Before You Knew My Name (A Heated Rivalry Fan Fiction) - Chapter 9
(gif source: heymthisfeebleheartacy)
plot summary: Prince Ilya Rozanov likes slipping beyond the palace walls after midnight, trading his crown for the name Nikolai, a cloth merchant who drinks with blacksmiths and plays cards with vagrants. Among commoners, he is free—untitled, unguarded, unseen. On one such night, he meets Shane Hollander: disciplined, sharp-eyed, newly arrived in the capital. A card game becomes a challenge. The challenge becomes heat. By the end of the night, they choose each other without hesitation. It isn’t meant to be anything more. By morning, Shane is presented at court as the crown prince’s newly appointed personal guard. And the prince he is sworn to protect is the man who called himself Nikolai. Ilya, in turn, discovers that the stranger from the tavern is now bound to him by oath and duty. What should have ended at dawn refuses to. Despite the weight of their titles—and the scrutiny of a palace built on image, obedience, and control—they continue in secret. What begins as want deepens into something quieter, sharper, and far more dangerous. Because in Zakoria, the most scandalous thing a prince and his knight can share isn’t desire. It’s love.
Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9
pairings: Shane Hollander x Ilya Rozanov
word count: 12,104
warnings/notes: Once again, I apologize for how long it takes me to update these days. But, on the bright side, this chapter ended up being REALLY long! Hope you guys like it :)
SEXUAL CONTENT WARNING!!!
Chapter 9
Morning arrived with pale light and the smell of coffee.
Ilya sat at the small breakfast table near the window, his mother’s diary tucked into the writing desk drawer across the room. He hadn't been able to bring himself to read more of it. Not yet. The pages felt too alive. He'd pressed his palm flat against the cover before putting it away, as if he could absorb something from it through the leather.
Shane stood by the door in formal parade rest, hands clasped behind his back. He'd been there when Ilya woke, already dressed, already sealed back inside his role. They hadn’t spoken about the passages, the diary, or anything that had happened between them. They didn't need to speak about it. Ilya had looked at him across the bed in the gray morning light and Shane had looked back. That had been enough.
Captain Lukov sat across from Ilya, working through a plate of black bread and hard cheese with the efficiency of a man who ate for fuel rather than pleasure. He was mid-sentence about the revised guard rotation when the door opened.
Mrs. Rogova appeared in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral in the way people became neutral when managing something personally inconvenient. "Your Highness. Ambassador Forger has arrived from the capital. He is asking to be received."
Ilya reached for his coffee cup. "Send him in."
He heard Rose before he saw her. She must have been informed at the same moment, because she appeared in the doorway just ahead of Forger, her hair not yet fully pinned, a shawl thrown over her morning dress. She smiled, genuinely—the kind of smile that reached her eyes before her mouth had caught up.
"Edmund," she said, and crossed the room to take both of Forger's hands in hers. “You finally arrived.”
Ambassador Forger squeezed Rose's hands and returned the smile with so much ease it was clear he had done it a thousand times in her company. "Your Highness," he said warmly. "You look well. Better than I feared, given the reports."
"Reports always make things sound worse," Rose said, releasing his hands but staying close to him. "I'm perfectly fine. Come and sit. Have you eaten?"
Ilya watched this from across the table and said nothing. Rose looked more relaxed around Forger. The tension she usually carried in her shoulders had eased. Figures. He was her only countryman here, and he'd remained in the capital to discuss the alliance with the king. Rose touched the back of a chair to guide him toward it.
Forger settled into the chair Rose indicated, accepted coffee from the servant who appeared at his elbow, and turned to Ilya with a respectful incline of his head. "Your Highness. I’m so glad you and the princess are safe. I was quite distressed when I received reports of the attack on the road.”
"Distressed," Ilya repeated. The word came out smooth, diplomatic. He reached for his coffee. "That's kind of you to say, Ambassador."
"More than kind—it's the truth." Forger wrapped both hands around his cup. "When word reached the capital of the ambush, I felt I could no longer remain there in good conscience. The princess is my responsibility. And frankly, the situation warranted a personal visit rather than correspondence."
"Of course," Rose said, settling into the chair beside him. "I'm glad you came."
Forger glanced around the table—Ilya, Rose, Lukov, the quiet presence of Shane at the door—and seemed to take a brief accounting of the room. "I've also brought dispatches from His Majesty King Grigori, and several matters regarding the alliance framework that require discussion at some point. Nothing that can't wait until you've both rested and eaten." He smiled at Rose. "But I didn't want to send a letter when I could come myself."
It was a perfectly reasonable explanation. Ilya could find nothing in it to object to. It was irritating.
Lukov refilled his coffee without ceremony. "The road was clear when you came through?"
"My escort reported no incidents." Forger's expression sobered. "Though I'll admit we traveled with considerably more caution than usual. Two scouts ahead at all times."
"Wise." Lukov nodded with approval. "I'll want to speak with your escort captain later. Compare notes."
"Of course."
The conversation settled for a moment. Outside the window, the garden was beginning to take on color as the morning light strengthened—the untamed roses catching gold at their edges, the overgrown paths striped with long shadows. Ilya looked at it and thought of the passage entrance hidden behind the ivy. He thought of the footprints in the dust.
"There is one matter," Forger said, setting his cup down with a small, careful sound, "that I'm afraid cannot wait too long. Not indefinitely." He glanced between Ilya and Rose, and his expression shifted. "The postponement of the wedding has generated a certain amount of—anxiety. In both courts."
Ilya said nothing.
"The nobility on both sides," Forger continued, "have begun to speculate. When there is no visible progress—no ceremony, no public appearances together—rumors tend to fill the space. Some have begun to question whether the alliance itself is in jeopardy."
"The alliance is not in jeopardy," Rose said, her voice even. "Ilya was poisoned and we were nearly killed on the road. Surely they understand that."
"It is understood by those who are informed," Forger agreed. "But courts are large places. Information rarely reaches all corners equally. What travels faster, unfortunately, is speculation." He folded his hands on the table. "I don't raise this to pressure either of you. Only to say that visible signs of—goodwill, shall we say—between yourself and Prince Ilya would do a great deal to quiet the noise."
The coffee cup was warm in Ilya's hands, so he focused on that instead. He kept his expression composed and said nothing, because anything he said would sound exactly like what it was.
