Heirs to the throne

***

It had been a difficult day, too crazy. In the silence of his chambers, Ilya paced from corner to corner, breathing heavily. He was overcome by conflicting desires. He could still taste Shane on his lips, a ghostly echo of their kiss. He could still feel Shane’s strong, confident hands wandering over his body, gripping his hair to deepen the kiss. The memory sent a shiver down his spine — a mixture of heat and cold that made his head spin. He could smell Hollander — a faint scent of leather, spices, and something elusive that had penetrated Ilya’s skin and taken root there. His own reflection stared back at him from the night window: a crazed look, flushed cheeks. He looked possessed, and in a sense, he was. Possessed by memories, sensations, an insatiable and raw need. He turned away from the window, his body tense. His cock was hard, and the physical pain reflected the emptiness inside him. He needed release, he needed to relieve the tension that had been building since the moment he crossed the line and destroyed both their worlds. Ilya took off his clothes with sharp, impatient movements. The cool air in the room did not help to quell the heat that had engulfed him. He lay down on the wide bed, wrapped his hand around his cock and groaned at the first touch. His mind was filled with images of Hollander: those dark, piercing eyes. Lips swollen from kissing. He felt Shane’s body pressing against him, felt the warmth emanating from his skin. He heard the deep, velvety voice and watched the playful smile, the mocking look… His hand moved faster and faster, his grip tightening. He felt the excitement growing. But he held back, not wanting it to end too quickly. Rozanov wanted to enjoy it, to prolong the moment, to dissolve into memories and sensations. He remembered how Shane kissed him with the same passion and desire. How his tongue penetrated his mouth, taking possession of it. How strange hands wandered over his body, exploring, discovering, leaving a fiery trail behind them. Ilya arched his back on the bed, his hand moving at a frantic pace. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, and the tension in his body grew with every passing second. He was close, so close. But he wanted more. He wanted to feel him close. -Ohh… Shane… His body tensed, his breathing faltered, and he came. Silence. Realisation did not come immediately. But even when the pleasure faded, something in him had changed — a low rumble beneath his skin reminded him of what he wanted, what he needed. He knew one thing for sure: he wanted that damn Hollander. He wanted him in his bed, so that the sensation of his touch would never fade. So that those arrogant eyes would look only at him.

***

Shane didn’t turn on the light for a long time. The room was plunged into semi-darkness, and there was something deliberate about it — as if he hoped that the darkness would hide his own wrong thoughts. After the kiss, they stopped obeying common sense. Their feelings couldn’t be broken down into convenient arguments or arranged into familiar chains of cause and effect. They just were — obsessive, passionate, too vivid. Holland stood by the window, leaning his palm against the cold stone, and caught himself breathing deeper than usual. It was annoying. Everything annoyed him: the memory that stubbornly brought back the feeling of someone else’s closeness. The body that reacted faster than the mind, that moment when he — the crown prince, a man raised to be self-possessed — did not back down. He knew why it was dangerous. He knew too well. Ilya wasn’t just unsuitable — he was impossible. A rival. A risk. The crown. A variable that couldn’t be taken into account without losses, without disappointments. Any connection between them meant vulnerability, and vulnerability was a luxury Shane couldn’t afford. He had been taught this since childhood, as thoroughly as he had been taught to maintain his posture and hide his emotions. And yet the memory lingered. There was no pleading, no weakness in Ilya’s audacity. There was no hesitation in his movement. It was not a desire to be chosen — it was a blunt demand. And that was what hurt Hollander the most, because he recognised himself in that feeling — the person he could have been if not for duty and strict upbringing. He ran his hand over his face, slowly, as if checking whether the familiar mask was still in place. In the reflection of the glass, he saw a calm, composed, almost cold man looking back at him. But Shane knew that this was only the surface. Beneath it was a tense, painful movement of something unknown. He thought of Ilya — for the first time not as an enemy. The thought was sharp, almost offensive. Shane remembered Rozanov’s gaze after his outburst: not victorious, not confused — waiting. As if waiting for Shane to do something about it. That expectation burned the most. It deprived him of his usual advantage — control. — I could go to him, — Shane said thoughtfully, and the thought sounded too frank. — I could knock. Demand an explanation. Put an end to it. He didn’t want an end to it. He wanted to see Rozanov. To make sure it wasn’t just his weakness. That it wasn’t a one-sided failure, not a moment that one person experiences as a catastrophe and another as an episode. He wanted confirmation, and at the same time feared it more than anything else. He knew what it meant to want something so badly that it hurt. He knew how easy it was at that moment to take a step that you would later regret. He straightened up. The decision came not as an impulse, but as a cold, clear thought. If it was a mistake, he would face it. If it was weakness, he would overcome it. But he could no longer leave things as they were. Not now. Shane headed for the door. His heart was beating steadily, almost too calmly, but there was a heaviness in his chest, as if each step brought him closer to a boundary beyond which he would cease to be who he was accustomed to being. The corridor was empty. The palace slept, holding its breath, as if it too sensed that something greater than a private whim was being decided that night. He stopped in front of Ilya’s door. His hand did not rise immediately. One knock was enough. Right? And Shane knocked. And when the door opened and he saw him — relaxed, unguarded, protected neither by title nor clothing, with messy, damp curls — he knew there was truly no turning back.

