Chapter 17: Being Petty

Marcel stood up slowly.

The movement was unhurried, almost lazy, yet every person still in the room felt the shift in the air. Aaron’s personal guards were gone. The only people left were the King, the Crown Prince, the Vampire Lord, and the fortune teller who had somehow become the center of everything. Without the line of armed men, Aaron looked suddenly, sharply vulnerable.

Marcel’s voice was quiet.

"You have mistaken my restraint for weakness."

Aaron did not sit back down. He remained standing as well, chin lifted, refusing to give ground even though the distance between them was now nothing more than a few feet of polished wood and empty space.

"I’m not afraid of you," Aaron said.

Marcel’s black eyes narrowed a fraction. "You should be."

Asher moved before either of them could take another step. He placed himself directly between them, both hands raised, one toward each man.

"Stop. Both of you. Just—stop."

Marcel’s gaze dropped to him. The cold fury that had been building in the Vampire Lord’s expression did not vanish, but it stalled. The fact that he actually stopped because Asher asked him to was not lost on anyone in the room.

King Eric watched the exchange with a new, careful attention. He had seen many powerful men in his life, but he had never seen a Vampire Lord halt mid-threat for the sake of one human’s voice. The depth of attachment was impossible to miss. Eric found himself wondering, for the first time, what exactly bound the two of them together. It couldn’t be just Asher’s gifts, and he refused to believe that they were actually lovers.

Regardless, this wasn’t the time to be wallowing in thoughts. His son had just been threatened, and he wouldn’t let that slide.

"Lord Thorne. I understand your rage. I even understand why you feel justified in it. But you will not threaten my son again under this roof." He turned to Aaron. "And you will remove that ring from Asher’s finger. Now."

Aaron laughed once, sharp and humorless.

"You’ll have to kill me first."

Before anyone could react, he turned on his heel and strode toward the door. The attendants scrambled to open it, and Aaron did not look back.

Silence settled over the chamber.

Eric exhaled slowly and rubbed a hand across his face. "I will find someone capable of removing the enchantment. There are scholars in the capital who specialize in royal artifacts."

Marcel’s reply was immediate. "We do not have time for scholars. I will remove it myself."

Asher, still standing between the empty space where Aaron had been and Marcel’s chair, spoke quietly.

"I... want to stay a little longer."

Both men looked at him.

Asher scratched the back of his neck, awkward under the sudden attention. "Not forever. Just... a little time. It’s been a long time since I was around this many humans who weren’t trying to rob me or throw me out of a room. It feels strange, but not bad. One more day, then we leave."

Marcel studied him for a long moment. Something unreadable moved behind his eyes. Finally he inclined his head once.

"One day. We leave at first light tomorrow."

Eric looked between them, then simply nodded. There was nothing more useful he could say tonight.

****

Night fell heavily over the palace.

Asher lay in the large bed of the guest suite that had been assigned to him, staring at the canopy above. Sleep refused to come. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Aaron’s face when he had said the only future where he lived was the one where Asher stayed. The claim ring still sat on his finger, cool and stubborn. He turned it absently, wondering if Aaron was truly going to die the moment he left, or if the dreams had been twisted by fear and obsession.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

Asher sat up. "Come in."

Marcel entered without a sound. He closed the door behind him and stood for a moment in the dim light of the single remaining lantern. He was still dressed in the same dark clothes from earlier, though the outer layer had been removed. His presence filled the room in a way that made the large chamber feel suddenly intimate.

"I couldn’t sleep," Asher said, because something needed to be said.

"Neither could I." Marcel’s voice was quieter than usual. "For my kind, night is no different from day. The hours simply stretch longer when the mind refuses to rest."

He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. Asher shifted to give him space, but Marcel did not move away.

"I missed your jokes," Marcel said after a moment.

Asher blinked, then let out a short, startled chuckle. "That sounds extremely odd coming from you."

A faint smile touched Marcel’s mouth. It was small and rare and completely genuine. "I am aware."

The smile lingered only a second longer before Marcel leaned in.

The kiss was not gentle.