Lukov made a low sound of agreement. "Stability. That's what's needed. Any sign of instability invites other interested parties to take notice."
"Precisely," Forger said, clearly glad his point had been made for him.
Ilya became aware that Rose had glanced at him. She'd caught something in his silence. Or maybe the tightness of his jaw. He made a small, deliberate effort to release the tension there.
"What kind of visible progress are you suggesting?" Rose asked. Her tone was perfectly pleasant, perfectly curious.
Forger spread his hands in a gesture of open reasonableness. "Nothing elaborate. You're at the summer palace, which is, under the circumstances, appropriate. But if the two of you were seen together—walking in the gardens, taking meals together, allowing the kind of ordinary proximity courtship implies—" He paused. "It would give the gossips less to work with."
"We already dine together," Ilya said.
"Of course. And that's good." Forger smiled at him. "I only mean that a little more of it, in settings where it might be observed by the staff, discussed in letters home—these things have a way of circulating. Courts run on the currency of impression."
Lukov leaned back in his chair. "I'll say this—any arrangement that keeps both of you within the palace grounds and under proper guard is an arrangement I can support." He looked at Ilya directly. "Whatever form that takes."
***
The morning had warmed by the time they made it outside. Ilya walked ahead with Rose on his arm, exactly as prescribed, and Shane followed at the appropriate three paces behind. Two more guards trailed further back.
Rose had played this game before. She walked with the easy grace of someone who had been trained from childhood to exist on display. Her fingers rested lightly on his arm without pressing, and she kept her gaze moving between the garden and the path ahead with a naturalness that looked entirely unforced. Ilya envied her that. He had never stopped feeling the strings.
“There was a lavender bed over there,” Ilya said, pointing toward a tangled mound of gray-green that had once been orderly rows. “You could smell them all the way at the south terrace.” He remembered his mother cutting sprigs with silver shears and tucking them into her hair. He remembered her laugh when he'd told her she smelled like soap.
"It's a shame it's gone so wild,” Rose said.
"It's a shame any of this is here at all."
Rose glanced at him, and something in her expression softened. She didn't answer. She simply kept walking, and her hand on his arm shifted so her fingers closed more firmly around his forearm.
They had made it perhaps a quarter of the way along the central path when Forger appeared at the edge of the garden, having excused himself from the breakfast table a few minutes behind them. He caught up easily, and Ilya wondered how long he had been waiting.
"May I join you?" Forger asked, falling into step on Rose's other side.
"Of course," Rose said.
Ilya said nothing.
Forger clasped his hands behind his back as he walked, and the pose was so deliberately casual it made Ilya's teeth ache. "It really is lovely here," Forger said, gazing at the overgrown hedges with the air of a man admiring something he had read about in a book. "I had heard of the summer palace, of course, but the descriptions don't do it justice. How many rooms does it have?"
"Forty-seven," Ilya said.
"Forty-seven." Forger nodded appreciatively. "And the grounds?"
"Almost two hundred acres. Forest on three sides."
"And the access roads? I imagine there's only the one main approach from the village."
Ilya felt something shift in the air behind him. Shane's pace had not changed, but the quality of his silence had.
"There are two," Ilya said. "The main road from the south, and a service track from the east that connects to the old hunting paths."
"Only two? For a property this size?"
"Only the two."
Forger hummed thoughtfully. “And both roads are maintained? Patrolled?”
"You should ask Captain Lukov," Ilya said.
Forger glanced back over his shoulder, as though he had only just noticed Shane. “Sir Shane. Does Captain Lukov keep men posted along the east track?”
Ilya heard a brief pause in the rhythm of Shane’s boots on the gravel.
“Captain Lukov has it covered,” Shane said, his voice carefully neutral.
"And the south gate?"
“Enough. With additional patrols along the perimeter road.”
Forger said it thoughtfully, without judgment. "And the walls—I noticed they're not particularly high. How many watch posts along the outer wall?"
Shane’s pause was barely noticeable. “The captain adjusts the numbers as needed.”
Forger nodded slowly. "It's a delicate balance, isn't it? Enough men to secure the grounds without making the place feel like a fortress. I imagine the princess appreciates the lighter atmosphere."
"I do," Rose said warmly. “I trust Captain Lukov to make sure everything is secure.”
"Of course," Forger said. "I only meant—it's a credit to your arrangement that it feels so natural. One almost forgets the circumstances."
Ilya's jaw ached from the effort of looking pleasant. He could feel the questions stacking up behind Forger's pleasant smile. The conversation moved on to the architecture of the east wing, then to the history of the fountains, then to the hunting grounds beyond the forest and in each shift, Forger found his way back to the same underlying inquiry.
Shane answered each one with the same even tone. Nothing he said was untrue, and nothing he said was useful.
Forger paused at the crest of a small rise to admire the view, and in the moment his back turned, Rose leaned closer. Her voice dropped to something barely audible beneath the rustle of her skirts.
“I’m sorry about Ambassador Forger,” she murmured.
Ilya felt the tension in his shoulders unknot slightly. He kept his gaze forward. “Is he always like this?”
“Yes, unfortunately.” Her fingers squeezed his forearm lightly. “He’s a good man, but he likes to count every blade of grass on a property if you know what I mean.”
“You know he’s a spy, yes?”
“Yes. But he’s just doing his job.” She paused. "Badly, but still."
Ilya nearly laughed. He swallowed it down into something that came out as a small, polite sound. Rose's mouth twitched.
Forger turned back toward them. "The view from here is extraordinary," Forger said, gesturing toward the forest. "Are the hunting grounds accessible from this side of the property?"
"The old paths run east from here," Ilya said. "Through the woods."
"I've never been hunting," Rose said brightly. She turned to Ilya with a smile that was almost mischievous. "Perhaps we could organize a hunt tomorrow? It’s better than sitting inside all day again.”
Ilya opened his mouth and felt Forger's attention sharpen.
"What an excellent suggestion," Forger said before Ilya could speak. He turned to face Rose fully, his expression warming with what looked like genuine enthusiasm. "A hunt would be precisely the kind of visible activity that would go a long way toward quieting the rumors. The two of you, side by side, enjoying the countryside—it sends the right message."
“Does it?” Ilya asked with a raised brow.
"Absolutely," Forger continued, undeterred. "Nothing too elaborate. A small party, a few hours in the morning. It would give the household something to write home about that isn't—" He paused delicately. "—concerning."