***

The door creaked open, and Ilya appeared in all his glory. His chest rose with each breath, and his wild, hungry gaze was fixed on the crown prince. The room was tense, the air thick with sweat and desire. Ilya raised his eyebrows in surprise and gestured for him to come in. - What brings you here, Your Highness? Shane’s heart was pounding wildly, but his voice remained steady as he struggled to control himself. - We need to talk. Ilya smiled even wider, his burning eyes fixed on Hollander. - Talk? Seriously? Did you come here to show off your oratory skills? He pushed himself away from the cold wall, took a step forward and whispered: - Liar. Shane caught his breath. His body betrayed him, reacting too obviously to Ilya’s words. He felt the heat emanating from their bodies, saw the dimple in his neck pulsing with desire. No, he couldn’t give in. - This is dangerous, Rozanov. Ilya interrupted him, grabbing his chin and running his thumb over his lips. - That’s the beauty of it, Hollander. You and I are always 'dangerous'. Shane closed his eyes at Ilya’s touch, his body leaning forward, defying common sense. When he opened his eyes, Ilya was already closer, his hot breath burning Shane’s face. - Don’t think that… Ilya pressed his lips against Shane’s, silencing him. The kiss was rough, greedy, a battle of teeth and tongues. Shane groaned, clenching his fists. Rozanov’s hands roamed over Shane’s body. He pressed Hollander against the wall, he was too tense. Shane felt his own body respond, his lower body tensing. Rozanov pressed his lips to Hollander’s neck, biting the sensitive skin. - This is what you came for, Shane, — he murmured in a low, growling voice. — Because of me. Shane threw his head back, a moan escaping his lips. He felt heat spreading through his stomach, a forbidden desire overwhelming him. But he knew what he was risking, knew the danger they were playing with. - No… We can’t… Ilya pressed his lips against Shane’s again, his tongue forcing its way in without asking permission. Shane felt the desperation in that kiss, the insistence in those touches. He knew he had to stop, push him away, but his body betrayed him: his hands grabbed Rozanov by the shoulders and pulled him closer. He pushed Hollander onto the bed where he had so fiercely pleasured himself with thoughts of this guy. Ilya reached for his breeches and deftly unfastened them. Shane’s breath caught when Ilya’s hand wrapped around his cock and his thumb touched the sensitive head. He moaned and leaned into the deft touches. Rozanov’s lips moved closer to Shane’s ear, his voice low and whispering. - Let me taste you, Hollander. Let me give you pleasure. Shane closed his eyes, his body trembling with desire. The words froze on his lips when Ilya ran his tongue over his ear, biting the lobe lightly. He knew he was playing with fire, but suddenly all the rules ceased to matter, dissolving in a haze of passion. Ilya’s lips slid over Shane’s body, leaving wet trails of kisses behind. He knelt before Shane, his curious eyes never leaving him. They saw the hunger in each other’s eyes. His tongue touched the head of his cock. Shane threw his head back and a loud moan escaped his lips. Ilya’s mouth wrapped around his cock, his tongue sliding along the shaft. Holland felt the heat, the wetness, every movement of the other man’s tongue. He moaned, clutching Ilya’s curls and pulling him closer. Ilya wrapped his arms around Shane’s hips, his fingers digging into the skin as he took the cock deeper, relaxing his throat to accommodate it. He felt the tension building in his body, how with every movement of the tongue, with every touch, with every movement of the lips, something was approaching. Ilya did not take