"The tattoos?"
"The marks of my people. Each one tells a story—victories won, enemies defeated, oaths sworn." Ivah shifts slightly, the chains clinking softly, and the movement makes the tattoos seem to writhe in the flickering light. "Would you like to see the rest of them?"
The question is asked innocently enough, but there's something in Ivah's tone that sounds like a husky promise that makes Bellamy's mouth go dry.
"I—that's not why I came here."
"Isn't it?" Ivah leans forward slightly, as much as the chains allow, and his voice drops to a whisper that seems to resonate in Bellamy's blood. "Then why did you come, little prince? Really?"
Bellamy’s attention shifts to the bandages on the floor.
"Your wound," he says suddenly, grateful for the distraction from whatever dangerous territory they were approaching. "Harwick's blade…is it healing properly?"
Something flickers in Ivah's expression—surprise, perhaps, at the genuine concern in Bellamy's voice. For a moment, the antagonistic mask slips, revealing something almost vulnerable underneath.
"Worried about me, little prince?"
The pet name should be insulting, but the way Ivah says it—with that low, rumbling voice—makes it sound like an endearment instead. Bellamy's cheeks burn as he struggles to form a coherent response.
"I... we don't want you to die from infection. You're too valuable a prisoner."
"Of course." But Ivah's smile suggests he doesn't believe that explanation any more than Bellamy does. "The wound is healing well enough. Your castle physician does good work, though he was rather nervous about treating the 'savage barbarian king.'" The last words are spoken with a mocking that makes Bellamy wince.
"He shouldn't have—"
"Shouldn't have what? Been afraid?" Ivah's laugh is genuinely amused. "He was wise to be afraid. I could have killed him before your guards could intervene, wound or no wound."
The casual way he speaks of killing still sends ice through Bellamy's veins, but underneath the fear is something else—fascination at this creature who wears violence like other men wear armor, yet chose to spare Bellamy's life for reasons that still make no sense.
"You seem to speak of killing very easily," Bellamy observes, trying to keep his voice steady.
"It's what I'm good at." Ivah's tone holds no boasting, just simple fact. "I've been at war since I was old enough to hold a blade. Death and I are old companions."
"I want to know what you're playing at," Belly says finally. "What kind of king known for violence spares an enemy prince’s life for no reason?"
"No reason?" Ivah's eyes glitter with dangerous amusement. "Who says there was no reason?”
"You wish to make me think you suddenly grew a conscience? That taking lives suddenly has meaning to you?"
Ivah considers the question seriously, his dark eyes thoughtful. "Some deaths matter more than others. A slaver who tortures children for sport? His death means nothing to me. A soldier defending his homeland?" Ivah's gaze finds Bellamy's. "That death might weigh more heavily."
There's something in his tone that suggests deeper currents, complexities that don't match the barbaric reputation. Bellamy finds himself leaning forward, drawn despite himself into this glimpse of the man behind the myth.
"Is that why you hesitated? Because you saw me as a soldier defending his homeland rather than just an enemy?"
"Perhaps." Ivah's smile returns, but it’s more genuinely amused this time. "Or perhaps I simply found you too beautiful to kill."
Bellamy flinches as though he’s been struck, the words sending heat flooding through his entire body. Beautiful? No one has ever called him beautiful before–and certainly not in that tone of voice, low and appreciative and unmistakably male.
"I'm not—" he begins, but his voice cracks embarrassingly.
"Not what? Beautiful?" Ivah's gaze travels over Bellamy's face with that same intensity from before that had taken him so off guard. "Green eyes like spring grass, smooth skin that's never known real hardship, that proud little chin that lifts whenever someone challenges you—oh yes, sweet Bellamy. You're very beautiful indeed."
Bellamy's entire face burns with embarrassment and something else he doesn't want to name. No one has ever spoken to him like this, certainly not a man, definitely not an enemy who should be trying to intimidate him rather than... whatever this is.
"You are—" Bellamy struggles to maintain his composure in the face of Ivah's rapt attention. "Manipulative. You think you can confuse me, entice me into setting you free, is that it? Get me close enough so you can get your hands on me again?"
Something flickers in Ivah's dark eyes—dangerous amusement mixed with something hotter, more predatory. "Oh, little prince," he says, his voice dropping to that intimate whisper, "if I got my hands on you a second time, it would not be for a fight."
