Archive of Our Own

“You wanted to see me,” says Rozanov, “alone?” He’s smirking in a way that makes Shane reasonably sure he’s being mocked, but for once in their very short acquaintance, Shane won’t take the bait.

“Yes,” says Shane, heart pounding. “Close the door behind you.”

It’s the first time they’ve ever been alone together. Rozanov raises his eyebrows, but he does close the door. He takes the chair across from Shane. The way he slumps in his seat is unfortunately attractive, but then, that applies to nearly everything he does.

“How did you escape the rest of your retinue?” asks Rozanov idly.

“I evade them very rarely,” Shane says. “They were not prepared.”

“Mm,” says Rozanov. “I evade mine very often, so I am always prepared.”

There is no point in prolonging this. “I need to tell you that the marriage cannot take place,” says Shane.

“You mean our marriage,” says Rozanov blankly. “The one meant to happen in ten days.”

Shane nods. “There is a provision,” he says. “It’s not used very often but if we both object, we can still get out of it.”

“You agreed before. What has changed?” Rozanov’s tone is unreadable, and Shane cannot make himself look at him.

Shane had known, on some level, that the only way out of this situation would be to explain it to Rozanov, but his resolve had been considerably stronger in the early hours of the morning, following another sleepless night. With Rozanov in the room, Shane’s determination is weakening every second. 

“I’m sick,” Shane tries.

“You seem healthy enough to me,” says Rozanov.

Shane can feel his face start to heat. “Not that kind of sick.”

“What kind, then?” Rozanov presses.

“Does it matter?” says Shane.

“You are the most duty-bound person I have ever met,” Rozanov says. “Your entire life is obligation. Why is this the one charge you refuse?”

This is agony. Shane reminds himself how much worse it would be, for the whole mess to come to light after the wedding. An annulment. Rumours swirling around them, Rozanov sent home in likely disgrace.

“Look,” says Shane, “you deserve someone who can be with you.” He fights the urge to drag a hand down his face. “Someone who could properly consummate the marriage.”

“And you cannot?” says Rozanov. “What, are you going to try to tell me you aren’t interested in men?”

Shane freezes. Rozanov is more perceptive than he looks. “No,” Shane grits out. “Uh. I am.”

A long pause follows.
 
“The problem is the way I’m interested,” says Shane.

“And what way is that?” asks Rozanov.

Shane presses his lips together. 

“What,” says Rozanov, “should I start listing ways?”

“No,” says Shane before he can stop himself, “fuck you.”

With some men, this would be the start of an international incident. When Shane risks a glance at Rozanov, there is no fury, no outrage. Maybe a glimmer of triumph, although that makes no sense.

“I, uh,” Shane says. “The things I want are—are perverse.”

Again, no anger. Rozanov also does not run screaming from the room. He says only, “Perverse how?”

For obvious reasons, Shane has never needed to tell anyone before, but he does probably owe Rozanov the truth.

“I have heard other men talk,” Shane says unsteadily, “about what they like, when it comes to matters of the flesh.”

Rozanov nods. Shane is standing with his toes over the edge of a precipice. There is nothing left to do but take the step, and fall. 

“I have never heard another man say he wants to be the one on his knees,” Shane makes himself say.

Another pause. Shane’s heart is in his throat.

“This is not unusual, in my experience,” says Rozanov.

Shane stares at him. “What?”

“Every time a man has his cock sucked, there must be someone doing the sucking,” Rozanov says. “The act cannot happen without it, no?”

Shane’s mouth is hanging open. He closes it. “I mean, it happens,” says Shane at last. “But a man isn’t supposed to—”

“Enjoy it?” says Rozanov softly. “And you do?”

“I think I would,” says Shane, ruthlessly honest. “Very much.”

“You think you would, but you have never done it?” Rozanov says. He’s almost smiling.

Shane feels absurd all of a sudden. In my experience, Rozanov had said, implying he has committed such acts before, maybe with some frequency, while Shane has done almost nothing. He breathes through his nose and tries not to feel like a child. Shane’s inexperience is not the problem. His perversion is.

It occurs to Shane that he had chosen to share perhaps the mildest of his predilections. Worse, that he had done so because on some level, he still does not want Rozanov to think less of him. Stupid.

“That is not the only thing I want,” says Shane. And he reaches for the worst, most incriminating fantasies he can think of, thoughts that make him burn with shame even in his bed at night. And Rozanov—cocky, boastful, outrageous Rozanov—sits and listens. It is absolutely horrible, but after the first few, there is something strangely comforting about admitting these things aloud to another person. He wonders if this is how Catholics feel in confession.

Rozanov does not react with mockery or disgust. Occasionally, he asks a question—so in your mind, when this man holds you down and makes you take it, is he rough with you? Does he hurt you? And Shane answers with the same curious detachment, Maybe but it is less about the pain and more about not being able to stop him, because he knows I want it.

Sometimes there is an odd strain in Rozanov’s voice, but he does not flinch away from any of Shane’s lurid, sinful imaginings. Shane regrets meeting this more considerate side of Rozanov only now, before they are to prevent the wedding from ever happening. 

If Shane is being honest, he loses track of the time, is only reminded of the outside world when footsteps sound in the hallway behind them, from the other side of the door.

“Ah, so they’ve found us,” says Rozanov, with an unfairly devastating smile. “Your people or mine, do you think?”

An awful thought seizes Shane. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” he says, cold in the pit of his stomach.

“Of course not.” Rozanov stands, stretches. “Who would believe me?”

The door opens. “Your Highness, where have you been?” An unfamiliar voice. One of Rozanov’s people, then.

Shane busies himself with the papers on the table.

“Right here,” Rozanov tells his attendant. “No international incidents today. We were just having a chat.”

“Thank you for the conversation, Highness,” Shane tells Rozanov, holding out his hand to shake. When Rozanov steps close enough to clasp hands, Shane adds in an undertone, “I can draft the papers to void our engagement tonight.”

Rozanov takes Shane’s hand in his own. His palm is warm and dry, his grip confident. His Royal Highness Ilya Rozanov is known to be a fine athlete, skilled in fencing. So is Shane. There is a reason King David and Queen Yuna had hoped the match might be a happy one. Shane feels a pang of something, that they will likely never have another conversation on their own. Still, he has at least freed Rozanov from a life shackled to Shane’s bone-deep debauchery.

Rozanov squeezes Shane’s hand. “Don’t,” he says.

“What?” says Shane.

“Don’t draft the papers,” says Rozanov, almost casual. “I will not sign them.”

He releases Shane’s hand, turning to go.

“What do you mean?” says Shane dumbly.

Rozanov looks back at Shane and smiles again. There is an edge of something to it that Shane doesn’t know how to define, except that it makes him shiver.

