Page 21 of Burning Ice
Time blurred. Day and night folded into one another until Mirel lost count.
It could have been days. It could have been weeks.
He had not been this warm in years. The air stayed heavy, the bed soft. Even the chain, around his wrists, sometimes his throat, wherever Kylix decided, felt more like claim than threat.
He knew it was wrong. Still, his body obeyed the wrongness. It wanted the quiet, the warmth, the rhythm of command.
And it wanted Kylix.
The Imperial Prince moved through the room like heat in human form. Regal, hungry, patient in his cruelty.
He never truly hurt him. He hurt him just enough: a pull of chain, a bruise from pressure, pain smoothed away later by oil and breath.
A bite of fruit pressed to his lips, juice running down, Kylix’s mouth following the trail.
Each act built a hunger Mirel didn’t know how to name. It carried shame with it, sharp as pleasure.
The first time he grew hard under that gaze, Kylix only laughed. A finger traced the line of his erection through fabric.
Mirel wanted to scream. He wanted to beg.
Kylix did neither. He fed him another piece of fruit and watched him shake.
He knew exactly how to drive him mad. Never finish what he started. Each touch stopped just before it broke him, leaving hunger lodged under his skin. Mirel told himself he hated the restraint, but part of him dreaded the moment it might end.
So when he woke and found the Imperial Prince in the bed beside him, the breath left his chest in a rush. For a heartbeat he thought he was dead. Then warmth pressed against his shoulder, quiet and steady, one hand resting near the chain.
Mirel didn’t move. He lay still and watched the slow rise of his chest, the fall of his hair against the pillow, the faint trace of scent that lingered between them. No command, no threat. Only the danger of wanting that quiet to last.
Kylix had said nothing about his torn clothes. He replaced them with a plain linen jumpsuit. He never mocked the silence.
He never left.
Often he sat behind the glow of a multi-slate, voice low as he spoke to unseen men about safety, control, enforcement. Mirel understood none of it.
Kylix had stopped asking questions. After a while, he stopped trying to speak at all.
They simply existed. Same room. Same air. As if it was ordinary. As if Mirel belonged there.
He knew it wouldn’t last. Kylix would strike when he least expected it.
Maybe at night. Maybe when sleep made him slow.
Yet sleep came easily. The lights dimmed, and the sound of Kylix’s breathing steadied him.
He caught himself watching. The shape of his mouth. The fall of his hair against the pillow. Each stolen look left his chest tight.
“Mirel. Come here, little ghost.”
The voice broke the quiet. Afternoon light slanted through the glass, pale and gold.
Mirel flinched awake. His joints ached from where he’d been sitting.
Without thinking, he obeyed, dragging the chain as he moved toward the desk where Kylix waited.
Kylix’s lips curved when he saw Mirel approach, chain whispering against the floor.
“Go to the bathroom. Fill the tub.”
