The words hit Bellamy like lightning, sending his imagination spiraling into dangerous territory. He can picture it instantly—those strong hands that had so easily overpowered him on the battlefield now gentle, exploring, claiming him in an entirely different way. The image is so vivid, so compelling, that it steals the breath from his lungs and makes his knees weak.
"I—" Bellamy starts, then stops, his voice cracking embarrassingly. His entire body feels flushed with heat, and he can't seem to form coherent thoughts. "I should go."
The words come out breathless and shaky, his hands trembling slightly as he grips the torch. He takes a step backward, then another, as if putting distance between them might somehow restore his ability to think clearly.
"Yes," Ivah agrees, and there's rich amusement in his tone, satisfaction at having so thoroughly won this engagement. "You probably should."
But even as Bellamy forces himself to turn toward the door, he can feel those dark eyes watching him, can hear the promise in Ivah's voice echoing in his mind. And despite every rational thoughtscreaming at him to run, part of him desperately wants to stay and find out exactly what the Barbarian King means.
Chapter 4
Bellamy tells himself he won't return to the dungeons.
For two days, he manages to convince himself that his midnight visit was nothing more than morbid curiosity—a prince's need to understand his enemy. He throws himself into his duties with renewed vigor, attending council meetings where they discuss what to do with their infamous prisoner, reviewing reports from the border, training with his sword until his muscles scream.
But when the third night comes and sleep eludes him once again, he finds himself pulling on his simple clothes and making his way through the castle's darkened corridors.
The guards are different this time—younger men who straighten nervously when they see him approach.
"Your Highness," one of them stammers. "General Harwick said—"
"I know what the general said," Bellamy interrupts gently. "But I'm not here to free the prisoner or interrogate him. I simply want to check on his condition."
It's a weak excuse, but they're too intimidated by his rank to argue. They unlock the door and step aside, though Bellamy notices they position themselves where they can see into the cell.
Ivah is awake, as if he's been expecting company. He sits against the wall, but this time his shirt is unlaced and hanging open, revealing the powerful expanse of his chest. In his hands is a small clay pot of what looks like healing salve, and he's carefully applying it to the wound on his shoulder where Harwick's blade had found its mark.
The sight stops Bellamy in his tracks. He's seen men completely naked before but there's something about the way the lamplight plays across Ivah's muscled torso that makes his breath catch. Broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist, and every movement reveals the play of muscle beneath scarred skin. Dark hair dusts his chest, and intricate tattoos spiral down his arms, disappearing beneath the fabric.
"Back so soon?" Ivah asks without looking up, though there's amusement in his voice. "I was beginning to think you'd lost your nerve. Or perhaps you couldn't stay away?"
Bellamy realizes he's been staring and feels heat flood his face, but he can't seem to make his eyes move away from the careful movements of Ivah's hands as he tends to his wound.
"Do you..." Bellamy starts, then catches himself, but the words are already half-formed. "Do you need help with—"
He stops abruptly, mortified by what he'd almost said, but Ivah's knowing smile tells him it's too late.
"How thoughtful of you to offer, little prince." Ivah's voice is rich with amusement. "You’re braver than your general gives you credit for, to offer to step into the cage with the lion."
Bellamy's face burns even hotter, and he desperately searches for a way to change the subject. "Tell me of Everitt" he says suddenly, the words tumbling out in his eagerness to steer the conversation into safer territory. "I’ve heard plenty of the stories they tell children to scare them at night, but nothing of the truth."
Ivah's hands still on his work, and he looks up with genuine surprise. "You want to know about my people?"
"I want to understand what drives a man to unite warring clans and march across kingdoms. There must be more to it than simple conquest."
Something shifts in Ivah's expression—the mask slipping to reveal something more genuine underneath. "You really want to know?"
"Yes."
Ivah sets aside the pot of salve. "Everitt isn't like Mirn, little prince. We don't have fertile valleys and gentle rivers. Our lands are harsh—mountains and forests where winter can kill the unprepared. For generations, the clans fought each other for scraps while richer kingdoms looked down on us as savages."
"So you united them by force."
"I united them by necessity." Ivah's voice takes on a more passionate quality. "Do you know what it's like to watch children starve because raiders from neighboring kingdoms steal their food stores? To see entire bloodlines wiped out because some lord decides barbarian land would look better with his banner flying over it?"
Bellamy finds himself drawn in despite himself. "Is that what happened?"
"Among other things. The Kingdom of Valden to our east has been pushing our borders for decades, claiming we're too savage to deserve the land we hold. The Northern Kingdom sends raiders every spring to 'test our defenses.'" Ivah's voice hardens. "They think because we live differently, we're somehow less human."