“Our wedding is in ten days,” says Rozanov. He backs out of the door, attendants urging him forwards. “Thank you for the conversation. Very illuminating,” he calls from the hallway.

The door swishes shut.

“What the fuck,” says Shane, with feeling.

Ilya Rozanov is in paradise. There is no other word for it. 

Three months ago, he was trapped in his father’s estate, under his brother’s thumb. Now, here in Canada, there are no spies reporting on his every move, and no police force commanded by Alexei limiting where he might go or who he might see. He has his loyal retinue by his side and his mother’s cross around his neck; no other trace of his old life has followed him across the ocean.

For the first time in many years, Ilya is free. Free to speak his mind, free to leave the grounds whenever he wishes, and free to spend as much time as he likes contemplating how to strip off the layers Shane Hollander keeps between himself and the rest of the world. 

Eleven days ago, Ilya would have been the first to admit that marrying Prince Shane was a means to an end. A conveniently handsome means, maybe, but a piece of strategy above all else—to be paired off with the prince of a far-away country, one important enough to be worth the diplomatic effort, but not so vital as to stoke Alexei’s paranoia that Ilya might some day return to Russia with enough strength behind himself to try for a coup.

Ilya’s retinue had reported that Shane Hollander was known to be stiff and awkward in social settings but almost impossibly fluid and fast with a foil in his hand. 

(“He might even take you in a fair bout,” Lady Svetlana had mused, which would have seemed impossible were it not Sveta saying so.)

Furthermore, they had said that Hollander was honorable in all his dealings, and seemingly without temper or cruelty. He did not smoke, drink to excess, gamble, or get into brawls. He did not go carousing, did not dance unless he had no other choice, and had apparently never been discovered in a compromising position with anyone. 

And if that sounded somewhat dull, well. At least Ilya would not need to worry that he was about to spend his life tied to someone who sought to bully or control him. Shane has that attractive face, and an excellent body from what Ilya can see, and once they inevitably grew bored of each other, Ilya had assumed they could do the decent thing and come to an agreement about discreetly sleeping with other people.

Ilya had failed to foresee the delicious depths of Shane’s appetites. That much he can freely admit. In the days since Shane’s somber, mortified confession, Ilya has brought himself off more than once to the thought of putting some of those ideas to practice. 

And this was before even the revelation from five days ago, that Marleau had personally witnessed Shane, dressed to go unnoticed, attending at least one of Ilya’s bouts. (“He could barely keep his eyes off you,” Marleau had said, “and I think he was admiring more than your footwork.”)

Altogether, it paints a picture. Shane had described himself as sick. Ilya wants to drown Shane in pleasure until Shane’s self-consciousness dissolves, washes away entirely, and he is begging Ilya for more. They’ve had no opportunity to discuss it further; in all the days running up until the marriage is made official, there have always been other people in the room. They will have time, Ilya reminds himself.

When he used to reluctantly cast his mind to the future, he would not have guessed he would spend so much of his own wedding smiling. Even the officiant droning on and on does little to sour Ilya’s mood. Ilya takes Shane’s hands as instructed and passes the time sweeping his thumb over the available skin, finding no fencing callouses. Probably the man is a stickler for practicing with gloves. That seems in keeping with what Ilya knows about him.

Shane is nervous, Ilya thinks when their eyes briefly meet, but hiding it well. No doubt Shane has had lessons on concealing his emotions. No doubt Shane was an excellent student. What might Ilya teach him?

They are reaching the end of the ceremony. Ilya says “I do” in the correct spot, and Shane says it too, voice low and steady. They exchange rings. Time now for the kiss. Ilya had considered this part, but he decides to keep it light and chaste, a quick warm press of lips and nothing else. When Shane pulls away, he is still blushing. Ilya watches, fascinated, and then they are herded to a banquet, and still there is not a breath of privacy for the two of them.

Ilya gets through the dinner mostly on muscle memory. He thinks Shane might be doing the same. Under the table, Ilya knocks the side of his foot into Shane’s, a friendly nudge, and Shane startles badly, jolting upright rabbit-quick. 

It occurs to Ilya then that the two of them might be having very different experiences of this evening. 

At the first opportunity, Ilya makes his excuses, and takes Shane’s hand again. Shane’s security detail follows as Ilya leads them out of the banquet hall, down a series of hallways, up a flight of stairs and down another few halls until they are standing outside a room that Ilya knows to be Shane’s bedchamber.

“Thank you for your service,” Ilya tells the three guards. Shane nods to them, and then Ilya and Shane are slipping through the door, which closes behind them, leaving the two of them alone for the first time in ten days, and the second time in their lives.

“So,” says Ilya. 

Shane flinches, a small movement but unmistakable. 

“Are you scared,” says Ilya quietly, “that I am going to, what, pounce on you, rip off your clothes, and take you right here on the floor?” He doesn’t need to add the way you told me you wanted it. “Only if you ask very nicely,” he says instead.

Something in Shane’s expression hardens. “It’s not funny.”

“I agree,” says Ilya. “Funny is not the word I’d use.”

“Then why are you smiling?” Shane presses.

They’re still holding hands; Ilya gives Shane’s palm a squeeze. “Because I think you will ask nicely,” Ilya says. 

This close, he can feel Shane’s pulse spike. Shane wrenches his hand free and steps away. 

Knowing that Shane might be willing in theory is not enough. Ilya does not want to fuck a truly frightened man. Mentally, he runs through every possible tactic that might make Shane settle. He has only one decent plan, but he thinks it might work. The room is big enough, at any rate. Servants have carried up Ilya’s things but he did not take much with him from Moscow; there is still plenty of available floor.

“Do you have foils?” Ilya says at last. “Practice foils?”

“What?” says Shane.

“Fencing foils,” says Ilya. “Do you keep any in your room? And gloves, I suppose?”

Shane blinks at the non sequitur but nods towards a chest at the foot of his bed.

“Good,” Ilya tells him. “We are going to have a little match. If you win first touch, we will do something you want to do. If I win, we will do something I want to do. Yes?”

“Okay,” says Shane. He nods, grave. “Seems fair.”

Shane takes his weapon, watching as Rozanov—as Ilya—does the same. They’ve never faced off against each other before; there was some worry from the Canadians that if Shane really trounced Ilya in sport, it could harm international relations. Little reason to fret about it now, with the two of them married to each other. None of that seems remotely real to Shane, but the grip of his foil is at least solid in his hand.

“En garde,” says Ilya, and they’re off.

Ilya is very good. Phenomenal, even. Shane had known that on some level, of course, but it is an entirely different matter to be here, meeting foil with foil. The two of them go back and forth, advancing and retreating, neither landing a blow, for long enough that Shane laughs. He’d forgotten how it could feel, fighting an equal, without any need to go easy on his opponent, striking with his full speed and accuracy.