The man had arrived this morning to take inventory of the grounds, and now he was suggesting a reason to ride out into them. Ilya glanced back at Shane, who had not changed his pace or his expression, but whose hand rested on the hilt of his sword in a way that was anything but casual.
"We should consult Captain Lukov," Ilya said.
"Of course." Forger smiled. "But I think even the captain would agree that morale needs tending as much as security."
They found Lukov in the courtyard half an hour later, overseeing the morning rotation of guards with his usual grim efficiency. Ilya watched Lukov's face as Rose explained the proposal. The captain visibly stiffened.
"Absolutely not," Lukov said.
"Captain—" Forger began.
"With all respect, Ambassador, the prince has survived two assassination attempts in the span of a week. The last one happened on an open road. I will not authorize him to ride into an unsecured forest."
"It would not be unsecured," Forger said. He clasped his hands in front of him. "I understand your concerns entirely, Captain. But consider—a properly organized hunt, with advance scouts on every trail, guards flanking the party on horseback, a fixed perimeter maintained throughout—the prince would be more visible than in any other setting, and therefore more difficult to approach undetected. An assassin would have to cross a secured perimeter before reaching him.”
“An assassin on the road crossed a secured route,” Lukov said flatly. “Forgive me if I’m not reassured.”
"But the road was a known route. The hunting grounds are not. We would choose the route. We would control the terrain." Forger's voice was even, reasonable, and Ilya found himself disliking the man more with each sentence. "And the forest itself provides natural cover for our scouts. They could position themselves ahead of the party without being seen."
Lukov’s jaw worked. Then he looked at Ilya, and Ilya knew Forger had gotten his way.
***
Ilya stood in the stable courtyard and breathed in pine, frost, and woodsmoke from the kitchen chimneys. Something in his chest cracked open after days of being sealed shut.
He was alive. The sky above the summer palace was that particular pale blue that only happened on autumn mornings, his horse was being led from the stables, and Shane was already mounted beside the gate with one hand near his sword.
Ilya's mare, a dappled gray named Masha that he had not ridden in years, turned her head toward him and nickered softly. He crossed the courtyard and pressed his palm flat against her warm neck. She smelled of hay and leather.
"Your Highness." The groom handed him the reins with a small bow.
"Spasibo," Ilya murmured, and the word came out more naturally than anything had in days. He swung up into the saddle and felt the familiar shift of muscle beneath him, the way the horse settled under his weight. Masha tossed her head and blew out a breath that clouded in the cold air.
"Easy," he said, and she stilled.
Rose emerged from the main doors wearing a riding habit of dark green, her hair braided and pinned close to her head beneath a simple hat. Two servants followed with a pair of saddlebags. Forger came behind her, already in his own riding clothes, well-made and understated. He moved to the mounting block.
"Good morning," Rose called, crossing the courtyard. "It's freezing."
"You'll warm up once we're moving," Ilya said.
Captain Lukov appeared from the guardhouse with a rolled map in one hand and a grim expression that suggested he had not slept. He had assigned the guard detail himself. Ilya recognized two of the four flanking riders from the escort to the summer palace, and the rear guards were both men Lukov had brought from the capital. Trusted men, or as trusted as anyone could be.
"The scouts are already on the east trail," Lukov said, addressing no one in particular. "They'll check in every half hour. We ride single file on the narrow paths, with the princess and the prince at the center of the party. No one separates from the group." He looked at Ilya directly. "No one."
"Yes, Captain," Ilya said.
The party moved out through the east gate in a careful, unhurried column. Ilya found himself between Rose and Shane, with Forger riding just ahead on Rose's other side and the flanking guards forming a loose diamond around them. The cold air stung his cheeks and pulled tears from the corners of his eyes. He let the wind have them.
The forest swallowed them within minutes. The trees here were older and thicker than those along the main road, their trunks dark with moisture, their branches interlacing overhead so that the path ran in alternating stripes of shadow and pale light. The only sounds were creaking leather, jingling bits, and the occasional birdcall high above.
Ilya felt the tension in his shoulders begin to loosen. The forest had always done this to him—even as a child, even in the worst of those years after his mother died. There was something in the anonymity of it, the way the trees did not care who he was or what he was supposed to become. He was just a body on a horse, moving through dappled light, and the forest accepted him without ceremony.
"How far does the east trail run?" Forger asked from ahead.
"Three miles to the old logging road," Ilya said. "Then it splits north and south."
"And the scouts are covering both splits?"
"One on each," Shane said from behind. "The north trail rejoins the service track. The south goes deeper into the hunting grounds."
"And the hunting grounds themselves—how large an area are we talking about?"
"Roughly twenty square miles," Ilya said. "Bordered by the river on the west and the old royal boundary stones on the east."
"Twenty square miles." Forger let out a low whistle. "And the scouts cover all of it?"
"Not all at once," Shane said. "They rotate sections. A pair covers the perimeter road, another pair covers the interior trails. They switch at midday."
"And at night?"
"The perimeter road only at night. The interior trails are too dark to patrol effectively."
"Of course." Forger nodded, as if committing the information to memory. "And the river crossing—is there a bridge, or do the scouts ford it?"
"Bridge at the western edge of the grounds," Ilya said. "Stone, three horses wide. There's a guard post on the far side."
"Only one post?"
"It's a single crossing point. The river runs fast enough that fording isn't practical."
Forger hummed and turned back toward the trail. The conversation died away. For a few minutes there was only the sound of horses and forest.
Ilya glanced back at Shane. The knight was riding with one hand on his reins and the other resting on his thigh, close to the hilt of his dagger. His eyes were not on the trail ahead or the trees to either side. They were on Ilya. Shane was reading him the way he read terrain, and Ilya felt the attention like a hand at the small of his back.
He didn't turn around. He let Shane look.
"Deer," she said quietly. "About two hundred yards, just inside the trees to the left. Three of them."
Ilya followed her gaze and saw them—three does, half-hidden in the shadows, their ears swiveling toward the sound of the horses. He had not heard or seen them himself.
"So you do hunt." It wasn't quite a question.
Rose lowered the field glasses and smiled at him. “I may have lied just to get us out of the castle. My father took me from the time I was ten. He said a queen who couldn't track a deer through a forest would make a poor queen.”
“You might be sneakier than I am.”
"Shall we?" Rose asked, nudging her horse toward the treeline.
