

Something carnal rumbled in Minho’s throat as he purred, retaining unwavering eye contact  with Jisung as he went down on him.

His tongue lulled around the flushed, leaking pucker of Jisung’s entrance, groaning softly as his slick seeped into his taste buds. 

Jisung was trembling.

Every breath came shallow, every sound from his throat barely more than a sob—sweet and raw and broken. He didn’t even know what he was saying anymore. Just Minho’s name, over and over, like it was a prayer. Like it was the only thing left in the world he could remember.

And Minho—

Minho devoured him.

He tasted like nectar. Like ripe fruit dripping with summer—bright citrus and cloyingly sweet, like lemongrass dipped in honey. It coated Minho’s lips, stuck to his tongue, made his jaw go slack with need. He couldn’t stop. Couldn’t help the low, contented groan that rumbled in his chest as he buried himself deeper, feasting like a man starved.

One of Jisung’s hands found its way to Minho’s hair.

Fingers laced through the dark strands, tugging weakly—more to ground himself than to guide, as if he didn’t know whether to push Minho away or pull him closer.

As if he could ever push Minho away.

His thighs were trembling where they rested over Minho’s shoulders, twitching every time Minho moaned into him, every time his tongue licked just right.

His mind was gone.

Fuzzy around the edges, floating in soft white haze. All he could feel was Minho. All he could hear was praise and groans and the wet, lewd sounds between his legs. All he could think was more.

He had never felt anything like this.

Not from his own hands. Not from daydreams. Not even in the darkest moments of his want, hidden beneath silks with a bitten lip and trembling fingers.

This—this was different.

He had denied himself this for so long, taught that pleasure before mating was indulgent, impure, dangerous. He’d believed it. Followed the rules. Starved himself of every ache and fantasy.

And now?

Now he was burning alive—

And loving every second of it.

“I—Minho,” he choked, head falling back into the pillows. “I can’t—I feel—”

Minho didn’t let him finish.

Didn’t need to.

He knew.

He could feel the way Jisung’s puffy rim was starting to pulse beneath his mouth. Could sense how close he was—the slow build of tension winding tighter and tighter in his body, in his thighs, in his breathing. His hips kept trying to lift, to chase more friction, to grind up into every stroke of Minho’s tongue. Needy. Desperate.

Minho hummed low against him.

Jisung cried out.

Because Minho was determined now. Focused. He could feel Jisung unraveling. Could taste the way his slick thickened, the way his whole body tensed with every lick.

He wasn’t going to stop.

Not until Jisung shattered.

Not until he proved that no rule, no vow, no God could’ve ever made him feel this holy.

“You’re almost there, my good boy,” Minho murmured against him, voice dark and honeyed. “Let go for me. Let me see you fall apart.”

And Jisung, wrecked and whimpering and soaked with want, obeyed.

Jisung’s body started to lock up—muscles taut and trembling, his hips grinding helplessly against Minho’s mouth. His fingers clawed at the sheets, at Minho’s hair, at the nothingness around him like he didn’t know where he was anymore. The heat coiling low in his stomach was unbearable now, too bright, too much, like it would spill over and swallow him whole.

“Minho—” he sobbed. “It’s—it’s too much—my tummy—too hot—”

Minho’s hands moved instantly, strong palms sweeping up to press against Jisung’s hips, grounding him, holding him in place. His thumbs stroked circles into the flushed skin as he pulled him closer.

“You’re okay, darling,” Minho whispered against his skin. “You’re so good. You’re safe. Just let it happen. You don’t have to hold anything back.”

“I can’t—!” Jisung gasped. “I’ve never—I don’t know—!”

Minho kissed the inside of his thigh. Then again, firmer.

“Don’t be scared,” he murmured. “I’ve got you. I’m right here. You’re doing so well for me.”

And that—that was all it took.

Jisung shattered.

His whole body arched off the bed, legs trembling violently over Minho’s shoulders. A cry punched from his chest—high and broken and loud, echoing off the palace walls, louder than he’d ever allowed himself to be. His fingers curled hard into Minho’s hair, holding on like he was drowning.

He came hard.

So hard he saw white.

So hard it felt like something inside him broke open and spilled over, like everything he’d ever held back had been released all at once.

Tears streamed down his cheeks. His thighs quivered, slick dripping down in steady rivulets, smearing onto Minho’s lips and tongue and chin.

And Minho—

Minho didn’t waste a drop.

He groaned against him, deep and guttural, like something unspoken had finally cracked inside his chest. His tongue lapped at everything Jisung gave him, messy and hungry and possessed, like he could live off the taste alone.

His grip didn’t falter. Hands still cupped beneath Jisung’s trembling thighs, holding him open, steady, claimed.

Jisung had fallen apart completely.

His body jolted with aftershocks, twitching beneath Minho’s mouth, and he could hardly breathe through the wrecked, sobbing gasps that spilled from his lips. His chest heaved. His throat burned. Tears dripped freely from the corners of his eyes.

But it didn’t feel wrong.

Didn’t feel dirty.

It felt freeing.

Like something sacred had been undone. Like his chastity, his purity, his carefully upheld dignity had all burst open under Minho’s hands and mouth—and instead of shame, all he felt was light.

He had never felt more alive.

Never felt more wanted.

Never been so devastatingly owned by the ache of pleasure before, and now that he’d tasted it—he wanted more. Even if it hurt. Even if it broke him.

Even as the overstimulation started to hit.

Minho hadn’t stopped.

He couldn’t.

His lips were slick with Jisung’s release, tongue still dragging slow and deep where Jisung pulsed the hardest. He moaned against him—moaned, deep and rumbling and wrecked—like he was the one unraveling now, drunk off the taste, the scent, the feel of his omega sobbing and soaked beneath him.

“Minho—!” Jisung whined, voice trembling. “I—I can’t—too much—!”

His legs twitched, kicked weakly against Minho’s back.

Minho growled against him, didn’t relent. His nails dug faintly into Jisung’s hips.

“Minho—Minho—!” Jisung sobbed louder, shaking, overwhelmed. “I—it’s—it’s too hot again—please—!”

And Minho—

He finally looked up.

His eyes were blown wide, glazed with something wild and distant. His lips were wet, mouth parted like he’d been drowning in Jisung, like he’d forgotten how to breathe without the taste of him.

He looked lost.

Drunk.

Owned.

But the moment he heard Jisung’s voice like that—small and pleading and broken—

He blinked.

Came back to himself.

And with careful, shaking hands, Minho leaned back—just barely—enough for air to settle between them again.

Jisung gasped. His body jolted. He immediately reached down with trembling arms, locking his thighs loosely around Minho’s shoulders as if to both keep him close and stop him from going down on him again.

“M-Minho,” he whispered again, tears smearing down his cheeks. “I—I can’t take more…”

Minho exhaled like he’d been winded.

And kissed the inside of his thigh one last time, reverent and soft.

“I know, darling,” he purred. “I know. I’m here.”

He ran a hand down Jisung’s calf, up to his knee, massaging gently to ground him. His other hand cradled his hip.

Minho stayed between his thighs a moment longer, just breathing him in. One hand still rested on Jisung’s hip, the other splayed against his thigh, thumb tracing faint, grounding circles into the skin.

“You were perfect,” he murmured again, voice so low and honey-sweet Jisung barely heard it through the ringing in his ears. “You’re still perfect.”

Jisung whimpered. He couldn’t answer yet. Couldn’t think. His body was still buzzing, still twitching with every soft exhale of Minho’s breath against his inner thigh.

Eventually, Minho shifted.

He moved gently—peeling Jisung’s legs from his shoulders, lowering them with care, pressing a soft kiss to each knee before letting them rest. And then, slowly, he crawled up the bed, body moving like smoke, until he was hovering over Jisung’s spent form.

His hand cupped the side of Jisung’s flushed face.

“Come back to me, sweetheart,” he whispered. “There you are. Good boy.”

He leaned in, kissed the tear tracks on his cheeks.

“You did so well for me. You gave me everything.”

Jisung made a small, fragile noise—half sob, half sigh. His arms lifted slowly, shakily, wrapping around Minho’s shoulders, fingers curling into the back of his silken collar like it was the only tether to the world.

Minho held him.

Gently. Reverently.

Their bodies pressed chest to chest, heat melting into heat.

Jisung didn’t speak for a long while. Just breathed. His cheek against Minho’s, his lashes fluttering. The room glowed with stillness, illuminated by the setting sun gleaming through the curtains. 

And then—

“Thank you,” he whispered, barely audible.

Minho blinked.

Jisung’s hand clutched tighter at his collar.

“I… I’ve never…” His breath hitched. “No one’s ever—”

He stopped. Shook his head against Minho’s shoulder.

“I think I—”

But he cut himself off again, too shy, too fragile to finish.

Minho pulled back just enough to look at him. His thumb brushed the edge of Jisung’s cheek, eyes searching his expression.

“You think you…?” he coaxed gently.

Jisung looked away, face burning.

But Minho only smiled.

Soft.

Certain.

He leaned down and kissed him—slow, deep, like he already knew.

“I love you too,” he whispered against Jisung’s lips. “From the second I saw you.”

Jisung choked on a soft sound. His arms tightened around Minho, overwhelmed and dizzy with it all.

“But we’ll take it slow,” Minho said, resting their foreheads together. “If that’s what you want. We can do this however you need, darling.”

Jisung nodded.

Minho brushed another kiss to his lips.

“And when you’re ready,” he added, quieter now, “I want to court you. Officially. Properly.”

Jisung’s breath caught.

But before he could say anything, Minho added—

“Even if we only have a month.”

The words hit like a chill.

Jisung’s brow furrowed. His nose scrunched.

“Minho…” he whined, voice full of fond exasperation. “Don’t talk about him right now.”

His fingers gripped at the fabric over Minho’s chest, clutching like he was offended, like the very mention of the other prince soured his mouth. “You ruin the moment when you do that.”

Minho’s expression softened immediately, gaze fond. “You’re right,” he murmured. “Forgive me, my prince.”

And then he bent his head.

Kissed Jisung’s chin. Once. Then again, lower.

Over the soft swell of his flushed neck.

Jisung’s breath hitched.

Minho nuzzled along the crook of his neck, mouth pressing reverently into the curve just beneath his scent gland. The same place he had grazed before. This time, he didn’t stop.

His teeth brushed the sensitive skin, teasing.

Then he bit down.

Not hard enough to break skin—not even close—but enough to leave a mark. A soft, possessive one. A warning. A promise. 

Jisung whined, squirming beneath him.

“Minho—”

“You’re mine,” Minho breathed into his neck. “Even without the bite, you’re mine.”

His lips traveled across the length of Jisung’s throat, slow and indulgent. Kissing. Sucking. Letting his teeth scrape just enough to make Jisung tremble again, even in the afterglow.

Jisung moaned, high and weak, arching up into every touch without thinking.

And then—

He stilled.

Went quiet.

Minho pulled back, only slightly. Met his gaze. “What is it?”

Jisung blinked slowly, lashes heavy, lips parted with a breath.

“Do you…” His voice trailed off. He cleared his throat, eyes flickering away. “Do you need me to make you feel good too?”

Minho blinked.

The corners of his mouth twitched.

Jisung kept going, voice a little faster now, nerves bubbling up through the haze. “I just—I mean, you didn’t—” His eyes drifted downward, then back up again, shy and a little confused. “You never took anything off. Besides your collar.”

Minho’s chest shook with a soft laugh. “Ah.”

Jisung immediately sat up a little straighter—flustered, alarmed. “Wait—did I do something wrong?”

“No, darling,” Minho said, instantly soothing, one hand coming up to rub along the length of Jisung’s spine. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Not at all.”

Jisung relaxed slightly.

Minho’s voice turned quieter. His eyes gentled.

“One day,” he said, “I’ll show you everything. My whole body. Every part.”

Jisung tilted his head.

“But not yet,” Minho added, softer still. “Not tonight.”

There was a pause. Jisung’s gaze lingered along the curve of Minho’s jaw, as if sensing something unspoken, something folded deep within the alpha’s silence. He didn’t push, didn’t ask. Just leaned in close again.

And with a mischievous little smile—barely there, barely teasing—he whispered into Minho’s ear, “I’m sure even someone with as… refined a palette as me will still be impressed.”

Minho froze.

Then groaned.

“Jisung.”

The omega bit back a grin. “What?”

Minho’s hands tightened around his waist, dragging him closer. “You’re asking to be ruined again.”

Jisung shrugged innocently. “I thought I already was.”

Minho growled, low and playful, burying his face in Jisung’s shoulder to hide the flush creeping up his ears.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered into his skin.

Jisung laughed. Sleepy and breathless. His fingers trailed up the back of Minho’s neck, toying with a strand of his hair. The heat had faded now, leaving only the warmth between them—steady, golden, safe.

Minho pressed a final kiss to his collarbone.

Then lay with him, tangled together beneath the remnants of their silks, the scent of lemongrass and lavender clinging thickly in the air.

And for a while, neither of them spoke.

There was nothing left to say.

Not now.

Not here, in this moment suspended in stillness—tucked within the quiet warmth of Jisung’s chambers, wrapped in silk and sweat and the sacred silence that followed a first, shattering love.

The world beyond those walls did not exist.

Not the court.

Not the crown.

Not the vows Jisung had once sworn to uphold.

Not the ones he’d broken tonight—without shame, without guilt, without looking back.

There was only this.

The weight of Minho’s arm draped around his waist.

And as the sun dipped below the horizon and shadows melted into gold, Jisung let himself believe—

For now, at least—

That nothing else mattered.

Only this.

Only them.

And the way Minho held him like he would never, ever let go.

Chapter Text

Night had fallen.

The sun had long since sunk beneath the horizon, painting the palace windows in quiet blue. A hush had settled over the halls—velvety, complete—broken only by the soft rustle of wind threading through garden drapes and distant corridors.

Jisung slept.

Curled delicately beneath the weight of silks and lace, legs tangled, skin warm with afterglow. His hair fanned against the pillow like a halo, chest rising slow and steady with each breath. The room still clung to the scent of him—lemongrass and the remnants of his sweet slick, now faded into something softer, something sated. Dreamy.

Minho hadn’t moved.

Not in nearly an hour.

