"No," he whispers to the empty room, pressing his palms against his eyes. "I cannot allow myself to fall for this trap."
But even as he says it, he knows the truth that settles cold and certain in his chest: He's already too far gone over Ivah, and they both know it. Whatever web has been woven between them, he's caught in it completely, and no amount of self-denial will set him free.
His body still hums with the memory of Ivah's touch, his lips still burn from those devastating kisses, and his mind reels with the implications of what he's just done. He's crossed a line tonight that can never be uncrossed, and whatever happens next, whatever consequences await him, his life has been irrevocably altered by the truth in those dark eyes and the possessive way Ivah had touched him.
Bellamy curls tighter against the door and tries not to count the hours until midnight comes again.
Chapter 6
Bellamy wakes to the sound of steel ringing against steel and the distant shouts of men in combat. For a moment, he lies frozen in his bed, disoriented by sleep and the lingering heat of dreams filled with dark eyes and calloused hands. Then another crash echoes through the castle walls, and he jolts fully awake.
The sounds are coming from below. From the direction of the dungeons.
He's out of bed and reaching for his sword before conscious thought can catch up with instinct. His hands shake as he buckles his belt—whether from the aftermath of what happened last night or the adrenaline now flooding his system, he can't tell. Probably both.
The corridors fill with running guards as he makes his way toward the commotion. Captain Klein appears at his elbow, his face grim.
"What's happening?" Bellamy demands.
"Attack on the dungeons, Your Highness. They came through the old drainage tunnels—must have been planning this for weeks."
Bellamy's heart sinks even as his mind races. Of course. Of course Ivah's men would come for him. The Barbarian King is too valuable to leave in enemy hands, too dangerous to abandon. But the timing... had this all been planned from the beginning?
"How many?" he asks as they descend the narrow stairs.
"Hard to say. Maybe twenty, maybe more. They knew exactly where to strike, exactly how to get in." Klein's voice carries a note ofprofessional frustration. "It's almost like they'd been planning this since the moment their king was captured."
The implication settles like ice in Bellamy's chest—that perhaps Ivah had allowed himself to be taken, that his capture had been part of some larger strategy. The thought makes him feel sick for reasons he doesn't want to examine.
They reach the dungeon level as the last sounds of fighting fade. The scene is one of controlled chaos—guards scattered across the stone floor, groaning and clutching wounds, some unconscious but breathing. Too many injured, but as Bellamy's eyes sweep the area, he realizes with surprise that he sees no bodies. No pools of blood spreading across ancient stone.
The massive door to Ivah's cell stands wide open, its lock shattered, iron hinges twisted beyond repair. The chains that had bound the Barbarian King lie scattered across the floor like broken dreams, and Bellamy can't help but remember the way they'd looked wrapped around Ivah's wrists just hours ago—already broken, he realizes now. Already useless.
"Any deaths?" Bellamy asks, his voice steadier than he feels.
"None, Your Highness. Many wounded, but..." Klein shakes his head in bewilderment. "It's strange. Usually when the Barbarian King's forces strike, they leave no survivors. This time it was almost like they were trying not to kill."
Bellamy's chest tightens. Had that been Ivah's influence? Some echo of their conversations, their moments of connection? He tries not to let hope bloom in his chest, tries not to read meaning into what might simply be tactical efficiency.
"Get the wounded to the infirmary," he orders, forcing himself to think like a prince instead of like a man whose heart is currently being carved out of his chest with a dull blade. "Question anyone who's conscious—we need to understand how they breached our defenses."
"Yes, Your Highness." Klein hesitates. "Should we pursue? They can't have gone far."
The practical part of Bellamy's mind knows they should. Knows that letting the Barbarian King escape is a strategic disaster that could cost them dearly. But the part of him that can still feel Ivah's hands on his skin knows it's pointless.
"No," he says finally. "They'll have horses waiting, escape routes planned. We'd be riding into an ambush." It's a reasonable excuse, even if it's not the real reason for his reluctance.
"Sir." Klein salutes and moves away to organize the cleanup.
Bellamy stands alone in the wrecked dungeon, staring at the empty cell where he'd spent the most honest hours of his life. The lamp still burns in its iron bracket, casting the same warm light that had illuminated their conversations, their confessions, their desperate joining on cold stone.
Now there's nothing but emptiness and the ache of wondering if any of it had been real.
"Bellamy."
He turns to find Harwick approaching, his weathered face grim with concern. The general's armor bears fresh dents and scratches—evidence that he'd been in the thick of the fighting.
"Were you injured?" Bellamy asks automatically.