Ilya watched Rose guide her horse through the gap in the trees, Forger following close behind. The forest opened before them—dense, shadowed, ancient in a way the garden paths could never be—and the column began to stretch as the flanking guards adjusted their positions to maintain the diamond formation around the princess.
He shifted his weight in the saddle and Masha responded before his heels touched her sides. She broke from the column in a single stride, veering right where the trail forked, and Ilya leaned into her neck as the trees closed around them. The sound of Shane's voice cut through the air behind him, but he did not turn. He pressed his knees in and Masha lengthened her stride, picking her way through the undergrowth with the instinct of an animal that had spent years on these trails.
"Ilya!" Shane's voice, closer now. Desperate in a way Ilya had never heard from him in daylight. "Ilya, stop!"
He did not stop. The forest opened and closed around him in rapid succession. Masha's hooves were silent on the thick bed of needles. Behind him, the sound of pursuit had doubled. Shane's horse. At least one other. Maybe two. The heavier hoofbeats of the guards' mounts.
"Stay with the princess!" Shane shouted behind him. "That's an order! I'll get him! Stay with Rose!"
The hoofbeats behind him thinned. One set. Only one. Shane had sent the others back.
Ilya ducked beneath a low-hanging branch and Masha surged through a gap in the rocks that he remembered from when he was twelve and half her size. The trail here was barely a trail. More of a deer path, overgrown with ferns and crossed by exposed roots that Masha navigated without breaking rhythm. The air grew thicker, damper. The canopy above closed completely, and the light dropped to something green and underwater.
Shane's horse crashed through the undergrowth somewhere to his left, taking a parallel path. Good. He was trying to cut him off. Ilya veered right, through a stand of young birch so dense he had to turn sideways in the saddle. Then the ground dropped away into a shallow ravine. Masha took it in a single bound and landed sure-footed on the far side. Somewhere behind him, Shane cursed.
The ravine gave way to level ground, and Ilya let Masha slow. Not because he wanted to be caught, but because the terrain was changing. He recognized the moss now—the particular pale green of it, the way it grew in thick carpets over limestone outcroppings. He was close.
Hoofbeats behind him. Rapid. Close. Masha's ears swiveled back.
"Ilya." Shane's voice, right behind him now. "Ilya, stop the horse."
Instead, Ilya guided Masha around a massive oak with roots that crawled across the ground like the legs of a sleeping giant, and then through a gap in the stone that he would have missed if he hadn't been looking for it.
"Goddammit, Ilya." Shane's horse pulled alongside him, close enough that Ilya could feel the heat of the animal's flank. Shane's hand shot out and caught Masha's bridle. Both horses slowed to a walk, then stopped, their sides heaving, steam rising from their coats in the cold air.
Shane's face had gone pale beneath the flush of exertion. His jaw was locked so tight Ilya could see the muscle jumping beneath the skin. His hand on the bridle was steady, but the other hand was trembling.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Shane asked, his voice so controlled it made Ilya's stomach drop.
Ilya did not answer. He looked past Shane's shoulder at the slope beyond. A limestone ridge, the curtain of ivy that hung from it in thick green ropes, the way the light fell differently there than it did on the surrounding rock.
"Answer me." Shane's voice cracked on the second word. He released the bridle and grabbed Ilya's arm instead, his fingers digging into the muscle through the sleeve of his riding jacket. "You broke from a guarded formation. You rode into unsecured forest. Alone. After two assassination attempts. What the hell is wrong with you?"
Ilya glanced down at Shane's hand on his arm. The knuckles were white. He could feel the tremor running through Shane's fingers.
"I know what I'm doing," Ilya said quietly.
"You don't." Shane's eyes were bright with something that looked like fury but was not fury. "You don't, Ilya. You have no idea what's out here. You have no idea who's watching. And you rode off like—like it doesn't matter. Like your life doesn't—"
He stopped. His throat worked. The hand on Ilya's arm tightened and then released, as if Shane could not decide whether to hold on or let go.
"You scared me," Shane said. He looked away immediately after saying it, as though the admission had escaped him by mistake. His chest rose sharply beneath his riding coat. For a moment he looked less like a knight and more like a man who had nearly lost something he couldn't survive losing.
Ilya felt the crack in his chest widen. He looked at Shane and for a moment he couldn’t breathe.
Then he turned Masha toward the ridge and nudged her forward.
"Ilya." Shane's voice behind him. Broken. "Ilya, don't you dare—"
"Follow me," Ilya said. "Or don't. It's up to you."
He did not look back to see if Shane followed. He guided Masha along the base of the ridge, the limestone warm against his right leg where the sun hit it through the canopy. The ground here was soft and damp, carpeted in moss that muffled the horses' steps. He knew this path. He had walked it a thousand times in his head, even in the years when he hadn't set foot in this forest.
Behind him, he heard the heavy breath of Shane's horse, the creak of leather, the tight silence of a man holding himself together by force of will.
"Ilya." Shane's voice was closer than expected. Level. Controlled. The voice of a knight who had decided to follow rather than drag him back by the collar. "Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
"I don't want to see. I want you to turn around and ride back to the party."
"You can ride back."
They rode another hundred yards. The ridge curved inward, and the canopy thickened until the light dropped to something that felt like twilight. Ilya's pulse picked up. He stopped Masha.
The curtain of ivy hung from the limestone in thick, heavy ropes. Fifteen years had passed since he'd last pulled it aside. The vines had thickened and woven themselves together into a solid wall of green that reached from the ground to well above his head. Behind it, the shape of the ridge was wrong—too deep, too shadowed. The rock receded inward where it should have been flat.
Ilya dismounted. His boots sank into the moss. He looped Masha's reins over a low branch and turned to face Shane, who had already swung down from his horse and closed the distance between them in three long strides.
"What is this?"
Ilya reached for the ivy. The vines were thick and stubborn, rooted deep in the crevices of the limestone. He had to use both hands, pulling back a section that came away with a sound like tearing fabric, revealing darkness beyond.
Shane stopped. Ilya watched his face change. The anger drained from his face in a visible wave. Shane's hand moved to his sword hilt, but his eyes stayed on the darkness behind the vines. “What is that?”
“A cave.”
"I can see that it's a cave." Shane's voice had gone flat. "I want to know why you just rode half a mile into unsecured forest to show me a cave."