He’d stayed curled around Jisung, arm snug around his waist, face tucked near the slope of his neck, breathing him in like the memory might fade if he let go. He didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to step outside the warmth they’d made here, the stillness of a moment that felt stolen from the hands of fate itself.

But he knew he’d have to.

Eventually.

It would be foolish—dangerous—for anyone to see him here. In the prince’s chambers. Especially now.

Minho exhaled slowly. Then—carefully, quietly—he slipped his arm from around Jisung’s waist and sat up. The mattress barely shifted beneath his weight, but Jisung stirred anyway, whimpering faintly in his sleep. Minho’s heart clenched.

“Hush, darling,” he murmured under his breath. “Just rest.”

Jisung’s brow twitched. But he didn’t wake.

Minho stepped lightly across the room. The stone floor was cold against his feet, even in the glow of the amber lantern light. He made his way into the adjoining bath chamber—ornate and gilded, with polished ivory fixtures and a wide basin of lukewarm water waiting silently in the corner. He soaked a soft towel, wrung it out, returned with it folded over one arm.

Jisung remained asleep, limbs tucked in close, legs parted ever so slightly from earlier. He looked flushed still. Exhausted. Spent.

Minho’s gaze softened.

He kneeled at the edge of the bed again.

With gentle hands, he took Jisung’s thighs—one, then the other—and wiped carefully between them. His touch was slow, tender. He cleaned away the mess he’d left behind; the leftover slick, the glisten of saliva where his mouth had worshipped, the remnants of release that had pooled in delicate, intimate places.

Jisung whimpered.

Just barely.

Minho purred quietly, as if to soothe him back into sleep, then folded the towel and set it aside. He tucked the blankets over him more securely, smoothing the silks over Jisung’s hips. Then he bent to retrieve the clothes he had undressed him from earlier—handling each piece with care. The veil. The collar. The robe still perfumed with the faintest trace of his prince’s previous arousal.

He folded each garment precisely and placed them neatly upon the velvet bench near the hearth.

And when he was done, he turned back.

Watched Jisung in the stillness.

Let himself linger.

His prince—his fated mate—looked ethereal in the low light. So soft. So peaceful. His cheeks were still tinged with rose, his lips parted with sleep, lashes casting shadows over flushed skin. It made Minho ache.

He crossed the room once more.

Found the writing desk tucked beside the bookshelves near the window—dark wood, inlaid with gold filigree. The inkwell had already been prepared. A single sheet of parchment rested beside it, untouched.

He dipped the quill.

And wrote.

The words sat before him after he concluded the letter, dark and drying on cream parchment—a quiet confession nestled within careful lines and aching restraint. Minho stared at them for a long time, thumb ghosting over the edge of the paper, as if trying to decide whether it was too much. Or not enough.

But then—his hand slipped into the inner lining of his coat.

Felt for the small, ridged circle of silver he kept tucked inside the hidden pocket over his ribs.

And pulled it free.

A stamp.

Not just any stamp—but the official sigil of Noctaire.

He hadn’t touched it in years.

The smooth crest was still etched into its underside, glinting faintly in the lamplight: a raven clutching a crescent moon in its talons, wings spread wide beneath a canopy of stars. The mark of his home. His origin. The kingdom that had cast him out.

The kingdom he still bled for.

Minho held it in his palm.

His fingers curled around it slowly, like he was gripping something holy, something weighted with blood and memory. And for a moment, he just breathed. Inhaled the scent of Jisung on the linens behind him. Let it steady him.

He would not lie.

Not to his soon-to-be mate.

Noctaire and Solvain may be rivals now—once allies, now bitter opposites on either side of a fractured alliance—but Jisung deserved the truth. All of it. Even this.

Even the bloodlines between them.

He reached for the ink.

Uncorked the pot, tipped the seal into the black pool with care, then lifted it to the bottom of the page—right beneath his signature written in an elegant, sloping script.

And pressed.

The parchment took it easily. Clean, perfect. The lines of the crescent moon within the sigil bled slightly around the edges, dark and commanding against the pale page.

It was unmistakable.

A declaration not just of love, but of lineage.

Of who he was. Where he came from. What he still carried, even in exile.

Minho let the seal sit for a moment longer, the waxed silver cooling between his fingers before he returned it to his coat. The last remaining relic of a kingdom that would have him no longer—but still pulsed beneath his skin with every breath.

He hadn’t been Minho of Noctaire in years.

But for Jisung, he would be.

He folded the letter once—carefully, sharply—creased it clean down the center, and set it gently on the bedside table, facing outward, where Jisung would see it the moment he woke.

Then he looked back.

One last time.

Jisung hadn’t stirred since his soft whimper earlier. He lay peacefully now, buried beneath the sheets, the golden light from the remaining lanterns casting long shadows across the bedframe and the smooth curve of his shoulder.

He looked untouched by the war of kingdoms.

Untouched by blood.

And yet—Minho had touched him.

Loved him, and would continue to do so.

And left his mark in more ways than one.

His eyes lingered a moment longer. Memorizing every part of him in that glow. The softness of his lashes. The way his hands curled faintly in his sleep. The slight bruising kiss left on his scent gland—a warning to the world, a whisper of promise.

Then Minho turned away.

Pulled the door open with silent precision.

Slipped out into the corridor, the silence swallowing him whole.

And the door closed behind him—quiet, careful not to disturb Jisung’s slumber—carrying with it a truth stamped in ink and blood.

That the prince of Solvain had been loved tonight by the exiled prince of Noctaire.

And there would be no taking that back.

Morning came soft.

Barely there.

A whisper through the palace curtains, pale gold slipping across the floor like a secret. It draped itself over the bed, over the folds of discarded silks, over skin still kissed by the remnants of something sacred.

Jisung stirred.

A soft sound fell from his lips—more whimper than breath—as his muscles twitched, aching in places he’d never felt ache before. His thighs trembled faintly beneath the weight of the blankets, sore in a way that felt earned. Not painful, not bruised, just tender.

Tender like the mouth that had touched him. The hands that had held him open. The voice that had worshipped him as though nothing about him had ever been wrong.

His eyes didn’t open right away.

He blinked slow, sluggish, shifting slightly beneath the covers—and instinctively, his hand reached across the bed.

To where Minho had been.

Still warm, faintly—but empty.

His fingers splayed across the sheets, palm brushing over a hollow impression in the linen. A dent in the pillow. The faint trace of lavender still emenating in the scent of the morning air. A warmth that clung, even if the man himself was gone.

Jisung pouted.

Not because he didn’t understand. Of course he did.

Minho being here at dawn would’ve been reckless. Stupid. Dangerous in a way that not even their devotion to one another could defend against.

If anyone saw him leaving—

Jisung didn’t want to think about what that would’ve meant. What his advisors would say. What the king would decree. What the prince of Thornevalis—his supposed betrothed—would think.

But the ache that bloomed in his chest now wasn’t from fear.

It was from guilt.

And not the kind he’d prepared for.

There was no shame in his bones. Not for how he’d spread his legs. Not for how he’d begged to be touched. Not for how he’d cried out loud enough to disturb the quiet of the previous night—because every sound he’d made, every tear he’d shed, had been for Minho.

And only Minho.

His mate.

Jisung knew now.

He hadn’t known before—not really—but he knew now. No alpha could’ve ever made him feel like that. Not even in the throes of heat. Not even if he were drowning in slick and pheromones and aching want.

It had only ever been him.

The way his body reacted—how fast he fell, how deep it went, how every cell in him sang Minho’s name without needing to be told. That wasn’t biology. That wasn’t impulse.

That was fate.

And now?

Now all Jisung could do was lie here, aching and raw and still glowing faintly from the inside out. His hips shifted slowly under the sheets, just enough to feel the dampness between his thighs. A soft, involuntary pulse throbbed low in his belly.

A flush crept up his throat.

Gods. The thought of it—what they’d done, what Minho had done to him. The way he’d tasted him. Drunk him down. Held him like the most precious thing in the world.

It made Jisung squirm, even now.

And still—he pushed it down. Willed the warmth to settle, even as his thighs instinctively pressed together and a soft sound threatened to slip past his lips again.

Not now, he thought, cheeks burning.

He exhaled slowly. Let his lashes flutter open fully.

That’s when he saw it.

The letter.

It lay on the table beside him—folded once, crisp and neat and quiet, like it had been waiting for him all along. Its edges were squared perfectly, untouched, but the weight of it reached across the space between them like a whisper.

Jisung stared.

And his heart stuttered once in his chest.

Because he knew—without question—that the words inside would change something. Anchor something.

He reached for it slowly. Fingers still trembling faintly with leftover sensitivity, the ache in his joints grounding him as much as it weakened him. The paper was soft beneath his touch. Thicker than most palace stationary—Jisung’s own personal parchment, usually utilized for his regular habit of journalling. It was scented faintly—not just with Minho’s lingering lavender musk, but with ink.

And beneath it all, just the faintest trace of something colder. Sharper.

Iron and nightshade.

Jisung’s eyes dropped to the bottom of the page where a small black seal glimmered faintly in the morning light.

A raven.

Wings spread wide. A crescent moon curled between its talons.

He knew the symbol. 

Knew that moon.

Everyone in Solvain did.

It was the sigil of Noctaire.

A kingdom long fallen from their favor.

A name whispered in war councils. On wanted lists. Among curses.

A sigil his father had once ordered burned from every scroll and relic across Solvain’s borders, when Jisung had been a mere, naive child—unaware of his responsibilities as a prince and the reputation he had to uphold. 

But it was here.

On his letter.

Stamped like a promise.

Minho had chosen to mark it. Chosen to show him—clearly, irrevocably—who he was, and where he had come from.

Even knowing what it might cost.

Jisung pressed the paper to his chest for a moment before he dared unfold it.

His eyes fluttered closed again.

He didn’t cry.

But for the first time in his life, the weight of a broken vow didn’t feel like failure.

It felt like the beginning of something worth sacrificing for.

The seal came away with the faintest crack.

Jisung peeled it open delicately—thumb slipping under the edge of the thick parchment, careful not to bend it, not to smudge the ink. It felt important, like touching something sacred. Something equivalent to finality.

He nestled back into the bed before he began reading, tucking the blankets around his hips to ground himself. The silk brushed warm against his skin—still sensitive, still tingling in places where Minho’s tongue had once been. He shifted slightly, breath catching as the ache between his legs pulsed low and heady again.

It wasn’t just soreness now.

It was yearning.

The kind that settled like a burn in his belly. The kind that bloomed in waves whenever he remembered the look in Minho’s eyes—how ravaged he’d looked after licking Jisung clean, mouth glazed with slick, hands trembling like he’d just tasted heaven and wasn’t sure if he’d survive it.

Jisung whimpered softly, more breath than sound.

And curled tighter into the sheets.

Gods, he wanted him back.

He wanted Minho’s weight beside him. His arm wrapped tight around his waist. The press of lips behind his ear, words whispered in that low, steady voice that made the rest of the world go quiet.

He wanted Minho to read this to him.

To whisper every word against his flushed skin, kissing each syllable into the slope of his shoulder, pressing it into his chest with each exhale. He wanted to hear Minho speak his love, not just in letters, not just on parchment—but with hands, with breath, with everything.

But he wasn’t here.

So Jisung closed his eyes—and let himself pretend.

Pretended Minho was beside him still.

Pretended the voice in his head was real.

And he began to read.

To my prince,

I do not know what words are worthy enough for you. I do not know if ink can capture what your name tastes like in my mouth, or how you looked when you broke for me. I do not know if this parchment can hold the weight of what I feel for you—what I have always felt, even before I understood it.

But I will try.

Last night, I touched divinity. Not because of the way your body opened for me. Not because you let me taste what no other has known. But because you let yourself be seen. Entirely. Broken open and still radiant. Desperate, undone, holy.

And you let me hold that.

You let me worship it.

You let me love it.

You.

You, Jisung, who was forced to swear vows to a man who does not deserve them. You, who carry duty like armour even though it bruises you. You, who still looked at me with softness in your eyes, even after learning who I am, even after watching me fall to my knees at your altar and beg to know you better.

I have never been gentler with anything in my life. I have never wanted to be gentler with anyone else.

I did not need to be pleasured last night. I needed you to feel adored.

Because you are.

I adore you. I want you. I have never wanted anything more than I want to be yours.

Not just in name. Not just in body. But in every sense.

I want to court you.

I want to wake beside you—not just in secret, but in the eyes of every royal court, within every kingdom.

But I will wait.

If you ask me to be patient, I will wait a thousand lifetimes. I will watch you marry another if I must. I will bite my tongue and stay in the shadows. I will rip myself open every day if it means keeping you safe.

But gods help me, Jisung—if you ever ask me to take you again, I will.

And I will make you forget anyone else’s name but mine.

You are not just enough. You are everything.

Yours, if you’ll have me.

—Minho of Noctaire,

A name I will never hide from you.

Jisung’s hands trembled.

The letter rested atop the sheets now, the ink still dark, the paper still warm from where his chest had pressed against it.

His whole body burned.

The heat curled inside him like a brand, like Minho had left it behind on purpose—knowing this would happen, knowing that reading those words would make his thighs press together, that the sheer force of being wanted this deeply would light every nerve in his body on fire again.

He swallowed hard.

He ached.

Not just physically—but emotionally. Ache like a string pulled taut in his chest. Ache like longing. Like grief for a version of himself that had never been worshipped this way.

He pressed his face into the pillow where Minho had laid his head.

It smelled like him. Still.

Sharp and soft. Smoke and lavender. Salt and want.

Jisung moaned quietly into the linen.

Because it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough to read Minho’s love. He needed it again. Needed it spoken into his skin. Etched down his spine. Seeping into his veins.

He needed Minho.

Now.

Always.

The sheets clung to his thighs when he moved.

Jisung groaned softly beneath his breath, the sound catching in his throat—half-formed and aching, nothing like the sweet whimpers Minho had drawn from him hours before. This was different. This was need with nowhere to go. This was a body still reeling from worship, from softness, from the most intimate ruin he’d ever known.

He sat up slowly.

And then—carefully, with exhaustion still gnawing at his limbs—he climbed off the bed.