“You’re good,” Shane breathes.

“Yes,” says Ilya. “And you are alright as well. Of course, you were prepared, a little, I think.” He attacks, and Shane parries just in time.

“What?” says Shane, recovering quickly.

Ilya smiles again. “I hear that you watch me often,” he says. “Fighting, practicing, stretching—”

How in the world could he know that? Shane has been extremely careful. He hesitates for a fraction of a second too long and the blunted tip of Ilya’s foil hits him in the breastbone.

“You win,” Shane acknowledges, face burning.

“Yes.” Ilya’s smile widens. 

Shane attempts to prepare himself for whatever might follow. He fails.

“My winnings, then,” says Ilya, raising his eyebrows.

Shane nods; a bargain is a bargain.

“Kiss me,” says Ilya.

Shane swallows. Kissing is nowhere on Shane’s long list of established perversions but he looks at Ilya’s mouth and wants. He lays his foil gently on top of the trunk it came from. He steps forward, into Ilya’s space and brings their lips together, tentative. When he pulls back, Ilya shakes his head.

“More than that,” says Ilya. “I scored a good hit on you. How many kisses do you think it was worth?”

Shane is at an utter loss. “Three?” he ventures at last.

“Five,” says Ilya. “At least.”

“Five,” says Shane. He leans in again. Ilya lays a hand on the back of Shane’s neck. This time, Ilya pushes into it, deepening the kiss in a way that makes Shane’s insides squirm pleasantly. They’re both panting for breath when they break apart.

“Four more,” says Ilya. He licks his lips and grins, wolfish. “Your first little peck doesn’t count. Five good kisses.”

“Fuck you,” says Shane, tipping their faces together.

They kiss and kiss. Shane doesn’t even try to track how many.

Eventually, Ilya steps back, lips red and wet. “Another round?” he says, and Shane retrieves his foil.

“Your form is perfect,” says Ilya a few minutes later, “like a figure in a textbook. Boring.” He’s not at all out of breath yet, which doesn’t feel fair.

Shane deflects the next blow and says nothing. He moves his shoulder back a little. Admittedly, he has observed Ilya’s bouts often enough to be aware that this is one of Ilya’s favourite strategies, to talk for the duration, trying to provoke a rash move or a momentary lack of focus. Shane refuses to fall for it a second time, to be just another opponent made to play the fool.

“You could’ve easily riposted that one,” Ilya chides. “You are making me do all the work.”

Ilya strikes again; Shane parries and takes a step away. He can wait this out.

“Ah, so you are trying to get me to tire first,” says Ilya, in that unnervingly observant way of his. “Good luck, I have amazing stamina.” He winks, and in that flicker of eyelid, Shane sees his window. Ilya moves to block, but he is just slightly too late. The tip of Shane’s foil is already pressed against Ilya’s shoulder.

Ilya takes a moment to register this, as if not accustomed to losing. Then he grins. “Your point.”

Shane nods. He lowers his weapon.

“So,” says Ilya. He lays his foil on the floor and spreads his hands. “You win. What would you like me to do to you?” 

Shane, who had been deliberately not thinking of this part, sucks in a breath. “Did you lose on purpose?” he demands.

Ilya shakes his head. “What? No. Embarrassing for me, since your attack was also from a textbook.” He shrugs. “But I will make my peace with that. What do you want, Shane?”

The thought of saying it out loud is intolerable. Shane is still half-certain he is about to be laughed at, and somehow he thinks that if Ilya mocks him here, now, on their wedding night, there will be no recovering from it. Which is absurd, because Ilya has not demonstrated that he takes anything seriously, including international diplomatic relations. It would be deeply unwise to trust this little game of his. Shane is not in the habit of acting unwisely. 

On the other hand, Ilya already knows Shane’s worst weaknesses, because Shane told him ten days ago. The least Shane can do is not add cowardice to the list.

Shane carefully sets his foil next to Ilya’s, steps close and folds to his knees. He makes himself look up at Ilya, face so hot he can feel it in his eyeballs, deeply aware there is no mistaking his intent. He braces himself for cruelty, some cutting jest.

Ilya stares down at him for the space of a breath, lips parted, eyes wide. If anything, he seems surprised, although Shane is only obeying the rules Ilya set. Ilya, who closes his mouth, then opens it again. 

“Okay,” Ilya says at last. “Okay, yes.”

They are both still in formal clothes, with far too many layers. Shane has to wait for what seems like a ridiculous amount of time, but is likely a few seconds, and then he is staring directly at Ilya’s hardening cock. Shane’s mouth waters. He sways forward like a man possessed. He is so overcome by the taste, the feel on his tongue, that he tries to take too much at once and barely manages any before his throat protests and he is gagging, eyes watering. 

Ilya pulls him off, which is humiliating even before Ilya says, almost gently, “Have some patience. You did not win the very first time you ever fenced anyone, yes?”

Shane closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the fabric covering Ilya’s thigh. When he thinks he can trust his voice, he says, “I did, actually.”

“Hm?” Ilya’s hand is in Shane’s hair. His bare hand; he’s scratching at Shane’s scalp, using his nails a little. He must have pulled off his fencing gloves at some point. It feels better than Shane would care to admit.

“Win my first bout,” says Shane. “The son of a duke, a few years older than me. He insulted my mother, so. I had to beat him.”

“Nothing works that way,” Ilya says.

Shane shrugs a shoulder, although from his current vantage point, he has no way of knowing if Ilya sees. 

“It’s what happened.”

“Do you still want to suck me off?” says Ilya, and something about the words deployed so casually—Shane nods, fervent. “This would be easier lying down,” Ilya adds. “Less likely to choke. I can talk you through it.”

“Yes,” says Shane, fighting his way to his feet. “Okay.”

Ilya reclines on Shane’s bed like he owns it, which is, Shane realizes in a strange rush, halfway true. His gaze is assessing as Shane approaches.

“And you should take off your clothes,” Ilya says.

“What?” Shane sputters.

“All of them,” says Ilya, swiping an imperious hand through the air.

“You don’t get to set terms,” Shane protests. “It was my win.”

“Mm, yes,” says Ilya, tilting his head to one side. “But you want to make it good for me, right? You want to do a good job?”

Shane’s eyes trace the decorative accent where the wall meets the ceiling.

“This is about what you want,” Ilya is saying, “and we both know you like the thought of me telling you what to do.” He shrugs a shoulder. “So, strip.”

