Something dark moves across the prince's face. Not surprise. He knew about the council's interrogation, Bryn is certain of that. In a palace full of creatures with heightened senses, the prince almost certainly knew about it before it happened. But hearing it from Bryn is different, and the anger that tightens Ithyris's jaw is controlled and quiet and entirely on Bryn's behalf, which is a particular quality of anger that Bryn is still learning to receive without flinching.
"The concept of purity tied to chastity is ancient," the prince says. His voice is measured, the way it gets when he is feeling something intensely and choosing his words with care so that the intensity doesn't bleed through. "It is a relic of an era that valued ownership over partnership. The younger generations understand that a person's worth is not determined by their history of intimacy, that the body's past does not define the soul's present. The elders cling to it because it gives them control over something they have no right to control."
Bryn looks at the water. The mineral blue of it, the steam rising between them, the way the light catches the surface and turns it to pale gold.
"I don't have a history," he says. Quiet. The words come out without his permission, the way true things do, slipping past defenses that have been softened by warm water and privacy and the low, steady hum of the bond in his chest. "I've only known your touch."
The effect on Ithyris is immediate and visceral.
His eyes go dark. The amethyst deepens, pupils expanding, and Bryn sees the muscles in the prince's shoulders tighten beneath the water and the surface ripples where his body shifts. He is still on the far side of the pool but the distance betweenthem has become charged, the air above the water shimmering with more than steam, and Bryn can feel the change in the prince through the bond, a surge of want so intense it makes Bryn's own pulse spike in response.
"Bryn." Ithyris's voice is low. Rough at the edges. "You can't say things that way and expect me to stay over here."
"I didn't ask you to stay over there."
The prince moves through the water. Not fast, not urgent, but deliberate, and the water parts around his chest and shoulders and he crosses the pool with measured strokes and stops in front of Bryn and he is close, so close the heat of his body is distinguishable from the heat of the water, a separate warmth that is specific to him and that Bryn's body recognizes the way it recognizes its own heartbeat. His hands find Bryn's waist beneath the surface.
Bryn lets him pull him into his lap.
He straddles the prince's thighs on the submerged ledge and Ithyris's hands settle on his hips and they are face to face in the warm water, close enough that Bryn can see every fracture of gold in the amethyst of the prince's eyes, and Ithyris is already hard. Bryn can feel the thick length of him pressing against the inside of his thigh, insistent and hot, and the heat between them has nothing to do with the thermal springs and everything to do with the fact that their bodies are pressed together and the bond is singing.
The prince looks at him. His wet hair is pushed back and his eyes are dark and his mouth is close enough to kiss and he doesn't close the distance. He waits. He always waits. He has more power than anyone Bryn has ever met and he uses it to hold still and let Bryn decide.
"If I were your husband," Bryn says, and his voice is steadier than he expected though his hands are not, where they rest onthe prince's chest, trembling against the wet scales, "I would always be faithful."
Ithyris's hands tighten on his hips. His breath leaves him in a rush, hot against Bryn's mouth.
"Would you ever take another?" the prince asks. The question is rough and raw and underneath the words there is something desperate, something that tells Bryn this matters to Ithyris in a way that transcends the physical, that the answer reaches into the deepest part of the bond and touches something fundamental about what they are to each other.
Bryn frames the prince's face with his shaking hands. Ithyris's jaw is strong and rough with the faintest stubble and the scales at his temples are soft beneath Bryn's thumbs, delicate and warm, and he looks the prince in the eye and the answer is the simplest true thing he has ever said.
"No."
Ithyris kisses him.
His mouth covers Bryn's and his hands drag up Bryn's back and into his wet hair and he kisses him deep and hungry, his tongue sliding against Bryn's, and Bryn wraps his arms around the prince's neck and kisses him back and the water moves around them in slow waves. Ithyris kisses along his jaw, down the side of his neck, his mouth open and hot against Bryn's wet skin, and his lips find the fading bruises he left before and he sucks fresh marks over them, layering new over old, and the pain blooms sharp and bright and Bryn gasps and his hips roll forward against the prince.
Ithyris's hands find his chest. His thumbs brush over Bryn's nipples and they harden instantly in the warm air above the waterline and the prince rolls them between his fingers, slow and deliberate, watching Bryn's face as he does it, cataloging every response with the thoroughness he brings to everything. He pinches one, gently, and Bryn's hips buck and his cockpresses against the prince's stomach, hard and aching, and Ithyris smiles, dark and knowing and beautiful.
"Open yourself for me," the prince says.
Bryn's face burns. "I don't... I haven't done that. Before. In front of someone."
"I know." The prince's thumbs trace circles on his hipbones, slow and grounding, anchoring him in his body. His voice drops lower, rough and warm, and the sound of it slides down Bryn's spine and pools between his legs. "I'll talk you through it. Reach behind yourself."
Bryn reaches behind himself. The water is warm and slick and his hand trembles as he presses the pad of one finger against himself and the muscle clenches against the pressure and he hesitates, exposed and uncertain, straddling the prince's lap with his hand between his own legs and Ithyris's dark eyes on his face. The vulnerability of the position is extraordinary. He is laid open in every sense.
"Relax." The prince's hands are steady on his hips, warm anchors. "You know how to do this. You've taken me before. Push in, slowly. One finger."
He pushes in. The muscle gives, loosened from the days of the prince inside him, and his finger slides in and the stretch is small and familiar and he exhales, shaky and rough, and his cock twitches against Ithyris's stomach.
"Good." The word is low and dark and it rolls through Bryn with a force that is entirely disproportionate to a single syllable. "That's good, Bryn. How does it feel?"
"Strange." His voice is barely there. "Different when it's my own hand."
"Curl your finger. Find the spot that makes you lose your breath."
He curls his finger and presses and the pleasure spikes through him, sudden and bright, and his hips jerk and a soundfalls out of his mouth, raw and involuntary, and Ithyris's grip on his hips tightens and the prince's cock pulses against his inner thigh, thickening harder.