His legs trembled slightly beneath him. The muscles in his thighs twitched, sore from tension, from release, from being held open so long by hands that had never touched him cruelly. Every step was a reminder. Every shudder of his body was a ghost of Minho’s mouth between his legs.

He whimpered, cheeks hot. Pressed his thighs together as if it could help. It didn’t.

Because the heat was still there.

Low and blooming and unrelenting.

His body still begged to be touched. Still pulsed with a primal ache, deep in his core, slick wetting softly between his thighs again with every thought of Minho’s voice—low and worshipful, murmuring praise against his flushed skin.

But Jisung knew better than to give in.

Not right now.

There were duties that awaited him—appointments, rituals, meetings. The palace would soon awaken. Servants would pass through his halls. Nobles would summon him to court once again to inquire about potential new developments pertaining to his supervision over Minho. 

The scent of last night’s sin still clung to his sheets, his hair, his skin—he didn’t need to make it worse by giving in again.

So he did what was expected.

He dressed.

Garment by garment, as he’d done every morning since he was a child. But this time—everything felt different. This time, every brush of silk against his skin felt sharper. More intrusive. Every clasp and pearl was a weight. A barrier.

He paused in front of the full-length mirror.

And immediately flushed.

There—faint, but present—was the mark Minho had left.

Pressed like a secret kiss against his scent gland. Not deep enough to scar. Not breaking skin. But it burned. Gods, it burned —because it wasn’t just a bruise. It was a vow. A branding upon his skin. A promise.

A bite that vowed Minho would claim him if he could.

A mark that testified he already had.

Jisung reached for it—fingers trembling—and brushed over the tender skin gently. His knees went weak just remembering how it had felt. Minho’s mouth. Minho’s voice. The tenderness in his touch. How easily he could have bitten down. Made it real. Made them permanent.

But he hadn’t.

Because he loved Jisung too much to rush him.

Even though Jisung would have let him.

Tears pricked behind his eyes. He swallowed hard.

Then reached for one of the many pale silk collars within his wardrobe—his symbol of virtue, his modesty, the royal emblem of an untouched prince. It hid the mark well. Covered the proof of Minho’s mouth.

And he hated it.

He wanted to rip it off. Wanted the whole court to see what Minho had done to him. Wanted to bare his throat and say he was his—make it known that he begged to be his, no matter the consequences that would come as a result. 

But instead, he fastened the clasp.

And turned from the mirror.

The rest of his garments came next.

Soft silks in gentle gold and white, cascading like a cloud framing the rays of sunlight beaming through them. His typical attire—regal, pure, ceremonial. Threads of pearl woven into every hem. Loose enough to allow for comfort, tight enough to keep him modest. Beautiful, in a distant, ethereal kind of way.

But all he could think of—all he could think of—was how Minho had undressed him from this.

Had peeled each layer away like an offering.

Had looked at him, veilless and flushed and vulnerable, and whispered he was beautiful.

It wasn’t the veil that made him beautiful. Not the robes. Not the pearls.

It was how Minho had seen him.

How Minho had touched him—trembling, eager, overwhelmed—and worshipped every inch of what was real beneath the silks.

Jisung reached for his veil with shaking hands.

He let it fall over his face.

White and sheer and iridescent in the morning sun. Heavy with pearls. The same veil Minho had pushed back with reverent hands, as if unveiling something sacred.

He felt sick with longing.

His fingers curled into the fabric at his sides.

He had to go.

He had duties. Meetings. Appearances.

He could not crawl back into bed and beg to be ruined again. Could not summon his fated mate with a whisper and a desperate plea. Could not fall apart again—not until the rest of the world had seen him, spoken to him, demanded their pound of princely flesh.

Jisung inhaled slowly.

Then stepped forward.

Each motion blooming with practiced grace. Each breath a little sharper.

Because even as he moved toward responsibility, even as he prepared to play his part, one thing echoed in his ribs—

That no collar could silence the truth of how Minho had utterly devoured him.  

And no veil could conceal how hungrily he burned for Minho still.

The palace halls were quiet at this hour—bathed in gold from the early sunlight, warmed by the hush of stillness that only existed before the world properly woke. Jisung stepped out from behind the veil of his doors, silks whispering around his ankles, his hands delicately folded in front of him. His collar was fastened just so—pearls glinting faintly at his throat—but beneath it, the phantom ache of Minho’s mouth on his skin lingered.

Chan stood post at his door as always. Loyal, warm-eyed, dutiful as ever.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” he greeted, his smile kind, soft around the edges.

Jisung offered one back—small, grateful. “Good morning, Chan. I hope you slept well.”

Before Chan could respond, footsteps echoed from down the corridor. Hyunjin rounded the corner, elegant as ever in his fitted court robes, a scroll of notes tucked beneath his arm. He gave a brief bow before coming to stand beside them.

“Your Highness,” Hyunjin said with a faint smile, “you’re up earlier than I expected.”

“Couldn’t sleep much longer,” Jisung murmured. “Not with how much I have to do today.”

Hyunjin’s gaze softened. “Yes. About that. I’m afraid you are required to make a court appearance by noon. Several nobles have requested your presence.”

Jisung barely reacted, only nodding. “That’s fine.”

“There’s… one more thing,” Hyunjin added, glancing briefly to Chan before turning his eyes back to Jisung. “They’re requesting that the alpha from the dungeons accompany you. For safety and transparency, given your arrangements to be the one supervising his detainment within the palace.” 

Minho.

Jisung’s stomach turned, not out of fear—but from something that curled hotter and lower. Possessiveness. A foreign feeling, one that had never seeped into his consciousness before.

He didn’t want Minho to be paraded in front of them. Didn’t want those stone-eyed court members appraising him like a criminal, whispering about his origin if they recognized the curve of his jaw, the depth of his gaze.

He was his.

Only his.

Still, he swallowed it down.

“I understand,” he said quietly. “I’ll bring him.”

Hyunjin’s brows furrowed, concern flashing across his face. “You’re certain?”

“I am.” Jisung paused. Then—more softly, “You… spoke to Chan and Changbin last night, I presume?”

Hyunjin nodded. “I did. They told me everything they knew.” He stepped closer, voice gentler. “And I swear to you, Your Highness—none of this leaves our circle. Not unless you wish it to.”

Jisung let out a slow breath, shoulders easing. “Thank you.”

He didn’t say more—couldn’t. Not yet.

“Is there anything else?” he asked instead. “Before the court gathering?”

Hyunjin hesitated. “Yes. Unfortunately.”

Jisung braced himself.

“The prince of Thornevalis is expected to arrive within the hour,” Hyunjin said with a grimace. “He gave little warning, as usual.”

Jisung closed his eyes. Exhaled slowly.

“I know,” Hyunjin murmured quietly. “I wish it didn’t have to be like this.”

Chan stepped forward, sensing the shift in his prince’s mood. “I’ll ensure the meeting doesn’t go on for too long,” he said, placing a firm, comforting hand on Jisung’s shoulder. “You’ll have time before the court appearance. You can see him.”

Jisung’s eyes fluttered open. “Really?”

Chan nodded, smiling faintly. “Go when you’re ready. I’ll handle the rest.”

The warmth that bloomed in Jisung’s chest was nearly unbearable. He reached forward, pressed his hand briefly over Chan’s, then glanced between the two of them—Chan, standing tall and reassuring; Hyunjin, elegant and fond, his gaze softer than most ever got to see.

They stood just a little too close together.

Jisung tilted his head, exasperated fondness flitting through his features. “You two are cowards.”

Hyunjin blinked. “Pardon?”

Chan flushed. “What?”

“You heard me,” Jisung hummed, turning to leave, silks trailing behind him. “Sort yourselves out.”

And with that, he walked away, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the storm building in his chest.

He hated that the prince of Thornevalis was coming.

Hated that he had to play the obedient, pure, innocent little prince role. 

Hated that his lips still tasted of true love, and yet he had to greet someone who saw him as a possession.

But he would endure it. For now.

Because within an hour or so, he would be back where he belonged.

In Minho’s arms.

The grand doors of the palace foyer opened with a thunderous groan, polished brass catching the sunlight that streamed in behind the ornate carriage. The crest of Thornevalis gleamed on the side—coiled serpents entwined around a sword, ivory and gold lacquered to perfection.

Jisung stood waiting, hands folded delicately in front of him, his expression carefully neutral. The collar around his throat chafed slightly as he lifted his chin, waiting for the formality to play itself out.

And then—

Vincent stepped down from the carriage, flanked by his guards.

He was tall, sharp-shouldered, broad-jawed—dressed in a deep green brocade trimmed with obsidian velvet. His eyes were cold. His lips thinner than Jisung remembered. He didn’t smile.

“Your Highness,” Jisung greeted, voice pleasant but practiced, bowing his head just enough to be respectable. “Welcome back to Solvain. I trust your journey was swift?”

Vincent grunted.

Then, without answering, his hand shot out and closed firmly around Jisung’s arm.

Jisung flinched.

Not visibly—but enough that his pulse spiked.

Vincent didn’t wait. Didn’t speak. Just turned and began walking, dragging Jisung in his wake like he owned the very marble beneath his feet.

They passed servants. Guards. Courtiers.

None dared intervene.

Jisung clenched his jaw, forced himself to breathe evenly, to smile when someone bowed in passing. But internally, bile was already rising.

This was his palace. His corridors. His kingdom.

And still—Vincent dared to touch him like this.

To lead him like he was nothing more than a wayward hound.

Eventually, they entered one of the lesser lounges. It was richly appointed—velvet furnishings, an arrangement of fresh flowers on the table, delicate ceramic tea cups laid out in anticipation of polite conversation.

But Vincent did not offer politeness.

He dropped onto one of the settees like he owned the room, gesturing lazily for Jisung to sit across from him.

Jisung obeyed, silks rustling faintly as he arranged himself.

And then—

Vincent leaned forward.

Sniffed the air.

Jisung tensed.

A single heartbeat. Then another.

Vincent’s brow lifted. “You smell like an alpha.”

Jisung blinked, innocent. “Pardon?”

Vincent’s gaze narrowed slightly. “Your scent’s been altered. Muted, but not fully masked. Someone’s been near you recently.”

Jisung tilted his head just a fraction, body language morphing into one of soft confusion with practised ease. “Perhaps it’s from my guards,” he countered easily. “I passed several on the way here.”

Vincent didn’t look convinced. “It’s not Chan,” he said. “Or the other one, the beta. This is… someone unfamiliar.”

Jisung let a faint frown touch his lips underneath the veil. “Perhaps it was a court visitor. I do have duties, you know.”

A pause.

Then, eventually—Vincent leaned back, the crease between his brows easing only marginally. “Hmph.”

Jisung exhaled silently, only once the alpha’s attention drifted elsewhere.

Vincent’s tone shifted—colder, now. More clipped.

“I heard about the one in your dungeons.”

Jisung merely hummed underneath his breath, not quite meeting Vincent’s gaze. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Vincent hissed. “The one who broke into your kingdom. Who demanded you. The one who your guards say managed to get past their defences, stormed into the palace and had your name spilling from his lips.”

Jisung’s stomach flipped.

Vincent continued, voice disdainful. “They’re saying he claimed he heard of corruption here. Said he came to investigate.”

Jisung’s lashes fluttered. “Corruption?”

Vincent’s lip curled. “Yes. Corruption. Meaning me, no doubt. Word travels fast when it’s convenient, especially as our wedding is less than two fortnights away. I’m to believe this feral beast broke into Solvain just to rescue you from a perfectly legitimate union?”

Perfectly legitimate union. Jisung had to force himself not to scowl, had to shake off the growing feeling of disgust rising in him.

Jisung folded his hands in his lap. “You give him an awful lot of credit for someone locked behind bars.”

“And yet,” Vincent drawled, “I hear you insisted on being the one to personally oversee his detainment. That you granted yourself full access. Alone.”

Jisung tilted his head. “I did.”

“Why?”

“Because it is my palace,” Jisung hummed sweetly. “And I am its prince. My duty is to understand threats and determine their weight.”

“You’re putting yourself in danger,” Vincent snapped. “You’re behaving like a naive pup.”

Jisung’s nails dug into the fabric of his robes.

“I am behaving as the crown demands of me,” he said, voice still pleasant. Still curt. “With discretion and wisdom.”

Vincent leaned back again, unsatisfied.

Jisung wanted to scream.

To spit.

To tear away the pearls and gold and scream that he belonged to no one but the alpha in the dungeon. That his body ached not for this cold, condescending heir of serpents and swords—but for Minho. That he would be marked not with a crown, but with teeth.

But instead—

He smiled.

He bowed his head.

Silk spilled over his shoulders like sunlight as he did, the illusion of serenity curling over the ache blooming in his chest.

When Jisung looked up again, his voice was steady.

“So,” he murmured gently, “what was so urgent that you made this… unannounced visit?”

Vincent scoffed.

“You think I wanted to spend my morning in your presence?”

The words were callous. Delivered without pause. Without care.

Jisung’s throat tightened.

He swallowed it. The sting. The shame. The instinct to snap something venomous back.

He let it slide like morning dew down a marble statue, unmoved.

Vincent continued, tone dry.

“I’m here on my parents’ orders. The king and queen of Thornevalis are concerned—worried that my precious little prince might be in danger. Given the wretched alpha you’re sheltering in your dungeons.”

Jisung’s spine stiffened.

His fingers curled slightly atop his lap. Not enough to draw attention—but enough that his entire body sang with tension.

Vincent smirked. “They’ve asked me to perform a wellness check,” he said. “As if you’re some delicate flower that needs pruning. So here I am.”

He made a vague, dismissive gesture toward Jisung, eyes narrowing.

“You seem healthy enough. Though clearly agitated.” His gaze flicked over Jisung, lingering too long. “You’re fidgeting.”

Jisung froze.

Vincent’s smirk deepened.

And then—

He lunged forward.

Rough hands caught Jisung by the shoulders, the force enough to shove him slightly against the back of the lounge chair. Not enough to bruise, but enough to remind him just how out of place he was in his own home.

“Listen to me, and listen well,” Vincent growled. “If I find out that feral alpha down there so much as looked at you like something he could claim—”

He leaned in.

Jisung flinched at the proximity, at the rank scent of him. Overwhelming. Disgusting.

“—I will tear him limb from limb.”