Ilya watches with great interest as Shane removes his gloves and peels off his suit, folding each piece in a neat little pile. Something about it almost makes Ilya want to laugh, although he has the sense this would not be well-received. Shane lays the stack of clothing on the dresser behind him, and Ilya takes the opportunity to get a good look, eyes raking down every exposed inch of Shane’s body. Ilya can almost not believe he is the first person to ever enjoy the sight. He can, though, because Shane is nearly vibrating out of his skin.

Shane faces Ilya again. Their eyes connect.

“Happy now?” says Shane.

“Mm, almost,” Ilya tells him. “Turn in a circle. Slowly.”

Shane laughs, out of what may be disbelief. “I’m not going to do that.”

“Why not?” says Ilya.

“Because you only want to humiliate me,” Shane says. 

Ilya gives Shane another long once-over, pausing at Shane’s half-hard cock. “You don’t seem to mind,” says Ilya. “And I want to see your back again.”

“My back?” Shane repeats, sounding confused.

“The whole—” Ilya gestures. “The whole view.” 

Shane scoffs. “Fuck off.”

He is studying Ilya carefully. Ilya twirls a finger, illustrative, and Shane rolls his eyes.

“God,” says Shane. “Fine.” 

When he turns around, Ilya revels in the sight. It’s not just the flex of muscles over Shane’s shoulder blades, the dimples above the roundness of Shane’s ass, the backs of his very inviting-looking thighs. It’s the thrill of facing down someone just as strong, just as capable with a weapon, and then watching him choose to give into Ilya, over and over. 

“Okay?” Shane asks.

“Passable,” says Ilya. “Now come here and suck my cock.”

Shane almost trips in his haste crossing to the bed. Ilya moves back to make room for him, toppling a genuinely comical number of pillows to the floor. There is no time to comment on that, though. Ilya sinks both hands into Shane’s hair and guides Shane’s mouth down once more.

Objectively, other people have blown Ilya with more skill. Still, Shane is so responsive, so eager to please; combined with the knowledge that Ilya will be the first man to have him like this, Ilya has no real complaints. Ilya rakes his fingers through Shane’s hair, tells him start slow, keep your lips over your teeth, tongue the underside of the shaft a little, da, like that, just like that— 

When Shane finally manages something like a rhythm, Ilya slides a hand to the side of his face and says, “Good, and you can use your hand for what won’t fit in your mouth.”

Shane shoots him a wounded look, and Ilya half-laughs.

“Don’t worry,” says Ilya. “We will train you to take it all.”

Shane’s response is to bob his head, swallowing down another inch of Ilya’s cock.

Ilya breathes in through his nose, trying to keep his voice steady. “See?” he says. “You’re a born cocksucker.”

Shane moans, loud. Ilya feels the vibrations down to his toes, coupled with a heady rush of triumph like scoring the final point in a hard bout. 

Shane’s eyes flutter open. Ilya strokes at the hinge of Shane’s jaw with his thumb.

“Are you shocked you would make such a wanton sound?” says Ilya. “No, keep going.” Shane redoubles his efforts, and Ilya almost closes his eyes at the feeling, only keeps them open because Shane is staring up at Ilya with his big brown eyes as if hypnotized. Begging, maybe. “Why are you surprised, malysh? You were meant for this,” Ilya tells him. “Taking my cock in your mouth like a perfect little whore.”

It seems risky to say out loud, for all that such talk was on Shane’s litany of guilty fantasies.

Shane’s eyes slip shut and he moans again, but he doesn’t stop sucking. 

“Fuck,” says Ilya. “We will practice. Every night, until you can take all of me. And then I will call in my retinue and yours, and I’ll say—” He breaks off; Shane is using his hand, slick from spit, alongside his wet, hot mouth. Ilya lets himself get lost in the feeling for a moment. “Mm, I’ll say ‘Look at what I have taught His Royal Highness,’ and you can show them, and they will want a turn with you, of course, and maybe I will let them, but maybe I will keep you for myself.”

Shane makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat. 

Then he freezes. He pulls off completely, averts his eyes, and leans away.

Shane had said, ten days ago, that the thought of having an audience was among what heated his blood the most.

“What—” Ilya starts, feeling lost.

“I, uh,” says Shane, blushing, and Ilya realizes then with a flood of relief that this is simple embarrassment. “I already—” 

“You came?” Ilya guesses.

Shane closes his eyes. He nods.

Shane has one hand braced on the bed next to Ilya; the other was, until very recently, wrapped around Ilya’s cock. Ilya would have noticed if Shane had changed position enough to touch himself. 

“You came from nothing?” says Ilya. 

“That wasn’t nothing,” Shane says, his voice a rasp. “You were—talking.” 

The rush of power is intoxicating, is tempered only by the bizarre urge to cradle Shane’s head in his hands, to press a kiss to his freckled cheekbone.

“I was,” Ilya agrees. “Can you go again?”

“I think so,” says Shane, opening his eyes.

“Good.” Ilya reaches down and pats Shane’s shoulder. “Good.” But Shane is frowning a little. “What?”

“You’re being very kind to me,” Shane says dubiously.

Ilya sits up in bed, considering this. “Do you want me to be more cruel?”

“No,” says Shane. He huffs a breath. “Or, I don’t know. I don’t want to—”

“You don’t want to need it,” Ilya fills in. “Kindness.”

That seems to have hit the mark. Shane nods again, slower.

“Does it help if I tell you,” says Ilya, “that most of it is so I can fuck you?”

Shane looks back at Ilya, cautious. “Do you…want to…?”

“What,” says Ilya, “have I been too subtle?”

At that, Shane laughs. Buoyed by this, Ilya takes the opportunity to throw his arms around Shane and bear them both back down onto the sheets.

“Next time I will be less cunning,” says Ilya into the side of Shane’s neck. “I will say, ‘Let’s play a game. If I win, eventually I fuck you. Also, if you win, I fuck you.” Ilya mouths at Shane’s throat, tastes the clean sweat there. “Or if we tie, I will fuck you then, too.’”

Shane shudders intriguingly against him, and laughs again. “What, right now?” he says with an actual grin.

“Well,” says Ilya. “You could put your clothes back on, dig up those foils, and try for another bout. But I should warn you, this time I will cheat.”

“Can’t have that,” says Shane.

“We can’t,” Ilya agrees. “So.”

“So,” Shane echoes. 

Ilya stands, sheds his clothes, and catches Shane staring. 

Ilya raises his eyebrows. Shane glances away, as if he can somehow feign interest again in the walls of his own room.

“No, keep looking,” Ilya tells him. “I like your eyes on me.”

He can feel Shane’s gaze warm on the back of his neck as he searches through the trunks containing his belongings. Luckily, he finds it towards the top of the second trunk: a small bottle of oil.

“Where did you get that?” asks Shane as Ilya returns to the bed.

