“Say what?” Haneul whispered.
“That you liked it.”
Haneul’s cheeks flamed. His mouth worked. “…I liked it,” he muttered, softer than before. Seungho’s lips twitched—satisfaction, not mockery.
Seungho rose from the bath, water streaming down his body like molten glass. Haneul looked away, ears burning, but didn’t run. The king stepped out, stalked toward him, steam clinging to muscle and bone like armor.
“Then learn to like what comes next.” He crouched to Haneul’s level, hand finding the back of the frostborn’s neck. “You’re mine now, Haneu, I told you. And I’m going to teach you everything.”
But when Haneul braced for a kiss, for more, Seungho stood. Walked past. Tossed a folded robe to Haneul’s chest. “Ten minutes to get in and wash. Then we start training.”
“…Training what?” Haneul grumbled, confused and raw.
“Control. Yours. And mine.” Seungho’s smirk gleamed, dangerous.
Haneul grumbled and stripped, punching the water, spitting curses at the steam. “Is he angry at me or something? What the fuck is this mood?” He scrubbed furiously, brain racing. “Should I throw myself out the window and run? …He’d chase me. Roast me alive… Ugh, or maybe he wanted me to—what, return the favor? No fucking way…” He scowled, face twisted in battle with shame and intrigue, with his own wild desire.
At last, dripping and naked, he stormed back into the room, hair unbound, no towel, attitude in full bloom. “Why the fuck do you look so pissed? If I did something wrong, be a fucking man and say it—stop acting like a teacher with a stick up his ass!”
Seungho paused mid-scroll, setting his brush down with excruciating patience. He didn’t look up, didn’t react to the puddle forming around Haneul’s feet. Just: “Sit.”
“What?!”
“Sit, Haneul.” No shout. Just command, velvet and iron.
Reluctant but magnetized, Haneul sat—sloppily, angrily, legs crossing, a scroll tube rolling away under his knee.
Seungho’s gaze sharpened. “You talk like a warrior who’s never fought his own heart.”
“What the fuck does that mean—?”
“It means you’d rather die a thousand times in battle than admit you’re scared. You’ve never had someone see you—really see you—and now that it’s happening, you don’t know whether to kill me or kiss me.”
He rose, every inch of his height and fire uncoiling. Haneul scrambled up, ready to bolt or attack. Seungho stopped, looming over him, studying every drop of water on his skin, every flicker of confusion and rage.
He leaned close, mouth at Haneul’s ear. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” Closer still. “I’m not angry.” His voice dropped. “I just want to fuck you so badly I can’t think straight.”
Haneul flinched, brain short-circuiting. The king’s eyes glinted, all raw hunger and withheld violence. Still, he didn’t touch.
“You’re not ready. Not your body. Your mind. You think surrender means weakness. That asking for what you want makes you soft.” He pressed in—warmth radiating. Haneul stepped back, spine to the wall, body trembling between cold and fire.
Seungho’s thumb tilted his chin. “You make my cock ache. You drive me insane. I will wait. But you will not talk to me like that again, Haneul. Because this isn’t war.”
He stepped back, leaving Haneul shivering, wild-eyed. “This is love.”
Then, quiet as the first snow, Seungho turned away. “Put on something warm. You have an audience with the council in an hour.”
He left, the door sighing shut. Haneul was left naked, burning, blinking back something that tasted like tears and salt and old, half-forgotten pain.
He slammed a jade figurine through the soji wall, shattered a vase, yanked open the closet and roped himself in black and indigo, every move fierce and desperate. Hair re-braided, body bound in gorgeous, furious robes, he stalked out like a thundercloud.
Seungho waited on the outer walkway, wind tossing his robe, posture regal, still as stone. He didn’t look at Haneul until he was already five paces past. Then—soft, edged as a blade:
“Haneul.”
He didn’t chase him. Just let Haneul’s silence answer.
“You don’t have to attend if you don’t want to. You’re not a soldier of this court. Not my concubine. Not my prisoner.” A beat. “You are mine.”
