"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Kent's smile is thin, cruel, carrying implications that make Bellamy's stomach turn. "Even useless princes have their... applications."
The way he says it makes Bellamy's mouth go dry with dread, but he forces himself to remain still, to show no reaction that might provoke further interest.
"You see," Kent continues, beginning to circle Bellamy like a predator sizing up prey, "I know all about your little trips to Everitt, boy."
The words hit like ice water, but Bellamy forces himself not to react visibly. His heart pounds against his ribs, but he keeps his face carefully blank. "I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you?" Kent's voice carries amusement now, the pleasure of a man revealing a carefully guarded secret. "Multiple border crossings, always alone, always in disguise. Meeting with enemies of your kingdom."
"You're mistaken—"
"I know you've been warming that savage barbarian’s cock for months."
The crude words hang in the air like a physical blow. Bellamy feels heat flood his face despite his desperate efforts to remain composed, his careful mask slipping for just a moment before he regains control. But it's too late—Kent has seen the reaction, and his smile widens with satisfaction.
"Nothing to say?" Kent reaches out with one finger and lifts Bellamy's chin, forcing eye contact. His touch is cold and clammy, nothing like Ivah's warm strength. "I can see what that savage sees in such a pretty boy. All that golden hair, those green eyes... quite the little beauty, aren't you?"
Bellamy tries to pull away, but Kent's grip shifts to his jaw, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. The king's pale eyes are bright with a hunger that makes Bellamy's stomach churn with revulsion.
"Don't touch me," Bellamy says quietly, though his voice shakes despite his efforts to control it.
"Or what? You'll tell your barbarian lover?" Kent's laugh is harsh, bitter, full of the cruelty of a man who's grown comfortable with having power over the helpless. "He's not here, boy. No one's coming for you."
The words are designed to wound, to break whatever hope Bellamy might be clinging to. And they do wound, cutting deep into the fear he's been carrying since his capture—that Ivah doesn't know what's happened, that he'll assume Bellamy simply chose to disappear, chose to abandon what they'd built together.
But underneath the fear is something harder, more defiant. A core of certainty that no amount of cruelty can touch.
"If you hurt me," Bellamy says, meeting Kent's gaze directly despite the terror clawing at his chest, "Ivah will make you pay in blood. He'll burn your kingdom to the ground and salt the earth where it stood."
Kent's grip tightens, his fingers pressing into Bellamy's jaw until he gasps with pain. "Brave words. But your barbarian king isn't here, is he?" His voice drops to a whisper, intimate and threatening. "And if your mother doesn't want you back... well, perhaps we can find other uses for such a pretty toy."
The implication in his tone makes Bellamy's blood run cold. He's heard stories of what happens to prisoners in Kent's dungeons, whispered tales of cruelty that he'd always hoped were exaggerated.
"My men haven't had proper entertainment in months," Kent continues conversationally, as if discussing the weather rather than threatening unspeakable violence. "Maybe I’ll pass you around the barracks until you understand your proper place."
Terror floods through Bellamy's system, cold and sharp and overwhelming, but he forces himself not to react. Won't give Kent thesatisfaction of seeing him break. Behind his carefully controlled expression, his mind races through possibilities—escape routes, potential weapons, anything that might give him a chance to fight back when the time comes.
But outwardly, he remains still as stone, his green eyes meeting Kent's pale ones without flinching.
The lack of reaction clearly infuriates the king. His face flushes red with anger, and suddenly his free hand is swinging toward Bellamy's face in a vicious backhand that cracks across his cheek with explosive force.
The blow snaps Bellamy's head to the side, stars exploding across his vision as pain radiates through his skull. He tastes blood immediately—his lip split against his teeth, the metallic flavor flooding his mouth. But he doesn't cry out, doesn't give Kent the satisfaction of hearing his pain.
"Our fun is just beginning, boy," Kent says, wiping Bellamy's blood on his expensive doublet as if it's nothing more than dirt. "No one is coming for you.”
With that threat hanging in the air, Kent turns and strides from the cell, leaving Bellamy gasping on the stool. The door slams shut with finality, the sound echoing through the dungeon like a death knell.
For a long moment, Bellamy just sits there, his heart hammering against his ribs as the full implications of what just happened sink in. His lip throbs with each heartbeat, blood still seeping from the split.
In the distance, he can hear the guards changing shifts, the clank of armor and weapons as fresh men take up positions outside his cell. The sound reminds him that he's not just a prisoner—he's a valuablecommodity, something worth guarding carefully until his usefulness is exhausted.
But commodities can be damaged. Commodities can be broken beyond repair.
And King Kent has just made it clear that Bellamy's time is running out.
Chapter 15
The mountain road winds through pine forests and rocky outcroppings like a serpent's spine, treacherous even in good weather. Now, with late autumn mist clinging to the peaks and the constant threat of early snow dusting the higher elevations, it's become a nightmare of uncertain footing and hidden dangers.