Jisung’s eyes narrowed. “You’re out of line—”

“I am your fiancé,” Vincent snapped. “You are mine. Do not forget that.”

Jisung’s whole body trembled. With rage. With loathing. With the overwhelming need to scream.

And then—

“Your Highness!”

The door slammed open.

Chan’s voice rang like a blade.

Vincent stilled.

Behind Chan, Changbin appeared next—expression livid, hands poised on the hilt of his sword even though it hadn’t left its sheath.

And then—

A figure emerged from behind them.

Not a shadow. Not a man. Not a beast.

Something in between.

Something born of unhinged rage and unwavering devotion.

Minho stepped into the room like a storm crashing through stained glass—wild-eyed and untethered, scent flaring sharp in the air like blood and heat and home. The faintest glimmer of ink still clung to his fingertips from the letter he’d left just hours before, but there was no softness in his face now. Only fury. Only hunger. 

Only the rage of an alpha whose mate had been touched without permission.

Vincent barely had time to react.

The alpha was on him in mere seconds.

“Get your hands off him,” Minho snarled, voice husky and filled with nothing but pure malice. 

He didn’t wait for a response.

Didn’t need one.

He shoved past Chan and Changbin with the brute force of instinct alone—feral, breathtaking, brutal in his silence—and the moment he reached Vincent, he grabbed him by the collar and tore him back from Jisung’s chair.

The thud of their separation echoed in the room like a judgment.

Vincent stumbled, shocked—furious—but stunned nonetheless.

Nobody had ever laid hands on him.

Not like this.

Not without consequence.

“You dare—”

“Don’t speak.” Minho’s voice cracked like a whip. “Don’t even breathe in his direction.”

Vincent’s mouth opened again—but Minho’s fist caught the front of his coat and yanked him forward until their faces were inches apart.

“If I ever see you touch him like that again,” Minho said, low and lethal, “I will not hesitate to kill you. Crown or not. This is his palace, have some fucking respect, vermin.”

His eyes burned with something unholy. Not hatred.

Possession.

Worship.

Love.

“And unlike you,” he added, voice curling into something feral, “I do not speak empty threats.”

He released him with a shove, and Vincent stumbled backward, breath caught, chest heaving. Face pale.

Minho didn’t look back.

Not at him.

His attention was already elsewhere—where it had always been.

Jisung.

He turned toward him slowly. Gaze softening, expression fracturing with something sacred.

And when he reached for him, his hands were gentle again. Reverent.

Jisung didn’t flinch.

He fell into Minho’s embrace like second nature—like destiny. Like the only place he’d ever belonged.

Minho gathered him close, one arm coiling tight around his waist, the other cradling the back of his head, burying his nose into the silken veil and lace collar still clinging to Jisung’s throat.

“You’re alright,” Minho whispered, voice shuddering. “You’re safe now, darling. I’m here.”

His lips brushed over the mark he’d left—hidden beneath fabric, but burning through it.

“Mine,” he whispered again, softer now, trembling. “All of you. All mine. No one else’s.”

Jisung’s fingers curled into Minho’s tunic, holding him just as tightly.

He didn’t care if Vincent was still staring daggers at the scene unfolding before his eyes.

Didn’t care who saw.

He breathed Minho in like salvation. Like he’d been suffocating and could only now remember how to breathe.

“You came,” he whispered, voice barely a tremor.

“I will always come,” Minho vowed. “Even if it destroys me.”

He tilted Jisung’s chin up. Brushed his lips—soft and shaking—across the apple of his cheek, down to his jaw.

Vincent cleared his throat.

“No one gave you permission to—”

“Leave,” Changbin snapped before he could finish, stepping forward with his hand back on his hilt.

Chan’s expression was rigid as stone.

“You’ve said your piece,” he said, voice sharp with authority. “The prince has no need of you any longer today.”

Vincent stared.

Seethed.

But didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Because for the first time in his life, someone had stood up to him—and made him look small.

And there was nothing he could do.

Minho kissed the corner of Jisung’s mouth.

Jisung let his head fall to Minho’s shoulder, body soft with surrender, chest fluttering with something holy.

He didn’t say it out loud.

But he didn’t have to.

He was his.

And only his. 

Chapter Text

Jisung couldn’t breathe.

Not properly—not past the high-pitched ringing in his ears, not past the shudders crawling up his spine, not past the phantom weight of Vincent’s fingers bruising into his skin.

His body was still trembling.

Minho’s arms were around him. Warm, steady, grounding. Jisung was curled against his chest, his forehead pressed to the column of Minho’s throat, drinking in the scent he’d swiftly come to recognize as safety. But his lungs still refused to work. His throat locked with something thick and tight, and his heartbeat slammed against his ribs like it wanted to escape entirely.

His thoughts spun like threads unraveling, one after another, impossible to catch.

Minho had lunged at him, had put his hands on him to tear him away from Jisung.

Vincent had seen his face. 

There would be consequences.

Even if Vincent hadn’t recognized him—even if the name Noctaire had never passed his lips—he had still seen Minho touch him. Had seen Jisung melt into the hands of another man. Not just any man. An alpha. An outsider. A stranger to the crown.

Jisung was supposed to be untouched. Loyal. His body reserved for the marriage bed of Thornevalis and Solvain’s holy union.

But Vincent had seen the truth. In Jisung’s eyes. In the way he didn’t flinch when Minho grabbed him, didn’t push away the hand on his hip, didn’t even try to act like he wasn’t craving the touch of his fated mate.

And god—fated. That was what made it worse. What made it unbearable.

His body knew.

It still responded, even now, even in his panic. A low warmth coiled in his belly, and the sting behind his eyes wasn’t just fear—it was shame. Shame because his thighs were still slick. Shame because his hole still ached faintly from last night’s rendezvous. Shame because Minho was touching him and all Jisung could think about was how he wanted to be touched more. Touched everywhere.

It was humiliating.

He was spiraling.

“Jisung,” Minho murmured. His hand was on the back of Jisung’s neck, thumb stroking slowly, rhythmically, over his nape. “Breathe for me, darling. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Jisung shook his head blindly against Minho’s throat.

“I ruined everything,” he whispered. His voice was wrecked. Barely there. “They saw. He saw. He’ll—he’ll tell them—”

“No,” Minho said, low and certain. “He won’t. And even if he did, I would never let anything happen to you. Do you understand me?”

Jisung didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

His fingers clenched in Minho’s tunic. His legs folded beneath him on the lounge couch, curled small, like he was trying to vanish entirely.

Minho exhaled.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered. “I need you to look at me.”

He didn’t move Jisung. Didn’t force him. Just waited—waited with infinite patience, like time itself would stop for him if Jisung needed it to.

Eventually, Jisung lifted his face.

His lashes were damp. His cheeks flushed, and Minho couldn’t help himself from kissing away the tears that still spilled freely from Jisung’s cloudy eyes underneath his veil. 

“I-I didn’t mean for this,” he murmured weakly. “I didn’t mean to—Minho, if they punish you—if they send you away or—or chain you again or—”

“Shh,” Minho soothed. “Breathe. You’re thinking too much, darling.”

Jisung inhaled shakily.

Minho pressed his forehead to his. “I’m not afraid of them,” he whispered. “I’m not afraid of your court, or your betrothed, or your Gods, or your crown. The only thing that scares me—the only thing—is the thought of you hurting and me not being there to stop it, not being there to protect you.”

Jisung whimpered. A broken sound. His fingers clutched tighter.

“I’m yours,” Minho vowed, voice barely a fond whisper. “Let me be yours. Let me carry this with you.”

His voice trembled as he continued, caressing Jisung’s cheekbones and trailing down to the curve of his jaw. “You don’t have to do this alone anymore, Jisung.”

Jisung’s lip wobbled.

And then he collapsed.

Not physically. Not all at once. But the fight in him crumbled. The tension in his spine dissolved. He melted—sank—into Minho’s body, into the arms holding him like a lifeline, like salvation.

His sobs were soft. Muffled against Minho’s collar.

Minho didn’t hush him.

Didn’t speak.

He just held him—tight, unwavering, like he was afraid the world might try to take him away again.

Outside the lounge doors, footsteps paced softly. Quiet conversation murmured low, indistinct. Changbin and Chan were standing guard, letting no one else through. Jisung didn’t have to look to know.

He was grateful.

He couldn’t bear for anyone else to see him like this. Not yet. Not while he was still shaking with the weight of it all. Not while his scent was still spiked with fear and grief and longing, still laced with the remnants of last night’s heat.

And Minho—

Minho smelled like home.

Like rain-soaked lavender bushes. Like polished iron. Like everything Jisung had been denied his entire life.

Eventually, the sobs ebbed.

Jisung’s breathing slowed.

Minho’s thumb brushed gentle arcs along his cheekbone.

“You did nothing wrong,” Minho said, barely louder than a breath. “You were protecting yourself. You’re allowed to want to be held. To be loved.”

Jisung nodded faintly.

Minho kissed his temple.

“I’ll face whatever comes,” he said. “As long as you don’t push me away. And even then, I’ll always be there for you, darling. One way or another.”

“I won’t,” Jisung whispered. “I can’t. I need you, Minho.”

“Good,” Minho murmured softly, reassuringly. “Then we’ll face it together. I need you too, darling.”

And still—they didn’t move. Not for a long while.

Jisung let himself be held, eyes closed, cradled like something precious. Like something worth protecting. Like something holy.

Because in Minho’s arms, he wasn’t a prince or a political pawn or the crown jewel of a kingdom he no longer believed in the authority of.

He was Jisung.

And he was loved, not for his authority within the crown, not for his purity or his elegance—

Minho cherished him, truly loved him unconditionally, past all the superficial aspects that Vincent was obligated to love him for.

An obligation he, again, miserably failed to uphold. No matter how many impromptu meetings he made, under the guise of being concerned about Jisung’s wellbeing—

Vincent would never love him. That was a truth set in stone, despite how in those scriptures and scrolls it was already written that he was to wed Jisung. To mate him. To spend the rest of his life intertwined with the prince of Solvain.

Minho’s voice broke the quiet, low and gentle against Jisung’s ear.

“Do you want to go back to your quarters, my darling?”

Jisung didn’t trust himself to speak. His throat ached from earlier, his lips parted with only a faint exhale of breath. But he nodded. Once. Small. Honest.

And that was enough.

Minho’s arm stayed secure around him, a steadying presence as he helped him stand. Jisung felt his knees nearly buckle again, his muscles weak, shaky with the last dredges of fear and overstimulation still locked in his bones—but Minho caught him. Of course he did. He always would.

He guided him carefully toward the lounge doors, murmuring a soft thank you to Chan and Changbin as they stepped back from their posts. Minho didn’t loosen his grip on Jisung even then—he simply dipped his chin in gratitude, his body shielding Jisung’s from view, voice low and respectful.

“Please… an escort.”

Chan nodded. “We’ll take you through the west corridor. It’s empty this time of morning.”

So they moved—silent, guarded, tucked into the quiet path through the palace that no one else would cross. And Jisung… he let himself lean against Minho the whole way. Not because he couldn’t walk, but because his body didn’t know how to be apart from Minho’s anymore. Not after what had happened. Not after how he’d been held.

His feet moved uncertainly. His vision blurred at the edges.

But with every step Minho took, every gentle curl of fingers around his wrist, the gnawing panic began to fade.

They reached his chambers.

Chan and Changbin opened the door, eyes scanning the hall once more before letting them in.

“You have about two hours,” Chan said softly. “Until the court.”

Minho nodded. “Thank you. Truly.”

Jisung didn’t even look back. He was already drifting inside, pulled by instinct, by heat, by aching.

The door clicked shut. The world fell quiet again.

Minho helped him toward the bed with slow, careful steps, the soft swish of Jisung’s robes trailing behind them like sunlight cascading upon the polished flooring. When they reached the edge of the mattress, Jisung hesitated—his legs faltered—and Minho guided him down without a word, settling him seated on the side.

And then—

Minho knelt.

Right before him.

On the floor, in front of royalty, before a trembling boy swathed in silk and gold, Minho lowered himself like a worshiper. Like a supplicant at the altar of the divine. His hands came up gently, reverently—lifting Jisung’s veil first, letting the gossamer silks and pearls fall aside. His gloves were gone now; he wanted to feel him. Skin to skin.

Jisung blinked down at him, dazed.

Minho’s fingers ghosted over the collar around his throat. His thumbs brushed the edge where lace met flushed skin, just barely covering the faint mark he had left the night before.

“May I?”

Jisung nodded again. Minho unclasped the collar.

The fabric parted.

And there it was—his promise. Faint but present. A bruise shaped like devotion, darkening over Jisung’s scent gland like a secret hymn.

Minho exhaled shakily. Pressed a kiss to it.

Jisung whimpered.

He could feel the heat pooling again. Lower. Deeper. His thighs clenched subtly, his fingers curling into the sheets at his sides, breath catching as Minho began to unbutton the fine gloves on his arms. Then the cape. Then the gold-trimmed tunic.

Minho peeled him out of the layers like he was unwrapping something sacred. He didn’t rush. His touch was light, reverent. He folded each discarded garment with care and placed it beside them on the mattress.

And as more of Jisung’s skin was revealed, Minho’s breath changed. Became heavier, more feral.

He could smell it.

The slick. The budding heat. That sweet, heady scent blooming again between Jisung’s thighs like crushed stems of lemongrass under moonlight.

Minho growled.

It was low. Instinctive. Primal. His pupils dilated, and his hands tightened just slightly where they rested over Jisung’s hips. His mouth parted, gaze pinned on Jisung’s face now—waiting. Wanting.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t touch him where he was begging for it most.

Because Jisung wasn’t ready yet.

Minho could feel the tremble still there, the remnants of panic clawing weakly at the edges of his scent. And even if everything in his body screamed to take—Jisung was more important.

He leaned in and kissed over Jisung’s knee.

Over his thigh.

The inside of it.

Each kiss was soft. Reassuring.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered against his skin. “I’ll never hurt you. We’ll move slow. We don’t have to do anything today.”

Jisung let out a shaky exhale, head falling back slightly.

But still, his hips rolled subtly toward Minho’s mouth.

He couldn’t help it.