"I found it when I was eight," Ilya said. He kept his voice low. The forest had gone quiet around them. No birds, no wind through the upper branches, just the sound of Masha shifting her weight behind him and the steady rhythm of Shane's breathing.
Shane said nothing. His hand was still on his sword hilt.
"I used to hide here." Ilya pulled back another section of ivy as though the memory of his hands had left some permanent weakness in their grip. "Whenever I wanted to get away from the palace. From my father. From the tutors. From everything." He glanced back at Shane. "No one ever found me. Not once."
"And you're telling me about it now because—"
"Because we're here." Ilya held the ivy aside and stepped through.
The cave opened around him, both familiar and strange. The air inside was cool and damp and smelled of limestone and wet earth. The light from the entrance fell in a narrow beam across a floor of smooth, water-worn stone. The ceiling arched overhead, disappearing into shadow.
He heard Shane step through behind him. The ivy fell back into place with a soft rustle, and the light dimmed to something amber and underwater.
"Stop," Shane said. His hand closed on Ilya's shoulder, pulling him back. "Stay here."
Shane moved past him into the cave with the controlled precision of a man clearing a room. His sword was half-drawn, his free hand extended to feel the air, the walls, the distance between surfaces. Ilya watched him work. Shane pressed his palm flat against the back wall, then knelt to examine the ground. His fingers traced the stone floor, reading the texture of it the way another man might read a map.
"No footprints," Shane said. He rose and moved along the left wall, checking for gaps, fissures, anything that could conceal a person. "No disturbance in the dust. No recent water flow." He paused at a narrow fissure near the rear and held his hand in front of it. "No draft. It's sealed."
He completed the circuit of the cave. He checked the entrance again, testing the weight of the ivy curtain, the sight lines from outside. When he was satisfied, he turned back to Ilya.
The cave fell silent.
Shane's body shifted from soldier into the man Ilya had woken beside that morning. The rigid set of his shoulders dropped by a fraction. His hand released the sword hilt. His eyes, which had been scanning the cave for threats, fixed on Ilya's face.
They were alone.
Not alone in a palace chamber with servants in the corridor and guards at the door. Not alone in a bed with the constant, low hum of the household carrying on beyond the walls. Truly alone. No one within a mile who could hear them, see them, report on them. The ivy curtain sealed them in like a door being closed on the outside world.
Ilya crossed the distance in three steps. Shane's back hit the limestone wall with a soft thud. Ilya caught the front of Shane’s riding jacket and pushed him harder against the rock, pinning him there. Shane's breath left him in a sharp exhale.
Shane's hands came up to grip his arms. His fingers dug into Ilya’s jacket with a desperation that belonged nowhere near careful, controlled Shane.
"Do you have any idea," Shane said, his voice rough, "what it felt like to watch you ride off into those trees?"
"Yes." Ilya pressed closer. "I do."
"Then why—"
"Because I needed this." Ilya's forehead dropped to rest against Shane's. The limestone was cold against his knuckles where they pressed into the wall on either side of Shane's body. "I needed one thing that was mine. One place where no one could find us. Where no one was watching."
"You could have told me." Shane's grip tightened on his arms. Ilya could feel Shane's heart hammering against his sternum, fast and hard. He pressed his mouth to the corner of Shane's jaw and felt the muscle there jump. "I thought—when you broke from the column—I thought they'd gotten ahead of us somehow. I thought I was going to ride around that oak and find you—" Shane stopped like the image had lodged in his throat.
"Shh." Ilya kissed him. Softly this time. I’m here. I’m alive. I’m not going anywhere. Shane's mouth opened under his and the sound he made was barely a sound at all.
Shane's hands released his arms and came up to frame his face instead, holding him there like something that might slip away.
"Don't do that again," Shane said against his mouth. "Don't ever do that again."
"I won't."
"You will. You're going to do it again. You'll find another cave or another passage or another way to disappear, and I'm going to have a heart attack before the assassins even get to you."
Ilya laughed. The sound broke on the way out, and he pressed his face into Shane's neck to hide it. The skin there was warm. Ilya breathed him in until his lungs ached.
They stood like that for a long time. Shane's fingers moved through his hair, slow and steady, and Ilya let himself be held.
"Forger is a problem," Shane said eventually.
"He's a spy."
"He's more than a spy." Shane’s voice went quiet, thoughtful in that dangerous way it did when he was putting pieces together. “He arrived this morning, and within two hours he knew the access roads, the bridge points, the watch posts. He’s building a map.”
Ilya’s stomach tightened. “Yes.” He pulled back enough to look at Shane's face in the dim light. “He asked around the passages. Not directly. Close enough. Walls, entrances, service tracks. He knew what shape he was looking for.”
Shane's jaw tightened. "He's either trying to help secure the property, or he's helping someone else get inside it."
"Or both."
"Or both," Shane echoed. His thumb moved along Ilya's jaw, a slow, absent stroke. "The hunt was his idea."
"It was Rose's idea."
"Rose suggested it. Forger shaped it." Shane's eyes held his. "He wanted to see the forest. He wanted to see where the scouts are positioned and where they aren't."
Ilya said nothing.
"We should go back," Shane said. He didn't move.
"We should."
Neither of them moved.
Shane’s hand dropped from Ilya’s face and found his, threading their fingers together with a deliberateness that made Ilya’s chest hurt. He looked down at their joined hands in the amber light, and something in his face shifted.
"The wedding." Ilya's voice came out flat. He looked away, at the limestone wall, at the narrow beam of light cutting through the ivy curtain. "Forger is right about one thing. The rumors are going to get worse the longer it's delayed. My father won't let it be postponed indefinitely. The alliance is too important."
"Rose is—"
"I know what Rose is." Ilya turned back to him. "She's kind. She's clever. She's going to be a good queen. And I'm going to stand in a cathedral and say vows to her while you stand behind me with your hand on your sword, and neither of us is going to say a goddamn thing about it."
Shane's hand was trembling in his. Ilya could feel it.
"What happens after that?" Shane asked. His voice was barely a whisper.
"I don't know."
"Ilya."
"I don't know." The words came out harder than he meant them to. He pressed his free hand flat against the limestone wall, felt the cool roughness of it against his palm. "I don't know what happens. I'll be king someday. I'll have a queen. I'll have heirs. And you'll be—what? My guard? My captain? My—"
He stopped. The word he'd been about to say sat in his mouth like a stone.
