I love him.
The thought comes with crystal clarity, undeniable and terrifying in its completeness. Not just attraction, not just fascination or the thrill of dangerous liaison. Love.
I'm in love with the Barbarian King of Everitt.
The magnitude of it threatens to overwhelm him. This isn't some passing infatuation or political convenience. This is the kind of love that poets write about and kings start wars over. The kind that changes the course of history and destroys kingdoms.
The kind that he would die for.
"What's on your mind?" Ivah asks, clearly noticing Bellamy's intense stare. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Heat floods Bellamy's face, his pulse racing so fast he can feel it in his throat. How can he possibly explain what just happened? How can he put into words the earth-shaking realization that he's completely, irrevocably lost to this man?
"Nothing," he manages, his voice rougher than he intends. "Just... enjoying the ride. Enjoying the company."
But his heart is hammering against his ribs, and no amount of deep breathing seems to calm the frantic rhythm. Because the truth is blazing in his chest like a second sun, impossible to ignore or deny.
He's in love with Ivah. Completely, irrevocably, with every fiber of his being.
And that changes everything.
The knowledge follows him through the evening meal, through their walk in Ivah's private gardens, through the stolen hours in bed where they make love with a tenderness that nearly breaks his heart. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered endearment feels different now, weighted with the certainty of what he feels.
When morning comes and he has to leave again, Bellamy can barely force himself to mount Tempest. The separation feels like tearing something vital from his chest, leaving a wound that he knows will only grow larger with time.
"Three weeks," Ivah says, his hand resting on Bellamy's knee as he sits his horse. "I'll find a way to see you sooner."
"Be careful," Bellamy says, though what he means isI love youanddon't let them catch usandI don't know how to live without this anymore.
"Always am." Ivah's smile is soft, private, meant only for him. "Ride safe, little prince."
The endearment follows Bellamy all the way back to the border, echoing in his mind like a prayer or a promise. By the time he reaches Mirn territory again, he's made a decision he doesn't quite admit to himself.
Something has to change. This careful dance of hidden meetings and stolen moments, this constant fear of discovery and separation—it's not sustainable. Not when what he feels is this overwhelming, this essential to his very existence.
He doesn't know how to make it work. Doesn't know if there's any path forward that doesn't end in war or heartbreak or both. But he knows he has to try.
Ivah is worth trying for.
Chapter 11
Bellamy knows something is wrong the moment he sees Harwick waiting in the castle courtyard, arms crossed and wearing the expression that used to terrify him as a child when he'd been caught in some mischief. The general's weathered face is set in grim lines, and his gray eyes track Bellamy's approach with uncomfortable intensity.
The ride back from the border had been peaceful, filled with the warm afterglow of another stolen day with Ivah and the bittersweet ache of separation. Now, seeing Harwick's stance and expression, that contentment evaporates like morning mist, replaced by the cold grip of dread.
Bellamy's mind races through possibilities as he guides Tempest toward the stables. Has someone discovered his true destination? Has word somehow reached the court about the Barbarian King's mysterious blonde lover? Or is this about something else entirely—some political crisis that requires his immediate attention?
But the sick feeling in his stomach tells him it's the first option, and the way Harwick's eyes never leave his face confirms his worst fears.
"General," Bellamy says carefully, dismounting and handing Tempest's reins to a waiting groom. His voice sounds steadier than he feels, a prince's training taking over even as his heart hammers against his ribs. "Is there something urgent?"
"We need to talk." Harwick's voice is flat, final, carrying the weight of absolute authority that has commanded armies and broken enemy lines. "Now. Privately."
He's been so careful. Months of planning, of creating believable cover stories, of ensuring his absences could be explained by legitimate royal business. How could he have been discovered now, when everything between him and Ivah felt like it was building toward something momentous?
Harwick's study is exactly as Bellamy remembers from countless meetings over the years—a sparse chamber lined with maps and weapon displays that speaks of a life dedicated to military service. Strategic texts fill the shelves, their leather bindings worn from frequent consultation. Battle plans cover the desk, held down by paperweights that double as memorabilia from old campaigns.
This is where Harwick had taught him strategy as a boy, where they'd pored over maps and discussed the art of warfare and the burden of command. This is where Bellamy had first learned that duty sometimes demanded sacrificing what you wanted most for the greater good.