Not when Minho looked at him like that. Not when he knelt before him like something holy. Not when every inch of his skin still tingled from the ghost of Minho’s touch.

He wanted him.

Still. Again. Always.

But more than that—he needed to feel safe in his wanting.

And Minho was teaching him how.

One kiss at a time.

Minho’s lips hovered just above his hipbone, breath warm where it kissed over the thrum of his pulse.

Then, gently—almost too gently—he looked up.

“Do you want me to hold you?”

Jisung blinked. His breath hitched.

The question shouldn’t have made his chest tighten the way it did.

He wanted to say yes. God, he wanted to.

Because the night before—cradled in Minho’s arms, the weight of him warm and constant and safe—was the first time in over a year he’d slept through the night. Fully. Without being plagued by night terrors or anything of the sort.

And even now, exhausted as he was, his body longed for that feeling again.

But—

“I…” His voice was hoarse. “I’m scared I won’t be able to stop myself.”

Minho’s gaze didn’t waver.

“You don’t need to stop yourself.”

“I do.” Jisung’s hands fisted at the sheets. “Because if you hold me again, Minho, I won’t want you to stop. And I know you’re only holding back because I panicked. Because of what happened. Because I ruined everything—”

“You didn’t ruin anything.”

Minho was already moving—rising to his feet in a single smooth motion, cupping Jisung’s face in both hands like it was something fragile and divine.

“You hear me?” he whispered. “You didn’t do anything wrong. That wasn’t your fault. I would’ve done a hell of a lot worse to him if Chan hadn’t been there to pull me back.”

Jisung trembled.

Minho leaned forward. His lips brushed over Jisung’s, tender and sure. Just once. Just long enough for Jisung to melt into it.

When he pulled back, Minho’s thumb stroked over the hollow of his cheek.

“Tell me what you want.”

Jisung’s eyes were glassy.

“I want you,” he whispered. “I want you so bad. But not just—” His throat bobbed. “Not just like before. I want to feel you again. All of you. I want you to make love to me. Not… take it all the way, but I want to go further. Please, Minho.”

Minho’s breath shuddered against his skin.

“Are you sure?” His voice was low now, a rasp barely tethered to control. “Not because you feel like you owe me. Not because you think it’ll make things easier.”

“No.” Jisung shook his head, desperate. “Because I need you. Because I want to be yours. Because I am yours.”

Minho let out a sound between a groan and a sigh, burying his face in the curve of Jisung’s stomach, hands bracketing his hips with trembling restraint.

“I’m yours too,” he breathed, kissing over the silk still veiling his waist. “Every inch of me. Every piece.”

Jisung whined. His thighs trembled. And as Minho pressed another kiss to his stomach, slow and deliberate—Jisung’s mind betrayed him.

The image came unbidden.

A swell beneath his palm.

A quiet heartbeat that wasn’t his. Perhaps, even multiple heartbeats. 

The feeling of fullness, of something growing inside him—Minho’s pups.

His body bearing the living proof that they belonged to one another.

He flushed so red it tinged the slope of his shoulders, down his ribcage and along his chest.

And Minho stilled.

He inhaled slowly. His lips curled, dark and knowing, against Jisung’s skin.

“You thought something,” he murmured, voice rough with arousal. “Tell me what it was.”

“I didn’t—”

Minho growled.

“Jisung.”

A breathless sound escaped his lips. Jisung squirmed. Slick bloomed heavier between his thighs, perfuming the air, and Minho groaned, already pressing another kiss lower—mouth teasing just along the edge of where the silks of his undergarments met honeyed skin.

“Don’t hide from me,” Minho said. “Not here. Not when you smell so sweet I can hardly control myself.”

“I just…” Jisung swallowed hard. “I thought about you. About me. About… what it might be like to have your pups.”

Minho’s eyes darkened.

He surged upward.

In a second, Jisung was flat on his back against the bed, Minho straddling him, one hand planted beside his head while the other cradled his jaw, firm but careful.

“You want my pups?” Minho’s voice was low. Dangerous. Like thunder cracking through the quiet of dusk.

“You want to grow round with my seed, pretty thing? Let me fill you again and again until it takes?”

Jisung whimpered, nodding with desperation he could barely contain.

Minho leaned down, nose brushing against his, foreheads pressed together.

“When I finally get to mate you—when there’s nothing in our way, no crowns or curses or bastard betrothals—you’ll never spend another season without being bred by me.”

Jisung gasped. His fingers clutched at Minho’s shoulders.

“You want that?” Minho murmured, hips gently grinding down. “To carry our pups? Let me fuck my legacy into you, right here in your royal bed? Let them all see who you belong to when you waddle through the palace full of me?”

A whine tore from Jisung’s throat.

“Yes,” he begged. “Please, Minho, I want—”

“You’ll have it,” Minho whispered, kissing over his temple, his cheek, his mouth.

“I’ll give you everything. Our future. Our pups. A new kingdom, built with my hands and your heart.”

And Jisung believed him.

Because when Minho said it—he made it sound like scripture.

Minho was heavy against him.

The shape of his arousal pressed hard through fine fabric—firm and burning hot, nestled between their bodies, flush to Jisung’s stomach.

And Jisung—God, Jisung whimpered at the weight of it.

The sound left him before he could catch it. High, soft, and aching.

He nosed upward, breath trembling against Minho’s throat, instinctively chasing the scent he’d grown addicted to.

Minho’s scent gland pulsed just below his jaw, barely visible beneath the dark collar of his court attire. But Jisung didn’t care.

Didn’t hesitate.

His lips found the hollow with a desperation that could have made angels weep.

He mouthed at it, lips parting, and pressed a kiss there—then another—then teeth, dragging gently, reverently.

Minho groaned. A low, unguarded sound, hips twitching slightly against him.

He tilted his chin up, baring his neck further. Offering.

Jisung sucked at the spot until it darkened. A hickey—not a mating mark, not a bond—but a promise.

A mirror to the one Minho had left on him the night before.

His.

Minho’s hand tangled in his hair, firm but adoring, guiding him through the motion.

And Jisung—oh, he could have stayed there forever. Could have worshipped that patch of skin until it bruised with devotion. Until the whole world knew.

But eventually, he pulled back, lips swollen, panting softly.

He brought his mouth close to Minho’s ear.

“Let me…” he whispered, trembling, “Please—show me how to make you feel good.”

Minho inhaled slowly. His entire body tensed, visibly battling restraint.

“Darling,” he murmured. “You’ll undo me.”

He leaned in. Pressed a kiss to Jisung’s mouth. Then another. Then another.

Slow. Melting. Unhurried, only because it had to be.

Eventually, reluctantly, he pulled back.

His hands moved to his belt. Unfastened it with practiced ease. Then the clasps along the sides of his trousers.

The black and silver court robes shifted around his frame like clouds of storm parting over sacred ground.

Jisung watched, eyes wide and lips parted, every breath shallower than the last.

But Minho paused.

Only his pants were removed, his robe still hanging over his shoulders—elegant, armoured, princely.

Even like this, even half-dressed, he looked like something forbidden.

A god with his crown set aside for just long enough to sin.

And through the thin fabric of his undergarments—his arousal was unmistakable.

Thick. Heavy. The outline of it made Jisung dizzy.

He didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until Minho reached out, cupping his chin between two fingers and lifting his face.

“Look at you,” Minho purred, dark eyes glittering. “So sweet. So eager.”

Jisung swallowed hard.

“Beg,” Minho whispered. “Tell me what you want, pretty thing.”

Jisung squirmed. His thighs rubbed together, face flushed, the scent of his slick perfuming the air again—laced with nerves, but mostly want.

“I—I want to make you feel good,” he whimpered. “Please, Minho. Please let me.”

“That’s not good enough.”

Minho’s voice dipped lower, velvet around steel.

He tilted Jisung’s face further, tracing his thumb along his bottom lip, tugging it down slightly.

“Say it properly.”

“I want to please you.” Jisung’s voice shook, but his eyes didn’t leave Minho’s. “Please let me feel you in… in my mouth. I’ll be good. I’ll make you feel good, I promise.”

Minho let out a breath that sounded more like a growl.

“Gods, you really are perfect.”

He stood, just slightly. Just enough to guide Jisung downward—his hand firm on the back of his neck as he coaxed him off the bed and between his legs, reverent and obedient.

Jisung’s hands trembled as they slid up the outer edges of Minho’s thighs. He was kneeling. Kneeling in his own royal quarters—the pearls of his jewelry glinting in the low morning light, pupils dilated as Minho guided him closer. 

Drool dribbled down embarrassingly past his parted lips at the mere scent of Minho’s arousal, his lavender-infused musk so potent even through the fabric of his undergarments.

Minho stroked his hair gently, carding fingers through the loose strands, thumb brushing behind his ear.

“Take your time, darling,” he purred deeply. “This isn’t a performance, nobody else is here. Only us. This is worship. Exactly like I worshipped you last night.”

Jisung shuddered, a small whine slipping past his lips.

Because that was exactly what it felt like.

And he wanted nothing more than to praise at the altar of the only man who had ever seen him as holy.

Jisung keened.

Just the sound of fabric rustling as Minho lowered the last barrier between them sent a shiver down his spine—soft, trembling, high-pitched. He was already slipping under, and they both knew it.

Minho didn’t rush him.

Didn’t mock the way his thighs trembled or the way his breath hitched on every inhale.

He just smiled. That rare, fond kind of smile that made Jisung feel like something divine. Something cherished.

Jisung’s mind had gone soft as cotton.

Fuzzy.

Pliant.

He blinked up at Minho from where he knelt, eyes hazy, lips parted. His hands flexed once against Minho’s thighs like he didn’t know what to do with them. His breath was coming in soft little gasps now, sweet and high and constant, as if he couldn’t remember how to breathe unless Minho told him to.

Minho let out a breath. Swore under it.

“You’re already gone, aren’t you?” he murmured fondly. “Gods, you’re too precious for your own good.”

One hand cradled the back of Jisung’s head again, carding slowly through his soft strands before gently tugging once, just enough to make the boy whimper.

He helped him. Carefully. Lovingly. Pushed aside the last of his garments in their entirety, until there was nothing left to conceal his throbbing, rigid cock—slapping wetly against his lower abdomen as it was freed from its confines.  

Jisung’s breath caught.

He blinked, eyes wide, lips parting in a silent gasp.

He had never seen another man like this before. Never been allowed to even imagine it. Not in all his years of enforced purity and modesty. Not with the lace and pearls and veils. Not when the priests of court told him his body was sacred, untouched.

But Minho—Minho was glorious.

Jisung stared for a long moment, dazed, then lowered his gaze with a blush so deep it reached his ears. His hands fidgeted in his lap. He didn’t even realize he was whining until Minho cupped the back of his head again, thumb brushing softly at his temple.

“Oh?” Minho chuckled low in his throat. “Don’t get shy on me now, sweetheart.”

He leaned forward, lips ghosting over Jisung’s flushed cheek.

“Gonna sit there whimpering all morning?” he whispered. “Or are you going to put that pretty mouth to better use?”

Jisung let out a soft, breathless sound—partway between a whimper and a plea. His thighs pressed together.

Minho tilted his chin up, just enough for their eyes to meet again. “You don’t have to be perfect,” he murmured reassuringly. “Just mine.”

Jisung whimpered again—high and soft and silken at the edges, like the sound had been stitched from breath and shame. His fingers trembled where they fisted uselessly against his thighs, knuckles pale, chest fluttering with panic and anticipation all braided into one.

Minho exhaled slowly. A smile twitched at his lips—fond, reverent.

“Here,” he murmured.

His hands found Jisung’s waist. Shifted him gently, guiding him with deliberate ease—soothing, careful, like Jisung was made of glass that only he was allowed to hold. He tilted the boy’s hips forward, until the soft swell between Jisung’s legs brushed against the firm muscle of Minho’s thigh.

The friction was immediate.

Jisung gasped, a sob that choked in the back of his throat. His hips jerked without permission, rutting once—twice—into the warmth beneath him. His eyes fluttered shut. His lashes trembled. Slick continued to bloom again low between his thighs, heat gushing and soaking the silk of his undergarments like it was pouring straight from his core.

“Oh—” he breathed, voice cracking. “Minho—”

“I’ve got you,” Minho whispered. “Just let go. You don’t have to do anything but feel.”

Jisung keened. His hips stuttered against Minho’s thigh, shame battling with desire in every motion—but his body knew who it wanted. Knew who it belonged to.

And Minho—Minho knew how to make it easy.

“Shh,” he crooned, brushing his thumb over Jisung’s lower lip. “You’re doing so well already. But I think you can do better, don’t you, darling?”

Jisung nodded faintly, dizzy with need.

Minho leaned back just enough to stretch, guiding his own robes further open. The silver glinted in the candlelight—polished and princely, beautiful even in its disarray. His arousal was fully bared now, flushed and heavy, achingly full between his thighs.

Jisung stilled.

His eyes locked onto the sight and he trembled—again with awe, again with helpless need. His tongue darted out instinctively to wet his lips, and Minho nearly cursed at the sight.

“There you go,” Minho purred, fingers threading once more into the prince’s hair. “Good boy. You can touch. You can taste. Let me show you how to make me feel good.”

Jisung whimpered, nodding as his fingers found purchase on Minho’s thighs. His lips hovered, uncertain—an inch away. Then half an inch.

And all the while, his hips kept moving—pressing forward in desperate little grinds that made his thighs tremble and his breath catch in tiny sobs.

The dual sensation—the scent, the friction, the warmth of Minho’s thigh and the weight of him just in reach—made his mind go soft and slow as syrup. 

And then—

Minho tilted his head back. Exhaled a soft moan.

“Go on,” he coaxed gently. “Show me how much you want to please me. I’m all yours, darling.”

Jisung blinked through his haze, body overwhelmed and shaking helplessly. 

But he obeyed, as the desire to be good for his alpha outweighed how overstimulated he already was. He slid lower with Minho’s help, still kept astride his thigh, still pressed where he needed to be. His hands trembled as he steadied himself, lips parting again—drool dribbling down his chin messily.

And when he finally took Minho into his mouth, slow and unsure and aching to please, the angle of their bodies let him keep rutting against the thigh beneath him—every sensation more overwhelming, every breath laced with worship.

