Heirs to the throne

— Are you even listening to what I’m saying? — his father’s icy tone cut through the noise of the ballroom like a scalpel. Ilya shuddered, struggling to emerge from his stupor. The sound of his own blood still pounded in his ears. — Yes… it’s a great honour. I mean… Yes, I’ll take that into account, — the words felt like dry sawdust on his tongue. He didn’t care about “honour,” about the grumbling of these pompous old men, or about his father once again considering his bastard son unworthy of the family name. It was all noise. Background interference. His world narrowed to a single point on the balcony. Ilya felt his knuckles turn white from the force with which he clenched his fists, trying to calm his racing pulse. Against his better judgement, his gaze returned again and again to that cherished shadow. There, in the strip of ballroom light, he sat. The man who was Ilya’s personal curse. Every movement of this man, every arrogant half-smile, caused a burning mixture of rage and painful, almost animalistic interest in his chest. It was not just quiet rivalry — it was a struggle. He hated him to the point of trembling at the knees and desired him with the same destructive force with which one craves the first breath of air after a long dive. — Don’t just stand there. Go say hello to your brother, — his father deliberately emphasised the last word, imbuing it with all the weight of legitimacy and superiority. His heavy hand fell on Ilya’s shoulder, unceremoniously pulling him out of his hypnotic trance on the upper tier. — Fix your relationship. Stop acting like a hurt child. Show obedience, show loyalty… Prove that you’re not after his throne. — All right, Father, — Ilya exhaled, feeling everything inside him twist into a tight knot. Obedience? Courtesy? These words seemed like shards of broken glass in his mouth. For him, they were dead, saturated with years of pretence. He glanced around the hall: these stupid sheep in expensive suits, whirling in meaningless dances, their fake laughter at vulgar jokes — it all made him sick. It seemed to him that even the golden light of the crystal chandeliers was saturated with poison, and the air, heavy with a mixture of selective perfume and hypocrisy, refused to penetrate his lungs. His suit suddenly became tight around his shoulders, and his shirt collar dug into his throat like a noose. Ilya knew that up there, they were watching him. And this realisation burned the back of his neck more intensely than his father’s direct orders. The expensive suit fit him perfectly, hugging his powerful shoulders and emphasising the dangerous grace of his figure. His light brown curls, in which the reflections of the golden chandeliers trembled, created an almost angelic image, if not for his dark, heavy gaze that captivated everyone in the hall. The women watched him with sighs, the men with instinctive tension, but Ilya did not notice. His thoughts were finally tangled into a tight knot. He approached the staircase, feeling the coldness of the lacquered wood under his palm. — The railing… The steps… Two laughing beauties in lavish dresses passed by… They’re talking about me… It’s stuffy… — too many eyes, too many lies. The corridors of the upper floor greeted him with blessed silence. The hum of the party behind him became muffled, indistinct, almost unreal. The air seemed colder here, but Ilya’s pulse only quickened. There it was. — You’ve been watching too long. The voice — rich, velvety, with a barely perceptible hoarseness — pierced Ilya through and through. A wave of prickly goose bumps ran down his neck, causing his muscles to tense involuntarily. Holland did not turn around. He stood motionless at the marble balustrade, leaning casually on it with his elbows. Ilya smiled defiantly. — And you were sitting too high to notice, — he retorted, taking a step forward into his brother’s personal space. Shane turned slowly, almost lazily. His face in the dim light seemed carved from cold stone — flawless, frighteningly calm. Only his eyes, darkened to the colour of a stormy sky, betrayed a dull, vibrating irritation. — It is not customary at court to look at members of the royal family in this manner, — Shane said. His gaze slowly slid over Ilya’s figure, assessing every curve, as if testing the strength of his armour. — I did not grow up at court, — Ilya held his gaze, feeling the air between them literally spark. — That is evident, — Shane took half a step towards him. There was a pause. It was as tense as a stretched string about to snap. The air between them became thick and palpable. In the silence, Ilya could hear only the ragged beat of his own heart and Hollander’s heavy, confident breathing. Their eyes locked, and in this duel of gazes, there was something more than just animosity. It was pure, concentrated curiosity — primal and absolutely forbidden. Rozanov felt this interest, like poison, seeping into his blood, making his heart pound against his ribs. — Your name is Ilya, — Shane broke the silence. His voice was now quieter, more intimate, chilling him to the bone. — And you came here on business. It’s strange that people organise entire balls for business. — It’s strange that you put on such cheap shows for a piece of gold on your head, — Ilya did not look away, his voice remained even despite the storm inside him. — But I guess that’s the way it is here. Shane closed the distance between them. One short, commanding step, and there were only a few inches of space between them, charged with tension. Ilya could smell the subtle aroma of expensive tobacco, cold sandalwood, and the faint warmth of another man’s body. Holland’s expressive, piercing eyes drilled straight into his soul, trying to break through his defences. — Do you understand where you are? And who are you talking to? — Shane breathed, almost into Ilya’s lips. — I understand perfectly well, — Ilya smiled cheekily, almost provocatively, looking at his brother’s perfectly shaped mouth. — That’s exactly why I’m not going to stand on ceremony. It wasn’t just an answer. It was a gauntlet thrown directly into the face of the future king. — Do you think blood gives you the right to be insolent? — Shane’s voice dropped to a barely audible whisper, vibrating against Ilya’s ear. There was no threat in that sound, only a dangerous, insinuating intimacy. — No. Blood has given me only one privilege: the ability to belong to no one, — Ilya replied, not backing down an inch. He could feel his own whisper mingling with his brother’s breath in the narrow space between them. — Everything else in this life I took for myself. If blood really gave me something more, Hollander… I would be standing in your place right now. And you would know it. Shane froze. He stared at him for a long time — an unacceptably long time for someone pretending to be coldly indifferent. Ilya eagerly scrutinised his face, trying to find even a hint of human weakness: fear, a shadow of vulnerability, a momentary confusion. But that “something” frozen in the depths of his pupils defied explanation. It wasn’t hatred. Ilya felt the distance between them melt away, turning into a thick, suffocating jelly of adrenaline and something much darker. — You’re dangerous, — Shane finally blurted out. It sounded less like a warning and more like a statement of fact. Ilya bowed his head slightly, taking it as the highest compliment. — Are you really afraid? — he asked insinuatingly, allowing himself a mocking half-bow. — An unworthy trait for a future monarch, don’t you think? The silence between them became so thick that it seemed you could touch it with your fingers. Ilya’s shirt, damp from the stuffiness of the ball, clung tightly to his torso, emphasising the relief of his chest muscles and every breath he took. Shane’s elegantly styled lock of hair twitched slightly as he suppressed a sharp exhalation that could have given him away. — Stay away from the throne, Rozanov, — Shane said curtly, trying to regain his mask of icy grandeur. — This is not your war. — Don’t worry, — Ilya said smoothly, backing away toward the massive doors. His movements were devoid of courtly stiffness — there was only a wild, primal confidence in them. — I never fight for anything I didn’t choose myself. At the threshold, he paused and turned over his shoulder. The movement was so effortless and yet so provocatively sensual that Shane felt his heart skip a beat and his throat go dry. — But if one day you decide to stop being just a king… — Ilya gave him a parting, burning look. — Then, perhaps, we will be equals. The door clicked shut with a dry, final sound. Shane was left alone in the dim light of the corridor. The scent of someone else’s boldness and warmth still lingered in the air, and for the first time in his life, he clearly understood: he had lost the first round.