"I keep imagining it," Ilya said. The confession came out before he could catch it, quiet and terrible in the silence of the cave. “A different life. One where I’m not a prince and you’re not a knight. No palace. No crown. No one trying to kill me.” He laughed, but it came out wrong. "I imagine a cottage. Somewhere by the sea. With a garden. And I work with my hands, and you come home in the evening, and we eat dinner at a table that only seats two, and there's no one watching and no one counting and no one—"
His voice broke. He pressed his lips together and looked at the ceiling until the heat behind his eyes receded.
"I imagine it too," Shane said. His thumb moved over Ilya's knuckles. "A cottage. A garden. A table for two." He paused. "I imagine you teaching me Russian properly, instead of just the words I can't say in front of other people. I imagine waking up and not having to leave before anyone sees."
Ilya's throat closed. He swallowed hard. They looked at each other.
"It's impossible," Ilya said.
"Yes."
"Completely impossible."
"Yes."
Talking made it worse. Talking made the impossible too real.
Ilya kissed him. Shane’s hand stayed at the back of his neck, holding him there as if he might disappear into the limestone if Shane let go. Ilya's hands found the front of Shane's riding jacket and pulled at the fastenings. His fingers were shaking. He couldn't get them undone. Shane's hands covered his, stilling them, and then Shane was the one working the brass hooks free, one by one, his movements unhurried despite the way his breath was coming faster. The jacket came open. Ilya pushed it off Shane's shoulders and it fell to the stone floor with a sound like a held breath releasing.
Ilya’s hands found Shane’s hair. His mouth found Shane’s throat. Shane's head tipped back against the limestone, exposing the long line of his throat, and Ilya bit down on the tendon there. Shane made a low, broken sound.
Ilya moved lower. Shane's riding shirt was untucked, the fabric thin and damp from exertion, and Ilya pushed it up with both hands, exposing his stomach. He pressed his mouth to the scar along Shane's ribs. Shane’s stomach tightened beneath his mouth.
"Ilya." Shane's voice was wrecked. "Ilya, the horses—"
"Can wait." He looked up. Shane's face was flushed, his pupils blown so wide the brown had nearly disappeared. His chest rose too fast, his hands braced against the limestone as if it was the only thing keeping him upright. "They'll wait."
Ilya dropped to his knees. The stone was cold through the fabric of his riding breeches, but he barely registered it. His fingers found the fastening of Shane's trousers and worked them open. Ilya dragged the fabric down with deliberate slowness, watching Shane tense with every inch. When the cool air hit him, Shane hissed through his teeth, and Ilya pressed his mouth to the inside of his thigh in answer. A kiss, then a bite, then another kiss lower, closer.
"Fuck," Shane breathed. His head dropped back against the wall with a dull thud. "Ilya, I—"
Ilya didn't let him finish. He took Shane’s cock into his mouth, and Shane's hand flew to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair with a grip that was almost painful. Ilya held him there, his tongue working slow circles around Shane’s tip. Shane moaned, breath breaking into rough pants.
Ilya hollowed his cheeks and took Shane deeper down his throat. Shane’s fingers tightened in his hair. "God—Ilya—" Shane's voice cracked on his name. "I can't—if you keep—"
Ilya pulled off slowly, letting his lips drag along the length of him, and Shane shuddered so hard his shoulder blades scraped against the wall. Ilya looked up. The angle was obscene. Shane's chest heaving, his cock flushed and wet against his stomach, his eyes dark and wild and fixed on Ilya's mouth. Ilya could have stayed there all day.
Ilya rose. His knees protested against the stone, but the pain was distant, secondary to the heat crawling up his spine. Shane's hands found his face the moment he was upright and pulled him into a kiss that tasted of desperation and something deeper. Shane kissed him like he was drowning and Ilya was air, and Ilya kissed him back the same way.
He turned Shane around. Shane went without resistance, his palms pressing flat against the wall, and Ilya stepped into the space behind him. His chest pressed against Shane's back, and he felt the shiver that ran through him at the contact. Ilya's hands found Shane's hips and held them, fingers digging into the muscle, and Shane's head dropped forward between his arms.
"Please," Shane said. The word was barely a breath.
Ilya reached into the pocket of his riding jacket where he'd tucked the small bottle before they'd left the palace this morning. He'd known. Some part of him had known. Had packed it with the same careful hope that had followed him to the summer palace. He worked the cap free with one hand while the other stayed firm on Shane's hip, holding him in place.
The oil was cold when he poured it over his fingers, but it warmed quickly as he pressed his palm between Shane's shoulder blades and eased him forward. Shane went, bending at the waist, his forearms braced against the limestone. The position pressed him back against Ilya’s hips, and Ilya had to close his eyes and breathe through his nose to keep from losing his composure entirely.
"Ilya." Shane's voice was rough, urgent.
Ilya pressed one finger inside him and Shane dropped his forehead against his forearm with a sound that was half groan, half exhale. The heat of him was staggering. Ilya worked slowly, carefully, feeling every point of resistance, every shift in Shane's body that told him what to do. A second finger, and Shane's hands curled against the stone, his knuckles going white.
"More," Shane said. "I can take more."
"You can take what I give you," Ilya murmured against the back of his neck, but he added a third finger anyway, and the noise Shane made went straight through him.
He was methodical about it. Thorough. He wanted Shane to feel every moment of this, wanted to leave no room for the outside world to creep back in. He scissored his fingers slowly, feeling the way Shane's body opened for him, and when he found the spot that made Shane's legs buckle, he pressed against it again. And again.
Shane's back arched. "Fuck—right there, don't stop—"
Ilya worked him open with a patience that surprised even himself, watching the way Shane's muscles moved beneath his skin, the way his breathing fractured into shorter and shorter gasps. When Shane was shaking against him, when his grip on the wall had slipped twice and his voice had gone to something barely recognizable, Ilya pulled his fingers free.
Shane turned his head to look at him over his shoulder. His eyes were glassy, his lips parted, a flush spreading down his chest. He looked wrecked. Beautiful. Entirely Ilya’s.
Ilya poured more oil into his palm and slicked his own cock. The cave air made him hiss. Then he was pressing forward, the head of his cock catching at Shane's entrance, and the heat that met him was almost blinding.
He went slow. Inch by agonizing inch, because Shane deserved slow, because they both deserved this to last. Shane's body resisted, then yielded, then pulled him deeper, and the sound Shane made when Ilya was fully seated was the most devastating thing Ilya had ever heard.