Ilya shrugs. “There is a market in town.”

“In this town?” says Shane, and Ilya gives him what must be an odd look.

“Yes,” says Ilya. “I bought this a week ago. It was easier.” Unfortunately, some note of discontent bleeds into his voice. He clears his throat, but it is too late.

“Easier than what?” Shane says. “Easier than bringing something from home? Why?” 

“What?” says Ilya, stalling.

“I would think,” says Shane, “that it would be simpler to find a discreet spot in the city where you live, instead of a place you’ve never been. What makes it easier here?”

There are half a dozen answers Ilya could give, but he doesn’t trust himself to deliver any of them without somehow betraying himself, without accidentally conveying to Canada’s beloved golden boy prince that it is still a luxury for Ilya to be allowed outside. 

“Do you want to ask me boring questions all night,” says Ilya, “or do you want me to hold you down and have my way with you?”

Shane’s eyes go gratifyingly wide. 

“I, uh,” Shane says, inelegant.

“So,” says Ilya.  “Which of your very interesting daydreams should we…?”

“I have an idea,” Shane hears himself say. He cannot imagine where his nerve has come from. Ilya looks back at him, gestures with his hand as if to say go on. “Suppose relations between our countries were different.” Shane studies his own hands for a long moment. “If Russia had more leverage than us, we might need to send a special envoy.”

“Not Russia,” says Ilya abruptly. “Some other country.”

Shane supposes it is fair that Ilya would not want to bring his now-distant homeland into this. The questions are now swarming in his brain, although on some level he understands that this is not the time for them.

Still: “What country?” Shane asks.

Ilya shakes his head. “I don’t care.”

The problem is that Ilya is so clearly not from most countries. “We could make something up,” says Shane. He considers this. Creative writing was never part of his studies. “I can’t think of a name.”

“I won’t ask you the name,” says Ilya with exaggerated patience. “Just like I won’t ask you the date it was founded or the yearly grain exports. That’s not the point of the game, is it?” His voice has gone slightly darker. “The point of the game is that you are sent to where I am, and I decide to keep you as my own personal plaything, yes?”

Out loud, it does sound a bit presumptuous. “We don’t have to.”

“This is a very specific fantasy,” says Ilya. He grins. “When did it start?”

It started two months ago, when His Royal Highness Ilya Rozanov arrived at the first state banquet arranged specially to welcome him to Canada, but from the look on his face, he seems to already know.

Shane cannot bear it. He closes his eyes, takes a few deep breaths. When he opens them again, Ilya has moved across the bed and into Shane’s space.

“We don’t have to,” Shane repeats, and still, despite everything, some part of him expects to be laughed at.

Ilya takes Shane’s jaw in his hand. He is not gentle. “It is not even a little bit your call,” says Ilya. Shane tries to look down, reflexive. Ilya tips Shane’s chin up until it is not an option. “Do you want to guess whose decision it is,” says Ilya softly.

“Yours,” says Shane.

Ilya is smiling. It is not the reassuring smile from before. It’s sharper, somehow. Shane’s heart beats frantic in his chest.

“’Yours,’ who?” says Ilya.

Shane’s mind races. “Yours, Highness,” he gets out.

“Good,” says Ilya, finally releasing Shane. For a long moment, Ilya only regards him, eyes tracing from the crown of Shane’s head down his body. Shane feels even more naked than before. 

“What are you doing,” Shane mumbles.

“Admiring my prize,” says Ilya. “If they send me a man with such sad brown eyes and pretty freckles, they should not be surprised at anything I do to him.”

Shane shivers very slightly.

“You’re shaking.” Ilya does not look particularly moved. “Are you a virgin, Shane?”

“No,” says Shane, “Highness.” It’s true, if only by virtue of what they’ve already done tonight.

Ilya lays a palm high on Shane’s bare thigh. “Has anyone ever fucked you before?”

Shane swallows. “No, Highness.”

“Good,” Ilya says again. “Lie down.”

When Shane starts to turn over, Ilya stops him with a hand to the shoulder. “On your back,” says Ilya. “I want to see your face the moment you realize you were made for this.”

Shane is somewhat hazy on how the particulars would work in this position, but he scrambles to obey anyway. Ilya watches him, gives him a nod.

“Hold up your legs,” says Ilya.

“What?” says Shane. 

Ilya reaches behind Shane’s knee and folds Shane’s leg to his chest. Shane follows suit with the other leg, until he is lying almost bent double in bed, feeling absurd and exposed and exquisitely vulnerable. 

Ilya moves in front of Shane, forcing Shane’s legs further apart. “After tonight,” says Ilya, “I will expect you to ready yourself whenever I ask for you.”

Shane nods, light-headed with want.

“Oh, you like that.” Ilya says it so quietly that it almost doesn’t seem meant for Shane to hear. Then, louder, “Good, maybe some piece of you already knows what you are.” 

“What am I?” asks Shane dizzily. “Highness,” he adds in a rush.

Ilya’s response is to smack his hand against Shane’s backside—not hard enough to seriously hurt, but the impact connects, solid.

It feels—Shane did not expect this part at all. He tries not to whimper. 

Ilya strikes him again.

“Oh,” says Shane, mostly breath. A bead of precum slides down his cock.

Ilya strokes at the skin he’d just hit. The sensation is so vivid, Shane imagines he can feel the individual whorls of Ilya’s fingerprints. 

Shane watches as Ilya reaches over to the nightstand for the oil. The clink of the stopper pulled from the bottle is very loud. Suddenly, this feels less like a game and more like—well, more like Shane is about to be fucked. He does not want his body to tense, but he can feel it starting to happen.

“You are afraid,” Ilya observes.

Shane shakes his head, struggling to communicate with only his eyes for Ilya to continue.

“Afraid and a liar,” says Ilya. 

“’m not,” Shane says. His throat works. “Please.”

Ilya says nothing for a moment. Shane cranes his neck to look Ilya in the eye.

“Please,” Shane says again.

“I want you pliant,” says Ilya thoughtfully. With no warning, he leans down and then his tongue is circling Shane’s hole. 

Shane nearly kicks Ilya in the shoulder from pure surprise. His head falls back against the pillows instead. Shane moans— mortifying, hungry—and then bites his lip to keep from doing it again.

Ilya pulls away. “No,” he says, “this is all for me, remember? The sounds you make are mine to enjoy.”

“Someone’ll hear—” says Shane.

“Yes,” says Ilya coolly. “Probably.”

“The guards,” says Shane with sudden clarity. The walls of the castle are thick but they can’t work miracles. He tries to sit up; Ilya pushes at his shoulder until Shane is lying down again.

“A benefit of the job,” Ilya tells him. 