his eyes off him, and the wildness in his gaze fuelled Hollander’s desire. - Oh, damn… Rozanov… Shane’s body tensed, his hips jerked, and he came, spilling into Ilya’s mouth. Ilya swallowed, never taking his eyes off Shane. Without even trying to catch his breath, Ilya stood up and pressed his lips to Hollander’s in a passionate kiss. Shane could taste his own body. He knew he had to pull himself together, had to stop this before it went too far, but instead he grabbed Rozanov by the shoulders and pulled him closer. The kiss became more passionate, their tongues intertwined, their breath mingled. Ilya’s hands slid down to Shane’s chest, his fingers deftly unbuttoning his shirt. Ilya’s gaze slid over Shane’s body, studying every inch. Hollander reached for Ilya, his hands trembling slightly as he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off his shoulders. Ilya’s chest was broad and muscular, his skin glowing golden in the dim light of the chandeliers. Shane’s hands slid over his shoulders, chest, and abs, tracing the lines of muscle, the hollows and curves of his skin. Ilya gasped when Shane’s fingers touched his nipples, and his eyes closed. Shane leaned down, replaced his fingers with his lips, and began to caress the sensitive nub with his tongue. Hollander reached for the button on his trousers, hesitating slightly in his haste. The unnecessary clothing fell to the floor. Shane reached lower, cupping his cock with his hand. Ilya groaned, his hips jerking forward, his hand covering Shane’s, guiding his movements. His thumb touched the sensitive tip, and Ilya closed his eyes. Shane’s cock throbbed with desire. He reached for it, wrapped his hand around it, and began to stroke it in time with Ilya’s movements. The sensations were incredible, his body burning, their sighs breaking out in unison. Ilya’s body trembled, and he began to breathe in short, sharp gasps. Shane felt the tension building in his stomach, the pressure increasing, his body burning, his hips tensing… They came at the same time, collapsing onto the pillows. Their bodies glistened with sweat, and their breathing was ragged and rapid. The room was silent, broken only by the ticking of the family clock on the wall and faint sounds from outside the window. Shane’s thoughts were confused, his body still not back to normal after orgasm. He had never experienced anything like this before, never been so consumed by desire, so exhausted. Silence hung in the air. - Well… — Ilya’s voice was lower than usual, hoarse, as if he himself did not expect this intonation from himself. — That was… unexpected. Shane smiled slightly. He stood up, already gathering himself again — his movements precise, restrained, almost detached. The heir returned to his place, layer by layer covering what had just been exposed. He had to get out of here. Immediately. - I expect, — he said calmly, buttoning his doublet, — that this will remain between us. Ilya didn’t answer right away. He watched him closely, with a particular interest that was a mixture of defiance and audacity. Then he slowly reached for the bedside table, picked up the pipe and lit it. The warm aroma of tobacco spread through the room, completely erasing the traces of their frenzied intimacy. - Of course, — he said finally, grinning. — Secrets are my weakness. - Go to hell. Shane paused at the door for just a second. That was enough to understand: nothing was over. It just had a name now. And a price. He left without looking back. And in Ilya’s room, silence lingered for a long time — the kind of silence that comes after mistakes that are too similar to desire. Desires that can cost a crown.

***

*Culottes are short breeches worn by upper-class men in the 18th century.