Minho let his head tip back with a low groan, his hand never leaving its purchase on Jisung’s hair.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough. “That’s it, my sweet little prince.”

And Jisung moaned around him, broken and beautiful, grinding slow and steady as he gave all of himself away.

Minho groaned low in his chest—thick, sudden, involuntary—as Jisung’s mouth closed more securely around him.

The sound punched out of him like a prayer, like something torn from instinct, hips jerking up with a shudder despite himself. Just a twitch—barely even a thrust—but Jisung choked around it, his whole frame stuttering as he whimpered, drool continuing to spill freely down his chin in a glossy thread.

“Oh—shh, shh,” Minho murmured, instantly anchoring a hand over the back of Jisung’s head, fingers threading into the silken dark brown strands like they belonged there. “Breathe, darling. You’re alright. That’s it…”

Jisung keened softly. He couldn’t even speak—not with his mouth so full of Minho’s cock, the tip nestled against the back of his throat already—he hadn’t even taken his alpha to the hilt yet, either.

But he nuzzled closer into the touch, nosed at the base of Minho’s abdomen like a pup begging for reassurance.

“I’ve got you,” Minho whispered, and it was reverent, almost pained. “You’re doing so well for me. You feel—fuck, you feel so good.”

The praise made Jisung tremble. His thighs tensed where they straddled Minho’s, and he moaned again—an obedient little sound, muffled and raw and willing. He began to bob his head gently, moving with visible effort. Unpracticed, imperfect, but so eager to please. So desperate to be enough.

Minho let out another shaky breath, hand still buried in those soft brown locks. His other hand came to rest at Jisung’s waist—just above the sharp tremble of his hips, where flushed skin was slick with need and flush with heat.

“You’re such a good boy,” Minho breathed. “My precious thing. My little sun.”

And with that, he guided him. Carefully. Steadily. His palm pressed against Jisung’s hipbone, encouraging that slow, desperate rut—grinding the omega down against the muscle of his thigh again and again, until more slick began to smear warmly between them through his undergarments, fragrant and overwhelming and utterly divine.

Jisung sobbed against him.

His rhythm faltered for a moment as the new wave of stimulation bloomed—so intense it almost hurt. He was getting close. His hands clutched at Minho’s thighs now, barely holding on, jaw going slack until Minho helped him find that gentle motion again—until he was moving on instinct.

Too much. Too much, but never enough. Every drag of friction sent sparks up his spine. Every whimper he tried to stifle only made Minho shudder harder beneath him. But still, Minho didn’t thrust. Didn’t take. Didn’t demand more than Jisung could give.

Even now—especially now—he was careful. Devoted.

Because Jisung had only just come apart in his arms a few moments ago. Because Minho had only just pulled him away from Vincent’s poisonous sneer, the sharp bark of his voice threatening to claim what was never his to touch.

Minho’s blood still sang from it.

From the image of that rat-blooded prince standing too close. From the way Jisung had looked terribly uncomfortable in Vincent’s heinous presence. 

Vincent hadn’t recognized him—not yet. Not the exiled heir of Noctaire. But he had seen what mattered. The way Jisung clung to Minho’s voice like sanctuary. Had heard about the way Minho had evaded more than half of the royal guard, and managed to breach Solvain’s impenetrable walls to reach Jisung.

And now—now Minho had him. Here. Safe. In his arms and on his thigh and wrapped around him like a blessing.

Minho clenched his jaw.

He wouldn’t lose him.

Not to diplomacy. Not to duty. Not to that serpent from Thornevalis with his ring and his threats and his bloodless hands.

Minho looked down.

Jisung was still moving.

Bravely, beautifully—his lips flushed and glossy, his lashes wet with tears, his brow furrowed as he tried his best to pleasure Minho while chasing his own release against his thigh.

“Gods,” Minho rasped, voice fraying. “You’re perfect. Do you know that? So good for me. So—so mine.”

Jisung whimpered around him in answer. His hips ground down harder, seeking more. Desperate.

Minho could feel it.

The way Jisung’s slick gushed warmer with every rock of his body. The way his moans vibrated around Minho’s length, messy and helpless and pure. The scent of lemongrass hung heavy between them now—ripe and golden and sinful.

And still, Minho held on.

Held back.

Because Jisung was his. Not just in body—but in soul. And he would not break the vow they made. Would not take until Jisung asked to be taken.

Even if the need was a wildfire in his blood.

Even if his vision blurred when Jisung swallowed him deeper, trusting and pliant, every part of him shaking with the effort to be good.

Even then.

Minho’s breath caught.

He cupped the back of Jisung’s head again, tender.

“That’s it,” he whispered, lips brushing his crown like a benediction. “Let me feel you, baby. Let me take care of you.”

And Jisung moaned again, soft and wrecked, his movements stuttering as overwhelming pleasure continued to surge through him—hot and heady and perfect.

Minho could tell that Jisung was on the verge of climax, evident in how his thighs trembled, how his little noises pitched higher with every rut, how his slick continued to seep out on desperate, obscene rivulets against Minho’s skin.

Too close. He was too close.

Minho narrowed his eyes. Loosened his jaw. Breathed out slow through his nose.

And then—

“Don’t cum.”

His voice was low. Firm. The command wrapped in velvet, but unyielding beneath it.

Jisung let out a muffled cry around him, a sob that barely registered as language. His hips faltered, stuttering in the rhythm Minho had coaxed him into. His hands flexed on Minho’s thighs, trembling violently. But still, he obeyed.

Obeyed, even with his whole body wracked and shivering.

Minho felt the exact moment that the tremor of near-release halted—like a string pulled taut and forced to still. He felt it in the way Jisung whimpered, in the way his mouth fluttered around him, in the way his hips jerked forward once involuntarily before freezing, locked in restraint.

“Don’t let go yet,” Minho whispered, soothing but firm. He ran his fingers through Jisung’s hair again, guiding the pace with patient affection. “I know you want to. I know it’s so hard, baby. But you need to wait for me. Be good. Just a little longer.”

Jisung gave a broken little sound in his throat. A sob that clung to the edges of a moan. His brow was furrowed so tight, his shoulders drawn in, his body a trembling offering against Minho’s. But still, he nodded—barely—his mouth never leaving where it belonged.

Minho’s breath shuddered out of him again. He tilted his hips—just slightly, experimentally—and rutted up.

Jisung gagged.

His throat seized around Minho’s length, nose pressed into the flat of Minho’s pelvis. His hands fisted tighter in Minho’s thighs, nails dragging desperate little crescents into his skin.

But he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t try to stop.

Didn’t even slow.

Minho groaned deep in his chest—feral, shattered—and let instinct bleed in. Just a little. Just enough to thrust again, gentle but deep, beginning to chase what he’d been holding back for so long.

“Gods—Jisung.”

He could hardly bear the sight. Could hardly think rationally anymore. The way the omega adapted, adjusted, found rhythm even amidst the gagging and slick sobs and overstimulated haze. The way his throat clenched just right, hugging the length of him with instinctive submission. The way he looked up—eyes glassy, cheeks damp—and tried so hard to please, even now.

Minho swore lowly under his breath, letting his other hand slip down to Jisung’s hips again, keeping the omega rutting, rocking, grinding, even as he began to thrust in earnest. Gentle but firm. Controlled, but only just.

“Don’t stop moving your hips,” he moaned breathily, voice frayed at the edges, nearly breaking. “You’re doing so well—so, so good for me, Jisung. Keep going. You’re going to take everything I give you.”

And Jisung obeyed—of course he did.

Because he needed to. Because being good for his alpha meant more than anything else. Even with his body overstimulated, wrecked, sobbing and slick and needy—he kept going.

He rocked his hips down on Minho’s thigh in time with every thrust, chasing nothing but obedience. Nothing but the praise he’d already half-drowned in.

Minho was unraveling now.

His rhythm grew rougher, hips bucking up with less restraint as pleasure began to crest—and then—

He felt it.

A pressure, a fullness. The first swell of something primal blooming at the base of him. 

His knot.

Minho’s breath caught. He froze mid-thrust—groaning low, needy, but forcing himself to still—and looked down, voice suddenly hushed and tender. “Jisung,” he rasped. “My darling—my knot’s forming. I—look at me.”

Jisung looked up, dazed but managing to come to some semblance of coherency, mouth still full and jaw wide around him.

Minho cupped his face gently, fingers trembling.

“I need to know—are you okay? I can pull out. I should—if it’s too much, I can—”

But Jisung didn’t let him finish.

He growled, something cracked and raw and nearly angry, and then moved—fast. Possessive. He wrapped both arms tight around Minho’s thighs and shoved himself forward, taking him to the base, choking once before adjusting. His nose buried itself against Minho’s skin, mouth sealing flush against the forming swell.

Minho’s eyes widened.

Jisung’s hands clutched tighter. Held him there. Kept him there.

He wasn’t letting him go.

Wasn’t letting him pull out.

Minho groaned—loud, trembling, broken. His hips twitched and he tried to hold still, tried to be gentle—but it was too late. Jisung had chosen. Jisung had claimed.

And then Minho felt it. The full stretch of his length deep in the omega’s throat, felt the way Jisung took it, unflinching, moaning around him like he’d been made for this.

Jisung keened.

His body shivered, entire frame trembling as the knot sealed perfectly at the entrance of his throat. The stretch was obscene—thick, pulsing, intimate beyond language—and yet he held it. Clung to it like it gave him purpose.

Minho’s fingers threaded tight into his hair again, both hands now, holding on.

“Fuck—” he gasped. “You’re—mine, Jisung—mine, mine, mine—”

And he tipped over the edge, helpless.

Minho came with a shudder that rocked his entire frame, breath splintering in his chest as wave after wave of heat spilled down Jisung’s throat—thick and warm, relentless.

Jisung sobbed around him. Melted around him.

Each pulse of Minho’s release made him tremble, made his whole body respond like it was being filled with purpose—made him whine, raw and beautiful, even as his throat convulsed with the effort of swallowing it all.

The taste. The warmth. The sheer amount.

It made his stomach swell with the weight of it—an obscene little bulge pressing out against the soft planes of his abdomen.

“Look at you,” he rasped, one hand still buried in Jisung’s hair, the other trembling around his waist. “Took everything so perfectly. Drank it all down—fuck, darling—”

Jisung whimpered helplessly in response, nuzzling closer despite the fullness, the pressure in his belly and throat and chest making his head spin. His knees had gone soft ages ago. His mind even softer. All that was left was the warmth—the bliss—of being full, claimed, praised.

It wasn’t until several long, drawn-out moments passed—Minho still breathing heavy, knot beginning to soften—that the omega’s mouth began to ease away instinctively. 

Minho was gentle.

He guided Jisung back with careful, slow movements, breath catching again as the soft pop of his knot slipping free echoed in the quiet of the room—wet and obscene. A smear of leftover spend dribbled past Jisung’s lips, down his chin, trailing slick across the vulnerable column of his throat.

Minho caught it with his thumb. Wiped it away. Whispered, “So good,” as he shifted them gently, cradling Jisung into his lap and back against his chest.

And Jisung—poor, desperate, overstimulated Jisung—he whimpered at the loss but didn’t pull away. Only clung harder. Nuzzled into the crook of Minho’s neck, still rutting helplessly on his alpha’s thigh, lips parted and throat hoarse with the effort it had taken to please him.

“Alpha…” he whispered, voice pitifully weak and trembling. “Please…”

Minho felt something fracture in him.

He’d been so careful. So controlled. But Jisung was still moving—still needy, still slick and aching—and every inch of him was trembling with restraint, begging for permission, for relief.

Minho cupped his face again. Kissed him—deep, reverent, tasting the salt and heat of what remained on Jisung’s lips.

“You did so well,” he murmured between kisses. “So perfect. So good.”

Jisung keened.

And Minho couldn’t deny him anymore.

He gripped the swell of Jisung’s hips firmly, grounding him. Pressed their foreheads together.

“Don’t hold back anymore,” he whispered. “Cum for me.”

Minho began to guide him again, dragging Jisung forward and down on his thigh, setting a firmer rhythm now. Pressed their bodies together so Jisung could feel the heat of him, the devotion. And with one hand still gripping the prince’s hip, his other slipped beneath the soaked layers of velvet and silk, under his undergarments.

He found the slickness instantly.

Found the tight, fluttering entrance with fingers that trembled from restraint—and then rubbed, slow and steady, stroking the puffy rim in time with every rut.

Jisung shattered.

His whole body tensed once—high, breathless—and then broke in Minho’s arms.

He sobbed his release out in broken gasps, thighs shaking violently, mouth open and eyes clenched tight. Slick poured from him, hot and messy and uncontrollable, coating Minho’s hand, Minho’s thigh, the fabric between and beneath them both. His voice caught in his throat, rasping out Minho’s name like a prayer.

Minho held him through it. Kissed his jaw. Whispered praise and grounding words, over and over.

“That’s it. Let go, darling. You’re safe. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

And Jisung—wrecked and beautiful and so deep in subspace—curled in Minho’s lap, limp and glowing, still trembling as the aftershocks passed through him like waves.

Minho gathered him close. Let his hands smooth down Jisung’s back, his thigh, his hair. Pressed kisses to every inch he could reach. Rocked him gently, breathing slow and deep to coax him down from the clouds.

Because nothing else mattered.

Not Vincent. Not court. Not the crown or the war or the danger waiting just beyond the door.

Only this.

Only him.

His prince.

His omega.

His one and only.

Chapter Text

Minho knew the signs well.

The way Jisung’s breath stayed shallow. The soft whimpering exhalations that left his parted lips in place of words. The way he clung—arms embraced around Minho’s shoulders, fingers twitching at the ends as though afraid of losing contact. Like he might drift off entirely if not grounded by skin.

His eyes were still glazed, lashes wet with remnants of tears and pupils distant. Floaty. Sweet.

Minho held him closer and pressed his nose to Jisung’s temple.

He didn’t rush. Just rocked them gently in place, body curled around his omega’s as though to shelter him from the world outside the four walls of the prince’s chambers. Outside, where Vincent’s presence still lingered like a stain on the air. Where the court loomed. Where the noon’s sunlight had begun to creep in through the window panes and with it, the afternoon’s responsibility.

But none of that mattered yet.

Now, only Jisung mattered. 