He held still. His forehead dropped to rest between Shane's shoulder blades, and he breathed. Shane's hands were flat against the limestone, his arms trembling, and Ilya could feel the rapid beat of his heart through the contact of their bodies.
"You okay?" Ilya managed. His voice came out rougher than he intended.
"Don't stop," Shane said.
Ilya pulled back and thrust forward, and Shane's whole body jerked. The angle was different from the bed—deeper, sharper—and Ilya could feel the exact moment he hit the spot that made Shane's breath leave him in a punched-out gasp. He did it again. And again. Setting a rhythm that was deliberate and deep, each thrust driving the air from Shane's lungs in a sound that was barely a sound at all.
Shane's hands slipped on the stone. Ilya caught one of them, threading their fingers together and pressing Shane's palm flat against the wall. The position arched Shane's back further, changing the angle, and when Ilya drove into him again, Shane made a noise that was closer to a sob than anything else.
"Ilya—oh god—"
The cave echoed with them, obscene and impossible to hide. Ilya released Shane's hand and wrapped his arm around his chest instead, pulling him upright so that Shane's back was flush against his chest. Shane’s heartbeat hammered against his forearm, his ribs rising fast under Ilya’s grip, and when he thrust up into him from this angle, Shane's head dropped back against his shoulder with a cry that Ilya felt in his teeth.
"I've got you," Ilya murmured against his ear. "I've got you."
Shane's hand came up to grip the back of Ilya's neck, holding him there, and Ilya could feel the wetness on his cheeks where tears had broken free.
"Harder," Shane said. His voice was shattered. "Please, Ilya, harder—"
Ilya pulled out in one fluid motion and spun Shane around. Shane made a broken sound of protest, but Ilya caught him under the thighs and lifted, using the wall to brace them both as he pressed Shane back against the limestone. Shane's legs wrapped around his waist automatically, his arms locking behind Ilya's neck, and Ilya drove up into him in the same movement.
Shane's head snapped back against the rock and the sound that tore from his throat was raw. Ilya pinned him there with one arm wrapped around Shane's back, holding his weight, and used the other to grip Shane's hip and pull him down onto each thrust.
"Ilya—fuck—"
Ilya didn't slow. Couldn't slow. The heat of Shane around him, the sound of his voice fracturing into pieces, the way his thighs trembled where they gripped Ilya's waist—it was consuming him whole. He drove up harder, feeling Shane's body take it, feeling the way Shane's fingers dug into the back of his neck hard enough to bruise.
"Say my name again," Ilya said against his throat.
"Ilya—" Shane's voice broke on it. His head tipped forward, forehead pressing against Ilya's, and his eyes were glassy and unfocused. "Ilya, please, don't stop, I can't—I can't—"
The words dissolved into a moan as Ilya angled his hips and hit that spot again. Shane's cock was trapped between their stomachs, leaking and flushed, and Ilya could feel the wetness of it against his own skin with each thrust. He reached between them and wrapped his hand around Shane, and Shane shrieked.
"Oh god, oh god, oh god—" Shane was babbling now, words spilling out faster than thought. His arms were shaking where they held on, his legs tightening around Ilya's waist with each thrust. "I'm gonna—I can't—Ilya—I love you."
Ilya fucked up into him harder. The sound of it was filthy and Shane's mouth was open against his shoulder, breathing in ragged gasps that hitched every time Ilya's cock dragged over that spot inside him.
"Say it again," Ilya demanded, his voice rough and low.
“I love you—" Shane's voice cracked. “I love you, I love you, I love you, fuck—"
Ilya buried his face in Shane's neck and let the words wash through him like fire. He could feel Shane's cock pulsing in his hand, could feel the way Shane's body was tightening around him, and he knew he was close, knew they both were, and he didn't want it to end, didn't want this moment to exist in past tense, didn't want to go back to the palace and the guards and Forger's careful questions.
Shane came with a sound close to a scream, his body seizing around Ilya. The clench of him was brutal, and Ilya lost whatever was left of his composure. He drove up one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and came with Shane’s name on his lips, Shane’s broken voice in his ear, and cool limestone against his forehead.
They stayed like that. Shane's legs were still wrapped around him, his arms loose around Ilya's neck, his breathing coming in long, shuddering pulls. Ilya could feel Shane's heartbeat against his own chest, rapid and then slowing, slowing, until it was almost in time with his.
Shane's fingers moved in his hair. Soft. Absent. The way they had that morning in bed.
"Don't let go," Shane said quietly.
Ilya tightened his arms around him. "I won't."
They stood in the amber light of the cave, Shane pinned between Ilya's body and the limestone wall, and neither of them moved. The horses were waiting outside. The column was waiting. Forger was probably already cataloging every second of their absence. But here, in this cave that no one knew about, with the ivy curtain sealing them in like a held breath, none of that existed.
Shane's lips found his temple. "We have to go back."
"I know."
"You have to ride behind me this time."
Ilya laughed against his neck. The sound broke. He realized he was crying, and he didn't care. "I'll ride behind you."
Shane's hand came up and wiped the tears from his cheek with his thumb. “I love you,” he said simply, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Ilya closed his eyes and let himself have it. Just for a moment. Just here, in the cave his mother had never known about, with the man she would have wished for him.
"I love you," he said back.
Outside, the forest waited.
***
They rode back in silence, Shane ahead this time, his horse picking through the undergrowth with steady patience. Ilya followed three paces behind, exactly where he'd promised to be. The forest opened and closed around them in reverse, each landmark pressing the world outside the cave closer.
He could still feel Shane on his skin. The phantom weight. The heat. The oil had dried cold on his fingers, and the inside of his thighs ached in a way he did not entirely hate.
Shane did not look back. Not once. His spine was straight, his shoulders locked into duty, but the flush at the back of his neck still vanished beneath his collar. He wanted to press his mouth there.
The party found them before they found the party. Captain Lukov's voice cut through the trees first, sharp with relief buried under authority, and then the sound of hoofbeats converging from multiple directions. Ilya saw the flanking guards appear through gaps in the foliage, their faces tight with the strain of men trying very hard not to look like they had lost their charge.
"Your Highness." Lukov pulled his horse up alongside Ilya's, his expression caught somewhere between fury and gratitude. "You're uninjured."