Shane should be past blushing for the night. Evidently, he is not. “I know them by name,” he protests.

“No, you don’t,” says Ilya. He smooths his palm up and down the side of Shane’s thigh. “You are a very long way from home, and nobody is coming to save you. Nobody is going to stop this. You are in my bed, where you belong.”

Shane feels himself starting to settle, even before Ilya’s mouth descends again.

Some amount of time passes; Shane could not begin to guess how long. His internal clock, any sense of tracking minutes or even hours, has melted away entirely. As if from a great distance, he is aware that he will likely never again be able to make eye contact with the three guards stationed outside. He has been very loud.

Ilya sits up, wiping his mouth. Whatever he sees when he glances at Shane’s face seems to make him enormously pleased with himself.

“Look at you,” Ilya croons. He sets a warm hand on Shane’s chest and rubs at Shane’s nipple with his thumb, back and forth as the skin pebbles and tightens. Shane exhales shakily. “So needy,” says Ilya. “You’ll be begging for my cock soon.”

Shane shakes his head but it is barely even a token resistance. Ilya reaches for the oil, his eyes still locked on Shane’s face. Shane nods, very slightly.

Slowly, Ilya pushes a slick finger inside of Shane. It doesn’t hurt at all but it feels a little strange. 

“Tell you what,” says Ilya, “if you do a very good job tonight, maybe I will let you go back home when I am done with you.” 

“Oh,” says Shane, involuntary, and then Ilya presses his finger at a spot that makes Shane gasp, louder than before.

“There?” Ilya says, although he must know.  
 
“Yes,” Shane manages, past caring how he sounds.

Ilya just watches him for a few seconds. “Look at you,” Ilya says again. “You want it so badly, malysh.”

Shane’s Russian is quite good, but that is a word he doesn’t know, and he can guess why it was never covered in any lessons relating to diplomacy.

Ilya is sliding in another finger, hitting the same place with unerring precision, and Shane sees stars. He moans.

“Prince Shane Hollander of Canada,” Ilya muses, “coming apart from just my fingers. I should—I should sell tickets.”

“Oh god,” says Shane, or something close to it. “Please—”

“Yes?” Ilya half-laughs. “You want everyone to see you like this?”

Shane shakes his head, exhaling on another moan as Ilya presses again.

“No?” says Ilya, dropping his voice. “Because it sounds like you like it.” He trails his other hand up Shane’s side. “It sounds like I could take you in the throne room with the Canadian ambassador and all his staff watching, and you wouldn’t even try to fight me. It sounds like the only words out of your mouth would be ‘more please, Highness.’”

Shane’s answering “No” comes out alarmingly breathy, and it’s clear by the way Ilya’s eyes sparkle that he’s noticed.

“Did you ask your people to send you here?” Ilya says. “Did you beg to be an envoy, knowing the use I would put you to?” He’s pushing a third finger into Shane as he talks; Shane’s head thrashes against the pillow. “Maybe you wanted this from the beginning,” says Ilya. “The good and noble prince lying in his bed, plotting how he might become nothing more than my pretty Catamite.”

Shane swallows. “I didn’t,” he says hotly. “I’m not—”

“What,” says Ilya. “Not pretty, or not here for me to fuck? You know that I can see you, right?”

“Neith—” Shane breaks off mid-word; Ilya has pulled his fingers free.

Ilya leans forward and presses a mocking kiss to Shane’s sternum, which is sheened with sweat. He leans back, studying Shane’s face.

“There is nowhere you can go,” Ilya tells him. “I will have you whenever I want, wherever I want.” Shane has no concept of what his expression does at that, but Ilya’s lips curve. “Say it,” Ilya orders. 

Saliva is pooling in Shane’s mouth, and his skin feels so warm, he half-expects to be giving off light. He swallows again. 

“There is nowhere I can go,” he echoes, obedient. “You will—you will have me—“

Shane is still holding up his legs. Ilya grabs the back of Shane’s knee, folds his thigh that much closer to his chest.

“—wherever and whenever I want,” says Ilya.

“Wherever,” says Shane, “and whenever you—” 

He breaks off; the thick head of Ilya’s cock is pressed against his hole and then pushing inside, the slow, delicious stretch of it knocking the breath from his lungs. 

“Oh god,” Shane says, helpless. “Oh fuck.”

Distantly, Shane assumes he’s about to be reprimanded for not completing the phrase but Ilya says nothing for a long moment. His eyes are locked on Shane’s. The feeling goes on and on.

“Good?” Ilya whispers.

“Please,” says Shane. 

Ilya’s hips snap forward, burying himself the rest of the way inside Shane.

“Like that?” Ilya pants, eyes trailing down to where their bodies are joined. Shane knows with sudden certainty that if he looks, he will spend immediately. He lets his head drop against the pillow instead, nods, makes a deeply shameful sound when Ilya pulls out halfway and then thrusts in again, hitting the same place he’d so ruthlessly targeted with his fingers.

Shane’s eyes slip closed. Another thrust. 

“You are drunk,” says Ilya, face flushed, sounding breathless but amused. “You are cockdrunk.” He slides out and then drives in again. “Don’t you want to stop me?” Without so much as a hitch in his rhythm, he grabs Shane’s hand, tangles their fingers together. “Don’t you want me to let you up so you can go grab your foil and defend yourself?”

On some level, Shane understands he has a part to play, but the thought of Ilya even pausing—

“Don’t stop,” Shane manages, on his second try. “Don’t—fuck!—don’t stop, please.”

“Begging for it,” says Ilya, with what may be satisfaction. “So you do know what you are.”

“What,” says Shane, and then, “Oh god.”

Ilya lets go of Shane’s hand in favor of brushing the hair away from Shane’s forehead, a parody of a caress. 

“Moy shlyukha,” Ilya says. “Giving it up so sweetly when you should be fighting me, because this is what you want. I should—I should make you say thank you.”

“I,” says Shane. Ilya tugs at his hair, sharp, and Shane nearly cries out. “Thank you, Highness,” he breathes. “Th—thank you—”

“For fucking you like you were made for,” says Ilya.

“For fucking me like I was—” Shane arches his back, pushes up to meet Ilya’s next thrust.

“Fuck,” says Ilya.

Shane does it again, and again. Their bodies are sweat-slick, sliding against each other. He feels loose-limbed and blissed out, almost floating, made of nothing but sensation. He’s close, he can tell he’s close, and he thinks Ilya might be, too.

“Will you,” Shane says, swallows. “Will you let me go home?”

The bed is shaking beneath them. It is rattling against the wall and surely someone can hear—

“I lied,” says Ilya, baring his teeth in something like a grin. “I lied, I am keeping you here with me forever, moy shlyukha.”