It was claiming, deliberate, and deep. Marcel’s hand slid into Asher’s hair, tilting his head back so he could take what he wanted. Asher made a soft sound of surprise against his mouth, then melted into it. He did not fight. He had never been able to fight this particular pull for long.

Marcel kissed him like a man who had been denied for too many days. His tongue swept into Asher’s mouth, tasting, demanding. One cold hand slid under the loose sleep shirt Asher wore, palm flattening against bare skin. Asher shivered hard at the contrast of temperatures.

"Marcel—"

"He can hear," Marcel murmured against his lips, voice low and dark. "His room is directly opposite yours. I want him to know exactly who you belong to."

The words sent a jolt of heat straight through Asher’s stomach. He never realized that Marcel could be this petty until now.

Marcel pushed him back onto the mattress and followed, covering Asher’s body with his own. The Vampire Lord’s weight was solid, controlled, and inescapable. He stripped the sleep shirt off Asher in one smooth motion and tossed it aside. Cool fingers traced down the center of Asher’s chest, over his stomach, then lower, cupping him through the thin fabric of his trousers.

Asher’s breath stuttered. He was already hardening under that touch.

Marcel kissed down the line of his throat, lips lingering over the pulse point. He did not bite yet. He simply held his mouth there, breathing, while his hand worked Asher open through the cloth until Asher was rolling his hips up in silent need.

"Please," Asher whispered.

Marcel’s eyes lifted to his, black and hungry. "Please what?"

"Touch me properly."

Marcel’s mouth curved. He stripped the rest of Asher’s clothes away with efficient, almost ruthless care, then removed his own. When their bare skin finally met, Asher gasped at the full-body contact—warm flesh against cool, living heat against something that only borrowed warmth from the living.

Marcel settled between his thighs and kissed him again, deeper this time, while one hand wrapped around Asher’s cock and stroked him in long, firm pulls. Asher moaned into the kiss, fingers digging into Marcel’s shoulders. The Vampire Lord took his time, working him until Asher was leaking against his palm and trembling.

Then Marcel reached for the small vial of oil he had brought—because of course he had planned this—and coated his fingers. He pressed one slick finger into Asher slowly, watching every flicker of expression. Asher’s head tipped back against the pillows. A second finger joined the first, stretching him open with careful, relentless patience. Marcel curled them just right, and Asher’s back arched off the bed with a broken sound.

"Marcel—fuck—"

"Soon."

When Marcel finally pushed inside him, it was with one long, controlled thrust that stole the air from Asher’s lungs. The stretch burned in the best way. Marcel buried himself to the hilt and stayed there, forehead pressed to Asher’s, letting him adjust.

Then he began to move.

The pace started deep and measured, every stroke dragging against the place that made Asher see stars. Marcel’s hands pinned Asher’s wrists lightly to the bed, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to remind him who was in control. Asher wrapped his legs around Marcel’s waist and held on, gasping with every thrust.

"Harder," he managed.

Marcel gave him harder.

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room. The bedframe creaked. Asher stopped trying to stay quiet; every moan and broken plea spilled out freely. Marcel’s mouth found his throat again, kissing, licking, then finally biting down just hard enough to break the skin.

The first pull of blood sent a white-hot rush through Asher’s body. Pleasure spiked so sharply his vision blurred. Marcel drank in slow, deep swallows while continuing to fuck him, the dual sensation overwhelming. Asher came hard, untouched, clenching around Marcel with a cry that was half sob.

Marcel followed moments later, burying himself deep and spilling inside him with a low, guttural sound that vibrated against Asher’s throat. He drank a few more swallows before sealing the small wounds with a swipe of his tongue.

They stayed locked together, breathing hard. Marcel’s weight was heavy and grounding. Asher’s fingers carded weakly through the Vampire Lord’s dark hair.

Marcel lifted his head just enough to meet Asher’s eyes. There was no regret in his expression, only quiet, absolute possession.

"Tomorrow we leave," he said softly.

Asher, still trembling and marked and thoroughly claimed, could only nod.

He was no longer sure which of them had won the night. But he knew exactly who he would be leaving with when morning came.