Prisoners of the throne

The cold outside the castle walls that night was almost palpable. Outside, the wind howled, throwing handfuls of icy rain into the narrow loopholes, but inside the main hall, there was a different kind of tension — thick, heavy, saturated with the smell of dying candles and old enmity. Ilya Rozanov stood at a massive oak table covered with maps and reports. His fingers, roughened by the hilt of his sword, clenched the edge of the tabletop convulsively. He could feel Shane Hollander’s presence behind him without even turning around. It was like a sixth sense, developed over years of rivalry on the battlefield and in the council chambers. Shane always smelled the same: frosty mornings, expensive tobacco, and something elusively dangerous that made Ilya’s blood boil. - You’re doing it again, Rozanov, — Shane’s voice came from the shadows by the fireplace. Low, with a slight hoarseness, it sent an electric shock down Ilya’s spine. — You’re trying to calculate the uncalculable. Luck cannot be written into a column of numbers. Ilya finally turned around. His dark eyes met Hollander’s icy, mocking gaze. Hollander stood leaning his shoulder against the stonework, casually playing with a dagger. The light from the dying logs illuminated his hair, highlighting his sharp, distinguished features. - Luck is a word fools use to justify a lack of discipline, — Ilya snapped. — Your plan with the flanking attack is madness. You’ll kill people, Shane. Or are you just looking for another excuse to prove that you’re the bravest here? Shane slowly pushed himself away from the wall and moved towards the table. Each step he took was filled with predatory grace. He wasn’t walking — he was stalking, closing the distance until Ilya could feel the heat emanating from his body. - Or maybe I’m just looking for a reason to shut you up? — Shane stopped a step away from him. — You talk too much about strategy, Ilya, but I see something else in your eyes. You’re not afraid for the people. You’re afraid that I’ll be right. Again. Ilya clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw ached. Everything about Hollander infuriated him: his self-confidence, his tendency to invade personal space, his damn beauty, which seemed almost demonic in the dim light. “You think too highly of yourself,” Ilya exhaled, trying to maintain what remained of his composure. But his composure was cracking at the seams. When Shane reached out and slowly, almost lazily, ran the back of his hand across Ilya’s cheek, his fingertips brushing against his stubble, Rozanov flinched. This gesture was beyond the pale. It was a challenge, a slap in the face, and an invitation all at once. - Your skin is burning, — Shane whispered, leaning close to his face. — Do you hate me, Rozanov? Or do you hate that I’m the only one who can see how badly you want to break down? Ilya couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed Shane by the collar of his leather doublet and pulled him toward him. The collision of their bodies was violent. Ilya pinned his opponent to the table, crushing the cards they had been fighting over for the last few hours. The parchment crunched under their weight, but it didn’t matter. - You’re the devil, Hollander, — Ilya growled, staring straight into Shane’s dilated pupils. - Then come with me to hell, - Shane replied with a crooked smile. Their kiss was not an act of love. It was a battle for dominance, a continuation of their eternal dispute, only transferred to another plane. Shane responded to Ilya’s aggression with redoubled force, grabbing the back of his head and pulling him even closer, deepening the kiss to a moan that was lost somewhere between them. The taste of wine and iron — Ilya accidentally bit Shane’s lip, but Shane only pressed himself closer, as if the pain was exactly the fuel he needed. Ilya’s hands, accustomed to the weight of armour, now feverishly unfastened the buckles on Shane’s clothes. He needed to feel the living warmth, the skin, the pulse that beat as wildly as his own. Shane did not remain in debt — his fingers deftly dealt with the ties on Ilya’s shirt, exposing his shoulders and chest. When the fabric finally ceased to be a barrier, the skin-to-skin contact felt like a bolt of lightning. Ilya felt Shane’s nails dig into his shoulder blades as he pressed his lips to a sensitive spot on his neck. A low growl escaped from Hollander’s chest. - I’ve been waiting for this… too long, — Shane gasped, throwing his head back. The room was getting hotter. The shadows from the fireplace flames danced across their intertwined bodies, turning them into a single silhouette. The rivalry that had built up in their hearts over the years had now transformed into pure, undiluted passion. Every gesture was a declaration of rights, every touch an attempt to break the other’s will. Ilya picked Shane up by the hips and sat him on the edge of the table. Books and inkwells flew to the floor, but no one paid any attention. Hollander wrapped his legs around Ilya’s waist, pulling him into the very heart of his heat. At that moment, there were no titles, no wars, no strategies. There were only two people who found in each other their most dangerous and desirable reflection. - Say it, — Shane whispered, breathing heavily and looking into Ilya’s eyes. His face was wet with sweat, his hair was tangled, and his lips were swollen from kissing. — Say you’re mine. At least for today. Ilya froze for a second, his heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird. He ran his thumb over Shane’s lower lip, wiping away a drop of blood. - You know it yourself, — Ilya replied in a quiet but firm voice. — We both lost this battle the day we first met. And he covered Shane’s lips with his own again, cutting off any chance of retreat. Ilya’s hands, which usually held the reins and the hilt of his sword with confidence, now trembled with an excess of emotion. He buried his fingers in Hollander’s dark hair, pulling it back and forcing him to expose his throat to an avalanche of burning kisses. Each of Ilya’s movements was possessive, sharp, imbued with years of suppressed desire. He bit the tender skin on Shane’s neck, leaving marks that would have to be hidden under a high collar tomorrow, but he didn’t care. He wanted to brand this insolent, unbearable man, to make him his until his last breath. Shane only pressed himself harder against Ilya in response, his fingers digging into Rozanov’s strong shoulders, leaving deep furrows. He made a sound, somewhere between a moan and a quiet laugh of triumph, and his hips rocked towards Ilya, knocking the breath out of him. When the peak came, Ilya buried his face in Shane’s shoulder, stifling a cry, and Hollander squeezed his back painfully, feeling the world around him shatter into a thousand sparks. At that moment, they were not rivals. They were not lords or warriors. That night, the old fortress witnessed the fiercest enmity turn into the most burning alliance, and the walls that had seen hundreds of sieges could not withstand the storm raging inside two wounded souls who had finally found each other. They remained like that for a long time, entwined in the darkness, listening to their breathing even out and to the forgotten inkwell dripping from the edge of the table. The storm subsided, leaving behind the ruins of their former enmity and the foundation for something new, frightening and absolutely inevitable.