Shane comes so hard his ears ring. 

When he becomes aware of his body again, Ilya is still pounding into him. It’s too much at once; he tries to squirm away, but Ilya lays a heavy hand on Shane’s shoulder, pinning him down. Shane’s spent cock twitches at the thought, and Ilya comes in a hot rush. 

They lie there together for a long moment, breathing hard, Ilya’s cock softening inside of him. Neither of them say anything. 

Shane waits to feel worse about himself, to feel worse for having involved another person in his filthy inner life. Instead, he finds himself filled with a sudden frantic gratitude. 

“Thank you,” Shane says. “Really. I—”

Ilya’s eyes are somewhere past Shane’s shoulder. “We are done with that part,” he says.

“Okay,” says Shane. “Thank you, all the same.”

Ilya looks back at Shane.

“I told you we were finished with that,” Ilya says, gently brushing the hair away from Shane’s forehead. “Do I need to spank you again?”

Laughter bubbles up in Shane before he is aware of it. “No,” he says. “Not this time.”

“But maybe next time, mm?” says Ilya.

Shane wants to rear up and kiss him on the mouth but can’t guess at what the rules might be. 

“Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Ilya echoes. 

They lie together, just breathing, for a while. That their bodies are stuck together swiftly shifts from arousing to disgusting.

“We should clean up,” Shane says at last.

When Ilya pulls out, Shane can’t help a small grimace. Ilya maneuvers himself off of Shane but hovers there for a moment, one arm on either side of Shane’s head. His gaze flits down to Shane’s lips, as if he is considering whether or not to kiss him. Then Ilya leans away and pats him on the flank, the way one might calm a horse.

“Aw, you miss my cock already,” Ilya is saying.

“Shut up,” says Shane.

Ilya climbs off the bed, and the problem is that Shane does miss it—and not just the heat and fullness inside, but the solid warmth of Ilya’s whole body, lying tangled together as if they’d been carved from the same piece of wood.

Ilya returns with a wet cloth. Shane wipes the worst of the mess off of himself and passes the cloth back. He thinks Ilya likely does the same but he doesn’t watch. The sight of Ilya naked and scrubbing himself off does not feel like it belongs to Shane.

Ilya lies back down, maybe an arm’s reach away, maybe farther. Shane scrambles for anything to say that isn’t thank you.

“Did something happen in Russia?” says Shane, just as Ilya is almost getting comfortable. In a smaller bed, Shane and Ilya would have no choice; they would lie huddled together, arms or legs brushing or maybe even entwined, the minor reassurance of someone else present and still-breathing, even now in the small hours of the morning. This bed is enormous; even knowing Shane is not so far away, it feels empty. It is a problem.

Not as much of a problem as Shane’s sleepy, solemn voice in bed next to him. Shit.

The silence stretches out between them, too long. If Ilya says nothing, he knows that Shane will keep asking—maybe not for a while, but the questions will continue, and can now continue for the rest of their lives. Belatedly, he remembers that any fencer at their level understands on instinct how to make an opponent yield.

“What,” says Ilya, “more of this? I thought I might have fucked the curiosity out of you.”

“Maybe next time,” says Shane, dismissive. “What happened to you in Russia?”

“Very little,” Ilya says, which is technically true.

In Moscow that winter, it had taken a full day for Ilya to realize that his boots were gone. At first, he had cursed himself for misplacing them—lazy, sloppy—and then he had searched harder, checking even places it would be very stupid to leave them. Eventually, he saw that all of his coats were also missing. This was when it had finally begun to sink in: that it was deliberate. 

Alexei’s forces had been circling, lurking in plain sight, reporting whenever Ilya left the castle, and he had known the noose was tightening but he had thought—what? That he’d have more time? That he would get more of a chance to fight it? That Alexei still might harbor some scrap of brotherly affection for him, enough to keep from placing Ilya under a stupid and pointless unofficial house arrest for the better part of a year?

Shane Hollander would have done the brave thing, Ilya thinks, like a prince in a storybook. Shane would have confronted Alexei, no matter what that did to the ache in the back of his throat, to his memories of two half-wild young sons running amok together, would have asked directly why can’t I leave? Why are you doing this? Ilya had simply borrowed someone else’s clothes and snuck out to a tavern, drinking until he actually didn’t track who it was that dragged him back through the towering stone walls. 

As time went on, the boredom of it had been—not the worst part, but almost as bad as the worst parts.

Shane is still waiting for a reply.

“I don’t,” Ilya starts, surprising himself. “I don’t want—to talk about it.”

“Alright,” says Shane. And then, with so much gentleness that it makes Ilya’s eyes hurt, “That bad?”

“Not so bad,” Ilya snaps. “At least I did not have boring Canadian royals interrogating me while I try to sleep.”

“Fine,” says Shane, and he does not even have the decency to sound angry, just tired. “Never mind.”

Shane Hollander, beloved only child of King David and Queen Yuna, who has never felt unwanted because he has never been unwanted. Lying next to him now, Ilya is a feral dog, all claws and teeth and dubious raw patches.

The ceiling of Shane’s room is unremarkable but it is better than staring at the walls and better, marginally, than the inside of Ilya’s own eyelids. He traces its outline again and again, until he can imagine the shadowy afterimage burned into his eyes. He could get up, leave this room, wander the halls the way he used to in—Ilya’s stomach clenches. No. He could slip out from the grounds and walk to the nearest town, make a circuit of the streets until the sun crests the hill and the bakeries open. In his mind, he is already doing this.

If the staff sees Ilya sneaking around the palace at night, there will be talk—that he is already unsatisfied with Shane, that he is looking for someone else to bed, maybe. Ilya considers this, and then he thinks of splashing some water on his face. The rush of cold on his skin, the shock of it. Some other sensation to take his focus.

The bed is so large that Ilya can easily climb off of the mattress without disturbing Shane. Ilya stands, crosses the room in the dark, wets his face, wipes it dry. He is heading back to the bed when his foot collides with a trunk, stubbing his toe badly.

Ilya sucks in a sharp breath. From the other side of the bed, he can hear Shane stirring. Fuck.

“Can’t sleep?” says Shane, hushed.

Ilya’s skin itches at the thought of ceding an inch of ground. He says nothing on his way back to the bed. Throws off the duvet, lies down.

“Want me to rub your back?” Shane says.

Ilya understands every individual word, but together he can’t make sense of it. This has not happened in a long time. English is full of stupid idioms but he has been drilled in them since he was a boy. The language is too important diplomatically for misunderstandings.

“What?” Ilya gets out.

Shane shifts under the covers. It’s too dark to see his face, so it must be too dark to see Ilya’s, too. Small mercies.

“It might help you sleep,” says Shane.