Only the soft, fragile body curled against his chest, marked by pleasure and exhaustion and devotion. Minho kissed his cheek, once, twice. A slow brush of his lips against his omega’s flushed complexion.

“Still with me, my little sun?” he murmured.

Jisung blinked, slow. Didn’t speak. Just let out a long sigh, head lolling against Minho’s collar. His fingers twitched again and clutched at Minho’s tunic, nuzzling weakly like a kitten seeking warmth.

Minho’s heart ached.

His Jisung—who could never find reprieve from his duties, sitting on gilded thrones with his hands trembling under satin gloves. His Jisung, who had smiled so politely through Vincent’s presence, through the tension, through the bile rising in his throat. And now, at last, he’d unraveled. Had sunk into that soft, silent place where his body felt safe enough to rest.

Minho gathered him up.

Scooped him from the velvet-strewn bed with practiced ease, cradling him as one arm hooked beneath his thighs, the other wrapped around his back. Jisung curled into him instantly—like he belonged there.

And he did.

Minho kissed his hairline. “Let’s clean you up, my darling.”

He walked them into the bathing quarters, the soft click of his boots echoing against marble and tile. The room was dimly lit, the midday light filtering pale gold across the high windows, glinting off the golden basin. He felt Jisung stir gently as they entered the warmth of the space—but not to pull away. Just to burrow closer.

Minho adjusted his grip, held Jisung balanced on his hip. His free hand reached for the ivory faucet above the tub, turning the lever to release warm water into the deep marble basin. Steam began to rise at once.

Jisung whimpered at the sudden noise.

Minho shushed him, brushing his hand down the omega’s spine.

“You’re alright,” he whispered. “Just a bath. I’ve got you.”

And then he reached for the shelf of oils, scanning briefly before selecting a familiar dark bottle—lavender. His own scent.

If Jisung couldn’t come back to himself just yet—then Minho would bring him back gently. One sense at a time.

He poured a generous amount of the oil into the water, watching as it swirled through the steam, bleeding pale purple into the bath. The scent bloomed instantly—sweet, herbal, grounding.

Minho kissed Jisung’s temple.

“Smell that?” he murmured. “That’s me. I’m here.”

Jisung made a soft sound in reply. His legs flexed faintly in Minho’s grip, overstimulated nerves twitching. Minho guided them both toward the edge of the tub and carefully sat Jisung down, supporting his waist as his legs dangled limp over the side.

“Easy,” Minho whispered. “Still a little floaty, hmm?”

Jisung nodded faintly, lips barely parting.

Minho leaned in and kissed him. A tender gesture. Barely a brush of lips, but it made Jisung melt against him—forehead pressing into Minho’s shoulder like he couldn’t bear to stay upright.

And when Minho’s hand wandered downward—brushing along the inner crease of his thigh, over the soaked undergarments clinging to him with a wet squelch—Jisung let out the softest, sharpest little cry.

He trembled.

Minho groaned low in his throat.

“Oh, poor thing,” he cooed. “Still so sensitive.”

His fingers stroked lightly over the ruined silk. Caressed the puffy, overstimulated rim beneath it. Felt the way it pulsed at his touch—too sensitive, too much, too good.

Jisung shuddered. Moaned breathlessly.

“Made such a mess,” Minho whispered, nuzzling along the inside of Jisung’s thigh. “You came so hard, didn’t you? All over me. All over these pretty little panties.”

Jisung let out a breathless whine. Couldn’t speak. His legs flexed weakly, toes curling.

Minho pressed a kiss to the slick spot just beside the seam, and then tugged the ruined undergarments down. Peeled them slowly over Jisung’s hips and down his thighs. Jisung whimpered at the cool air brushing over his wet skin.

Minho didn’t rush. Just shushed him again and eased him back, guiding him into the bath with both arms under his shoulders. Water lapped over the curve of Jisung’s back and thighs, enveloping him in lavender warmth.

“There you go,” Minho whispered, voice a hush of velvet. “Just relax, my darling. Let me take care of everything.”

Jisung slumped into the tub with a soft sigh, barely lucid. His limbs floated, boneless, his lashes fluttering as he rested his head against Minho’s chest. The steam curled around his throat, slick with the remnants of earlier bliss.

He gathered Jisung against his chest from where he knelt at the tub’s edge, and began to bathe him—carefully massaging his limbs, one at a time. Long, slow strokes over his thighs and calves. Fingers working gentle circles into his shoulders, his hips.

“You were so brave,” Minho murmured. “All morning. With him. With everything.”

Minho pressed a kiss to his temple again before continuing, voice barely a soft purr. “You’re safe now. You’re with me.”

Jisung’s lips parted—and this time, a coherent word formed.

“…Alpha,” he whispered, small and hoarse.

Minho felt his heart clench.

“I’m here, omega. I’m here for you, always.”

“…Love you,” Jisung murmured softly. Still floaty, but more present than he was moments previous.

Minho stilled.

Just for a breath.

Just for a single flicker of a moment, his entire body seized up around that sound—those words. His hands trembled, still cradling Jisung’s bare, lavender-slicked waist beneath the water, but his breath caught like a thread pulled taut in his throat.

Then—

“Oh.”

It came out as a whisper. Barely a breath.

And then his cheeks flushed, colour blooming along the high slants of his cheekbones, creeping down to his throat, warmed not by the steam but by the swell of pure adoration rising in his chest.

Something about finally hearing those words slip from Jisung’s tongue, even if he had known from the begin with how much his omega loved him, that their love was mutual, sacred—

“I…” Minho’s voice cracked, and his eyes crinkled a little, a dazed sort of smile ghosting across his face. “You—fuck. I love you too. So much, my darling. You don’t even know.”

He was kissing him before Jisung could reply—leaning forward to cup his cheeks with both hands, the ends of his fingers still slippery with oil. He held his face like he was something sacred, like he couldn’t risk letting even a drop of water spill off his skin. And his mouth—his mouth moved slow, reverent, open but gentle, pressing love into Jisung’s lips like a vow.

“I love you so much,” Minho murmured again between kisses, against Jisung’s cheek, his brow, the soft point of his jaw. “So much. You don’t have to say it back unless you mean it, but I—I needed you to know. And hearing it from you—fuck—”

Jisung whimpered faintly. His arms curled around Minho’s shoulders and tugged him closer, like he wanted to melt into him, wanted to crawl under his skin and never be asked to leave.

“I do,” Jisung whispered, more awake now. His eyes were glassy but bright, and his mouth curved into a small smile. “Meant it, alpha. I love you.”

Minho just groaned and kissed him again, this time with laughter edging the corners of his mouth.

“Gods, you’re gonna ruin me,” he said softly. “You already have.”

Jisung leaned into the caress of Minho’s hands, nuzzling into his palm.

But the moment of quiet was brief—because soon, Jisung blinked slowly, the cloudiness in his eyes beginning to clear. And with it came the weight of the afternoon. Of duty. Of everything waiting outside this lavender-drenched warmth.

“…Don’t wanna go to court,” he mumbled, a pout forming on his damp lips.

Minho smiled gently.

“I know, sweetheart.” He brushed his thumbs over Jisung’s cheeks, soothing the creases of his brow. “But I’ll be right beside you. I’ll be holding your hand. They won’t touch you. They won’t even look at you wrong.”

Jisung sighed. He leaned forward, resting his cheek on Minho’s shoulder now, arms tightening slightly around his neck. He was quiet again for a few moments—silent enough that Minho thought he might be drifting back off into that floaty headspace.

But then, in a soft, small voice—

“…Will you be okay?”

Minho blinked. Tilted his head just enough to meet Jisung’s eyes.

“If they… if they recognize you,” Jisung continued. “What if they say something about Noctaire? What if—what if you’re arrested, or—Minho, what if they—”

“Exile me again?” Minho finished for him, calm.

Jisung swallowed, nodding just slightly. The fear was beginning to show again. A tiny knot between his brows. A nervous shift in his breathing.

Minho pulled him closer.

“They might recognize me,” he said, voice low. Steady. “And if they do… I’m ready for that.”

Jisung stiffened slightly.

Minho kissed the top of his head. “I’m not here to protect Noctaire. I’m not loyal to a crown that cast me out like a mere peasant. If they want to drag me in front of Solvain’s advisors and accuse me of treason, I’ll hand over everything I know about that hellhole I came from. Their war strategy. Their trade routes. Their weaknesses.”

Jisung blinked up at him, lips parting slightly.

Minho just smiled.

“I’m not scared of them. I’m not scared of what they’ll say. I’d betray them again if it meant keeping you safe.”

The silence stretched between them for a beat, quiet save for the slow lapping of the bathwater.

Then—

“…Can I ask something, Minho?” Jisung’s voice was even smaller this time. Like he was bracing for the worst.

Minho tilted his head, meeting his eyes gently. “You can ask me anything, my sweet boy.”

Jisung hesitated.

“…Why were you exiled?”

Minho’s silence stretched long, not responding immediately.

Still, his hands never stopped moving—just gentler now, fingers sweeping with a certain ritual softness as he worked oil and soaps through Jisung’s hair, combing it back from his brow in reverence. Like he needed something to ground him while he answered. Like touching Jisung was the only thing that would keep the memories of years past from drowning him whole.

His voice, when it came, was quiet.

“My father…” Minho began, breath hitching faintly. “The late King of Noctaire—he wasn’t a leader. He was a tyrant adorned with a bloodstained crown.”

Jisung stayed silent, curled close to his chest, nuzzling comfortingly against Minho’s robes near the crook of his neck. 

“He didn’t care about the people. Not really. The crown’s coffers were meant to sustain the kingdom—to feed the starving, build educational institutions, supply medicine. But he redirected nearly all of it to the nobles, the aristocrats.” Minho’s lips twisted in disgust. “To host luxurious feasts, exquisite balls, while children in the outer provinces died of poverty. To build grand halls and new palaces while villages crumbled into ash.”

A pause. Just the quiet drip of water from the ends of Jisung’s hair.

Minho inhaled slowly.

“He stockpiled arms,” he said. “Funded secret militias. Encouraged strikes on smaller, peaceful territories just to destabilize trade routes and claim land, despite how we did not lack in either of those departments. Not for resources. Not for strategy. Just power. Merely because he was capable of doing so.”

Jisung’s hands had tightened faintly against his sides.

“And I—” Minho’s throat caught. “I was young, but not blind. I asked questions. Challenged him. And he hated it. Hated me.”

His jaw clenched as he continued lathing the ends of Jisung’s hair.

“He tried to make me like him. Put a blade in my hand and told me that compassion was a weakness. That mercy was a luxury only peasants could afford. He sent me to the front lines of the lesser wars, gave me battalions to command when I was barely fourteen—”

Minho’s voice cracked. Just a little.

“—He wanted to turn me into his blade. The instrument of violence that would cut down every neighboring kingdom. Just because they were weaker. Just because they existed.”

Jisung whimpered faintly. Minho hushed him gently and kissed his temple again before continuing, softer.

“When I refused to lead a strike against one of our major allied kingdoms during that time—with no quarrel or crime—he punished me. Years of it. Isolation. Starvation. Public humiliation. Threats. And still, I defied him. I always defied him.”

Minho’s fingers slowed, trembling faintly now as he gathered a final scoop of warm water and poured it over Jisung’s nape.

“But what he hated most—what finally made him decide I wasn’t fit to be his successor—was my refusal to lead the assault against Solvain, about four years ago.”

Jisung stilled in his arms.

Minho’s voice lowered to something nearly inaudible.

“I told him I wouldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it. Not just because it was unjustified—not just because there was no provocation—but because…”

He trailed off for a moment. Fingers still curled against Jisung’s scalp.

“…Because I remembered you. ”

Jisung blinked up at him slowly. Eyes wide. Breath caught in his throat as the reality of Minho’s statement sunk in.

Minho’s lips quirked—not in a smile, but something softer. Sadder, almost.

“Yesterday wasn’t the first time we met, Jisung,” he murmured. “Not truly. I don’t blame you for not remembering though, of course. You were quite young, we both were.”

Jisung’s mouth parted slightly.

Minho reached down beneath the water, intertwining their fingers, grounding them both.

“We met when we were children. You couldn’t have been more than four. I was six. It was just before the rivalry between Noctaire and Solvain began. There was peace, then. Fragile, but it was there. My mother took me on a diplomatic visit to your court.” 

He took a soft breath to compose himself, recalling their first encounters causing Minho to become visibly emotional—he didn’t let himself break, though. He had to be strong for Jisung. “You wouldn’t leave my side. I didn’t want you to, either. From the very moment I laid eyes on you, even all those years ago, I knew you would be mine—that I would be yours.”

Jisung blinked again, something warm and shaken stirring behind his eyes.

“I remembered the royal garden,” Minho purred, eyes fluttering shut momentarily as he reminisced on the past, on their true first meeting nearly two decades prior. “You brought me sunflowers and lavenders from your personal area in it. I didn’t know what to do with them, so you shoved them in my hands and made me promise to keep them forever. You were far more extroverted than I was. And preciously sweet. And so small. But I remembered you. There was no way I could ever have forgotten a smile like yours.”

He gave Jisung’s fingers a squeeze.

“And when my father began planning the first nationwide carnage on Solvain, I knew I wouldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it. Not to your people. Not to you. I refused.”

Minho’s expression darkened then, voice low and hollow.

“That’s when he snapped.”

He sighed—heavy, like a breath he’d been holding for years—and rested their joined hands over Jisung’s heart.

“He challenged me to a duel. Behind closed doors, with only the crown and his loyal aristocrats in attendance. It wasn’t documented. It wasn’t legal. It wasn’t even fair—he was older, the strongest alpha within the kingdom, more experienced—but he thought it would be a lesson. That beating me in front of the court would shame me into submission.”

He paused for a moment, almost in a state of contemplation. Minho’s eyes flickered with something sharper, almost hostile, as it all came back to him now. 

“But I killed him.”

Jisung startled faintly, breath hitching—but he didn’t pull away.

Minho’s voice trembled now, not from guilt, but from a seething anger that still pulsed just beneath his skin.

“He told me I was weak. That love was poison. That peace was a jester’s fantasy. So I looked him in the eyes,” he whispered, “and I buried my blade in his chest.”