“You need to get your hands on me again that badly?” says Ilya, deliberately mean.

Shane exhales in an annoyed huff.

Ilya stares up at the ceiling once more. It is not as if he wanted Shane to argue back. Not as if he wanted Shane to push past his no like it was nothing, the slightest inconvenience to be brushed aside. Not like he—Ilya will be sick if he keeps thinking this way.

“Sorry,” says Shane. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. Of course.”

“Of course,” says Ilya, as if it all makes perfect sense.

“I meant it, you know,” Shane says into the darkness. “When I thanked you. That was—you were—but we don’t have to, again. We consummated, you did your part, it’s done.”

A laugh bubbles up in Ilya’s chest, messy and frantic. “Yes,” he says, “I did my part. I can’t wait for them to hand me my medal of valor, for fucking you up the ass.”

“Fuck off.” A rustle of cloth; Shane might be turning away. He takes a deep breath. “I intended to obey the vows we made today, to be a partner to you. But maybe that was, uh, not fair to you. If you don’t want that—” Shane swallows. “We can be strangers, if you would rather be strangers.” 

Ilya thinks of Shane, face pale, jaw set, arguing that his desires were too unnatural and wrong for him to be even a prospect for marriage. That the engagement should be broken, rather than creating a space for him to be allowed to give in. He thinks of Shane on his back, eyes huge and dark, the sheer magnetic pull of his want, his courage in expressing it at all.

Thank you, Shane had said. Really.

“Is that what you want?” Ilya grits out. His voice is wrecked. It’s terrible. “To be strangers.”

“I don’t think you should make your decision based on what I want,” says Shane. 

At that, Ilya hums, mock-considering. “You had some pretty good ideas before,” he says. “You enjoyed yourself?” It feels safer, at least, than the idiotic impulse to ask, Are you okay?

“I’ve told you three times,” Shane says. “I don’t—what, do you want it in writing?”

“I enjoyed myself as well,” says Ilya. He stretches his arms above his head.

Shane says nothing for several beats. “What?”

“Do you need it in writing?” Ilya asks. “You have—official stationary and seals, yes? We could make it a proclamation. A joint proclamation.”

“Fuck off,” says Shane again, but he sounds less wrung out now. “Uh. You really—?”

“Wait for my proclamation,” says Ilya. “I will use many adjectives.”

Shane laughs, reluctant but audible. It is absurd how far away they are from each other, thinks Ilya. It is absurd that Ilya doesn’t get to lay his head on Shane’s chest and feel the laughter rise up in him. 

“I do not know if I will ever want to talk about it,” Ilya hears himself say. 

“Is there,” says Shane, “I don’t wish to imply I can fix it, but if there is something I could do to help—”

“I will take that back rub, actually,” says Ilya.

“You’re joking,” Shane says.

“No.”

“It’s not funny,” says Shane.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, patient, “because it is not a joke.”

They meet in the middle of the bed, groping blindly for each other.

Shane’s hands are warm and firm on Ilya’s shoulder blades, his spine, the junction of his neck and back. Ilya had not noticed the stiffness in his own muscles until it is slowly worked away. 

“Better?” Shane asks. He doesn’t sound smug or unsure. He seems to be asking simply because he wants to know.

“Yes,” says Ilya, twisting to lie next to him on the bed. “Better.” Some loop in Ilya’s mind completes; the feral dog within him yawns and curls at Shane’s feet. “Thank you.”

“Anything else I can do?” Shane says.

Ilya has the sudden mental image of crowding Shane against the pillows and kissing him very softly. It is disorienting.

“Anything,” says Shane. 

Brave, kind Shane, who bared his own desires when he was convinced he would only find scorn and disgust.

“Maybe,” Ilya says. He rolls over, putting them nearly nose to nose.

Shane does not recoil. Ilya moves directly into Shane’s space, braces one hand on either side of Shane’s face and leans in. Shane only spreads his legs to make room.

This may be what gives Ilya the strength to open his mouth again. “I hear you were captured by a wicked man,” says Ilya, “who made you do things you would never have done.”

“What?” says Shane. Ilya reaches down and grabs Shane’s hand with his left hand. Their wedding rings clink.

“And as your husband,” says Ilya carefully, “I need to know that you are alright.”

“Oh,” Shane says, and then, perhaps remembering to play his part, “I’m so glad you’re here, sweetheart.” 

Ilya is grateful to the dark, for hiding the way he smiles at that. “And did he hurt you?”

“No,” Shane tells him. “Well, a little, but. No lasting harm.”

Hesitantly, Ilya kisses him on one cheek, and then the other. Shane leans up just enough to bring their lips together. They trade kisses back and forth, feather-light.

“Thank you, husband,” Ilya says.

“Thank you, husband,” says Shane quietly.

If the feral dog was lying down before, now he is wagging his tail. Stupidly, Ilya’s heart pounds. Shane wraps an arm around Ilya, tucking Ilya’s head against his shoulder.

“About what happened in Russia,” says Shane. “You don’t need to talk about it with me, but we could find you someone helpful from the clergy if you need an ear, or advice—”

Ilya’s retinue already knows the whole story, of course, but if Ilya was ever seized by a mad urge to open his own wounds, he is aware that Cliff and Sveta would be willing to listen, at least. 

“I have people already,” says Ilya.

Shane’s fingers are threading through Ilya’s curls, softly scratching at his scalp. “That’s good,” he says.

Ilya nods, careful not to dislodge Shane’s hand. He smiles in the dark. “Ask me what I am thinking.”

“That seems a greater intrusion than any of my questions so far,” says Shane.

“No,” says Ilya. “Ask me.”

“What are you thinking?”

“One of the things you said ten days ago,” says Ilya. “About a handsome thief who slips into the castle, finds you alone, and forces you surrender your clothes to him piece by piece, and then ties you to the headboard and fucks you.”

“Yes,” says Shane slowly, “that was very detailed, just now.”

“It was memorable.” Ilya twists to press a kiss to Shane’s bicep. “I think he might pay a visit tomorrow night.”

“I don’t think I said handsome,” Shane says, and going by his voice, he may be smiling.

“Oh no, he will be very handsome,” says Ilya. “And better than you at fencing.”

“I doubt that,” says Shane. Now he is smiling for certain, Ilya can tell.

“Your doubt will be your downfall,” Ilya tells him. “I fear for your virtue.”

Shane yawns, and kisses the top of Ilya’s head. “We shall see.”

“We shall,” Ilya says, “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” says Shane dreamily.

“Thank you for sharing your vile perversions with me.” Ilya burrows deeper into the circle of Shane’s arm. “I like them.”

Judging by the even breathing, Shane may be asleep already. That is alright, he reminds himself. They will have time.