Minho’s hands shook. Jisung reassuringly caressed the back of Minho’s palm with his thumb in grounding circles, remaining silent—ever so patient, never rushing Minho. Never judging. Only listening.

“He died crying for my forgiveness. And I didn’t feel anything. I should’ve, maybe. But I didn’t.”

Jisung whimpered again, reached up and gently cupped Minho’s cheek, pulling his face closer.

Minho froze for a moment, taken aback.

“You’re okay,” Jisung murmured as reassuringly as he could. “You’re here. You survived. You—you made it. You didn’t become like him. I’m so proud of you, Minho.”

And for the first time in a long time, Minho’s shoulders relaxed.

His eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into Jisung’s touch, a faint blush rising to his cheeks.

“I…” he swallowed. “Thank you, darling.”

He sounded small. Not fragile, but young. Like the boy he used to be all those years ago. The one that Jisung had given those beautiful lavenders and sunflowers to. The one that had dreamt of universal peace instead of conquest, and had never willingly given into his father’s treacherous demands. 

Then he straightened, voice steadier as he continued.

“The duel was never meant to be fair. Or public. Or documented. I didn’t know that. I thought I was fighting for my right to rule, for my kingdom, for my future.” A bitter smile tugged on the corners of his lips. “But because the fight wasn’t legal, killing him was deemed murder. Treason. An act of terrorism. I became the disgraced son who assassinated the king, his father, in cold blood.”

He looked down at Jisung now—gaze bare, open, unguarded.

“And so I was exiled. My name tarnished. My status as the Prince of Noctaire was revoked. My legacy smeared across every kingdom as a traitor, a threat to the crown.”

Jisung’s brows furrowed, lips trembling in effort to not start sobbing. His heart ached, seeing how truly betrayed Minho looked. As if all those horrible moments years prior were coming back to haunt him. 

“But I’d do it again,” Minho whispered softly, gazing deeply into Jisung’s eyes—doing his best to muster a reassuring look, so as to not upset his omega any further. “A thousand times over. If it meant preventing him from taking more lives of innocent folks. If it meant keeping you safe.”

He leaned forward, brushing their foreheads together, fingers still threaded tight.

“I don’t care what they call me. I know who I am. And I know who I’m loyal to.”

Minho’s hands had long gone still over Jisung’s skin, resting with reverence where his ribs met his waist. But Jisung, soft and flushed sweetly pink in the water, didn’t stop trembling.

His thighs twitched restlessly beneath the surface, hips lifting in faint, involuntary little movements, almost like he didn’t know he was doing it. His chest rose and fell quicker now, breath catching every few seconds like it startled him—and maybe it did. Maybe everything startled him now, from the way Minho touched him to the way Minho merely looked at him like he was the only damn thing worth worshipping in a world so full of betrayal.

A soft, high whine slipped past Jisung’s lips.

Minho’s heart clenched, thick with tenderness and understanding both.

“I know,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss the tip of Jisung’s nose. “I know, sweet boy. It’s okay. I’m here.”

Another whimper, more frustrated this time, and Jisung tilted his head up in search of Minho’s mouth. His fingers curled helplessly around the edge of the tub, knuckles pale, as though grounding himself would do anything to stop his body from aching.

Minho pulled him closer, shushing him gently. “Your body’s still learning, my little sun. This is all new… and you’ve been holding it in for so long.”

Jisung blinked up at him, eyes glassy and shimmering, lashes wet. His lips were parted with breathless need. “I–I can’t help it,” he stammered, voice a shaky croon. “It keeps happening. I’m sorry, you just told me a lot of devastating things that happened, I should be comforting you but—my body, I just—Minho, please—“

“Shh, it’s okay, darling. I know how you’re feeling,” Minho reassured again, lower this time, a purr that instinctively made Jisung relax. He reached beneath the water to stroke soothing circles along Jisung’s stomach, thumb brushing just above his navel. 

“You’ve gone your whole life not letting yourself feel anything like this. It’s not your fault your body’s trying to make up for lost time now. And you listening to what I had to say is more than enough, don’t worry. You being here is all the comfort I need.”

Jisung couldn't help but sob out a little needy, pathetic sound in response, that made Minho’s own skin feel all flushed.

“Come here,” Minho murmured, and slipped his arms beneath Jisung’s thighs and back, effortlessly lifting him out of the water.

Jisung keened.

He clung to Minho’s neck, face tucked under his jaw, already leaking slick again between his legs—hot, slippery, the scent dizzying. Minho gritted his teeth and set him down on the edge of the tub, cradling his head as he lowered him onto a dry towel.

“Look at you,” he murmured, and reached for another towel, draping it gently over Jisung’s lap, “dripping all over again for me.”

Jisung whimpered. His thighs quivered when Minho pressed his mouth to the inside of one, nipping lightly at the tender flesh. He trembled under Minho’s touch, hips twitching again when Minho groaned and mouthed at his hip bone, trailing his fingers over the thin sheen of slick pooling beneath him.

“I want you so badly it hurts,” Minho growled, massaging the sore muscles of Jisung’s thighs with both hands. “But we can’t, not now. Not yet.”

Jisung’s breath hitched into a sob. “Please—I feel so—Minho, it’s too much—”

“I know.” Minho reached up and cupped his cheek, kissed him tenderly. “But you need to teach your body how to wait. I’ll help you. You don’t have to be consumed by this, darling.”

Another whine. Another tremble wracking through his frame. Jisung’s eyes were watering anew, and Minho cursed under his breath.

“Shh, come here, it’s alright,” he murmured, wiping the tears from his cheeks. “Let’s get you dressed.”

Minho helped him up, steadied him when his knees buckled a little. Jisung clung to his shoulders, still warm and pliant, body flushed all the way down to his knees. 

Minho kissed the tops of his thighs again when they made it back to the main area of the prince’s quarters, before standing to retrieve the undergarments he’d laid out on the cushioned stool—soft white lace, delicate as gossamer, with gold-threaded embroidery tracing out tiny sunbursts across the hem.

Jisung looked down at them and whimpered again, embarrassed and aroused and so sweet— Minho could barely resist the urge to throw everything else away just to have him all over again.

“You’re going to look so perfect,” Minho whispered, carefully sliding the lace up over his legs, easing them into place. “So beautiful that I’m going to lose my mind. That I won’t be able to resist my desires for you, in front of all the crown’s advisors.”

Jisung blushed, a pout forming on his lips in a vain attempt to hide how much he truly appreciated Minho’s praises. “You can’t say things like that—”

“I can and I will,” Minho chuckled fondly, grinning as he smoothed the fabric over Jisung’s thighs. “Especially when you’re making such sweet little noises, all for me, darling.”

Jisung whined, slapped at his shoulder weakly in mock frustration, but let Minho finish dressing him. He helped Jisung into his ceremonial robes next—a sweeping white ensemble trimmed in glistening gold, the sun motifs twined delicately down the sleeves, embroidered in threads so fine they seemed to shimmer when they caught the light.

There were just enough layers comprising his attire to preserve his modesty, even as the silks and gossamers clung in all the right places—hugging the curve of his hips, accentuating the plumpness of his thighs, his narrow waist, the soft swell of his chest beneath the underlayers.

Minho took his time, smoothing each fold, adjusting each seam. He moved to Jisung’s hair last, drying and curling the edges of it lightly, kissing chastely over both of his temples when he finished.

His hands lingered after smoothing Jisung’s hair into place, fingers ghosting over the delicate slope of his nape. He didn’t speak at first—didn’t have to. His eyes said everything. They roamed over Jisung with worship usually reserved for altars or relics, and even that comparison paled in the face of how Minho adored him.

“Your beauty should be outlawed,” Minho muttered eventually, voice thick with restraint as he let his palm settle at the small of Jisung’s back, feeling the heat through all the silken layers. “You look like divinity personified. How is any man supposed to kneel before the sun without burning?"

Jisung flushed, trembled again—but he didn’t melt this time. Didn’t crumble. His thighs quivered slightly under the lace, a faint sheen of slick no doubt seeping yet again into those lovely embroidered undergarments, but he held himself together with visible effort. A hint of iron’s resolve beneath the velvet.

“I’m trying,” he mustered, voice wobbling around the edges. “I really am, Minho.”

“I know.” Minho kissed him—featherlight, just over the center of his brow. Then the corner of his mouth. His chin. His throat. “And you’re doing so well, darling. I know your body’s confused. It’s aching—starving—or something you never knew it needed until now. And it’s all happening too fast, too suddenly.”

Jisung whimpered, biting back another needy sound as Minho’s teeth grazed over his collarbone. The robes still hung open just enough for his mouth to slip inside the folds and press chaste, shivery kisses across flushed skin.

“But I won’t give in right now,” Minho said, finally withdrawing, dragging his mouth away with visible effort. His breathing was heavier than it should be, jaw locked with restraint. “Not because I don’t want you—gods, I do—but because I love you too much to let your body get addicted to indulgence alone.”

Jisung looked up at him, eyes glazed and lashes wet, lips parted like he was going to argue—but instead, he took a deep, shuddering breath. Then another. He nodded slowly, petulantly. Pouted.

“I hate that you’re right,” he muttered, rubbing at his eyes. “But… you are.”

“I usually am,” Minho grinned, brushing a lock of hair behind Jisung’s ear. “But that’s why you need me, hmm?”

A quiet huff of laughter, just before Jisung reached for the veil that lay waiting on the nearby chaise—featherlight, its white silk threaded with pearls like droplets of moonlight. He drew it over his head carefully, pausing at the edge of the mirror as he adjusted it. It framed his face like soft clouds around the sun.

Minho stared.

Devoured him with his eyes.

He couldn’t touch him, not now—not truly. But fuck, he wanted to. Wanted to ruin him and praise him all at once. Instead, Minho busied his hands with pulling on his slacks, adjusting the fastenings with slightly trembling fingers. He’d already had on his own ceremonial robes; it framed his musculature, attire imposing with the addition of the black iron adornments of armour donned upon his silhouette. 

Minho’s collar lay on the nearby table—black leather inlaid with silver filigree, regal and cold and hauntingly beautiful. He reached for it—

Only to feel a smaller hand cover his wrist.

Minho glanced over. Jisung stood before him, veil fluttering slightly from his breath, eyes gleaming with something fierce.

“Don’t put it on,” he muttered out, softly.

Minho blinked, gaze trailing downwards to Jisung’s scent glands— uncovered. “You didn’t put on yours.”

“No.”

A pause. “Why?”

Jisung hesitated, lips pressing together beneath the veil. Then, with a quiet sigh, he lifted Minho’s hand and pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist through the silk and pearls, affectionately possessive. When he looked back up, there was a glint of quiet determination in his gaze.

“Because I don’t want us to hide.”

Minho’s eyes narrowed faintly. Not in disapproval—never that—but in silent contemplation.

“They’ll notice,” he said, just as softly. “They’ll sense that your scent glands aren’t protected. That mine is, too.”

“They should see.” Jisung stepped in, closer. Close enough that their chests brushed, their hearts beat nearly in tandem. He tilted Minho’s chin down gently with two fingers, voice low and deliberately firm—as firm as he could muster being toward Minho. “I am the Crown Prince of Solvain. The advisors, the lords—they may hold opinions, but I hold the throne. This is my court. My choice. And you are fated to be my alpha, therefore I have some degree of authority over you. Do you understand that, Minho?”

Minho groaned—truly taken aback for a moment at his omega’s display of dominance—deep and low in the base of his throat.

“You can’t keep doing this,” he rasped, staring at him like he wanted to drop to his knees right then and there. “You can’t be so goddamn powerful and so beautiful at the same time. It’s unfair.”

Jisung just smiled through his veil, pleased and flushed. “Then don’t defy me, alpha.”

Minho swallowed hard. “Never, my darling omega.”

He let the collar drop to the chaise. Didn’t bother to even glance at it again.

Instead, he reached for the garment he’d brought back with him—the same one he’d had on his person when he was detained the previous day. He hadn’t even asked to keep it; the guards had simply returned it, not recognizing the significance.

It was a helmet. Iron and shadow, forged with faint sigils etched along the inner rim. The crest of Noctaire—a crow holding a crescent moon between its talons—faint but undeniably recognizable, to the discerning eye. 

It concealed the majority of his face, but not completely. Enough of his jaw, his eyes, his presence remained uncovered. A statement, rather than a mask.

Minho turned toward Jisung again. Stepped forward. Embraced him.

“You are everything to me,” he whispered into his prince’s hair, kissing the crown of his head through the chainmail adornments of his helmet. “And I don’t care what anyone orders of me. I will not leave. I will not be taken away again. No crown, no court, no god could pull me from you now.”

He dipped down. Pressed another kiss, just over the delicate throb of Jisung’s exposed scent gland. “My father tried. And he failed. If anyone tries again, they’ll meet the same demise he did.”

Jisung clung to him tightly. Breathed him in like salvation.

“I won’t let them take you,” he whispered back, voice trembling, laced with something molten. “No matter what happens, I’ll protect you. I’ll call off the engagement—I’ll end this alliance with Thornevalis. I’ll do whatever it takes. Because I don’t belong to Vincent. I never did.”

His hands slid down Minho’s sides. One of them laced with Minho’s own, squeezing it tightly. “I belong to you. Always, and forever, in this life and the next.”

Minho couldn’t speak for a moment. Just squeezed back, letting his forehead rest against Jisung’s veil.

“I love you,” he said, barely audible.

“I love you,” Jisung echoed, and reached up to brush a kiss over Minho’s jaw. Another followed—deeper—over his scent gland. He inhaled the musky lavender deeply. Greedily.

Minho cursed under his breath. “You’re a menace.”

“Yours.”

“And I’ll never take that for granted, my prince.”

Their hands remained clasped as they turned toward the door—toward whatever came next.

Jisung reached for the handle. His spine was straighter now. He was still flushed, still aching—but steady. Crowned in white silk and gold thread, sunfire and pearls. His heart was thundering in his chest, but he would not let himself fall.

He would fight for Minho.

He would win, no matter the cost.

And with one last glance between them—Minho’s armor glinting faintly in the light, the insignia of Noctaire a quiet, unapologetic truth—they stepped forward.

Into the hands of fate—together, as they had always been destined to be.