"I'm fine, Captain."
"You will ride at the center of the formation for the remainder of the hunt."
"Yes, Captain."
Lukov looked at Shane, then back at Ilya, and said nothing more. He wheeled his horse and fell back into position, issuing quiet orders to the flanking guards in a voice pitched low enough that Ilya caught only fragments.
Rose appeared from the left trail on her bay mare, Forger a half-length behind her. Her hair had come partially unpinned during whatever she’d done in their absence, and there was a smear of mud along the knee of her riding habit. She pulled up when she saw them, and Ilya watched her face change.
It was the smallest thing: her gaze flicking between Ilya and Shane, a pause half a second too long, then the corner of her mouth curving in a way that had nothing to do with relief.
"Well," she said. "Look who's back."
Ilya kept his expression perfectly neutral. "The trail forked. We took a wrong turn."
“Did you.” Rose’s voice was warm, conversational, and absolutely merciless. "Both of you. On the same wrong turn."
"The prince's horse broke from the column," Shane said. His voice came out clipped, professional. He still had not looked at Rose. He was studying the treeline to his left as if it had personally offended him. "I followed. We lost the trail in the ravine and had to double back."
"The ravine," Rose repeated. Her eyes dropped briefly to Ilya's collar, which he had fastened wrong and not yet noticed, and then to the smear of dirt on Shane's riding jacket where it had pressed against the limestone wall. "Good thing you found your way back."
“Very fortunate,” Forger said, and something in his tone made Ilya’s skin prickle. The ambassador watched Shane with the same careful attention he’d given the grounds that morning. "Sir Shane, you're bleeding."
Ilya's stomach dropped. He looked.
A thin scratch ran along the side of Shane's neck, just below the jaw. The kind of mark that came from rough stone and rougher hands. Not from any branch in any forest. Shane's hand went to it automatically, his fingers brushing the line, and Ilya saw the exact moment Shane realized what it was. His hand dropped back to the reins. His jaw set.
"Thorn bush," Shane said.
"Thorn bush," Rose echoed. Her smirk spread, and she made no effort to hide it. She turned her mare so that she was riding beside Ilya, close enough that her knee brushed his. "You know, Your Highness, you really should be more careful in the forest. It’s pretty secluded out here. Captain Lukov mentioned there are caves in these woods. Old ones. Completely hidden."
Ilya's hand tightened on the reins. Masha tossed her head in protest and he forced his grip to loosen.
"I wouldn't know," he said.
"No? That's a shame.”
Shane, riding ahead of them, had gone entirely rigid. His ears were red. Ilya could see it even from behind, the flush creeping up past his collar to the tips of his ears, and it was the most damning thing Shane had ever done in his life.
Rose saw it too. Her gaze landed on the back of Shane’s neck, and her smile turned almost cruel. She pressed her lips together, clearly fighting a laugh, and turned her face forward with the exaggerated composure of someone who was enjoying herself far too much.
"Shall we continue the hunt?" she asked brightly, as though she had not just dismantled them both in under a minute.
The rest of the hunt passed in a blur of enforced normalcy that was physically exhausting to maintain. Rose shot a doe at a hundred and fifty yards with a clean kill that impressed even Lukov, and Forger spent the next twenty minutes discussing the quality of the forest's game with the enthusiasm of a man who had never held a bow in his life. Shane didn’t speak. Didn’t look at anyone. Shane rode three paces ahead with his hand on his sword hilt, his ears cooling from red to pink to normal, and every time Rose managed to work the word cave into an adjacent conversation, Ilya watched Shane’s shoulders hike another quarter inch.
They returned to the summer palace in the late afternoon, the doe strapped across the back of one of the guard's horses, and the courtyard had filled with the particular bustle of a successful hunt. Ilya dismounted and handed Masha's reins to the groom without meeting anyone's eyes. His body ached in places that had nothing to do with riding.
Rose slipped from her saddle and came to stand beside him while a servant brushed pine needles from her skirt.
"That was fun," she said. She wasn’t looking at him, too busy examining a scratch on the back of her hand with great interest.
"It was."
"The forest here is amazing. So many—hidden places." She glanced up at him through her lashes. "You should show me more of it. Tomorrow, maybe. The two of us. With a proper escort, of course. I'm sure Sir Shane would be delighted to come along."
"Rose."
"I'm simply saying." She smiled. It was the most innocent expression he had ever seen on her face, and it was absolutely lethal. "It's good to get out. Clear the head. Work out any—tension."
Ilya turned and walked into the palace without answering. Behind him, he heard Rose laugh and he hated her a little for how much he didn't hate her at all.
***
Dinner was served in the small dining room at seven. The table had been set with the summer palace’s best silver, crystal catching the candlelight. Ilya sat at the head, with Rose to his right and Forger across from her. Shane stood at attention by the door, his face carefully blank. Even across the room, Ilya could feel him holding himself still.
"The kitchen has prepared venison from today's hunt," Forger said, as the first course was served. "Princess Rose is quite the markswoman."
Rose smiled modestly. "Beginner's luck."
"Nonsense. That was a clean kill at impressive range." Forger turned to Ilya. "You must be pleased to have such a capable future queen."
Ilya took a sip of wine. “Yes. Rose is remarkable.”
"Speaking of which, I've had correspondence from the capital. There's been some discussion about the wedding date."
Ilya's knife paused mid-cut. "Has there?"
"Given recent events, naturally there's concern about further delays." Forger dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “However, I’ve assured them the ceremony will proceed once security concerns are addressed.”
Rose glanced at Ilya before responding. “We’ve only just arrived. Surely we can rest for a few days.”
"Of course, Your Highness." Forger's voice was smooth as silk. "But the people grow anxious. They want to see their future king and queen united."
The venison turned dry in Ilya’s mouth. He set down his fork.
“Public expectations are quite specific,” Forger continued, perfectly aware. "They want the traditional procession through the capital, the cathedral ceremony, the formal banquet afterward. All the pageantry befitting such an important union."
Each mention of the wedding twisted between his ribs. He risked a glance at Shane, but Shane’s gaze stayed fixed on some middle distance, his expression unreadable.
"I've taken the liberty of reviewing the plans your father's advisors prepared," Forger said, pulling a small notebook from his jacket pocket. "The guest list, the decorations, the vows—everything is in order."
Rose reached for her water glass, her fingers tightening briefly around the stem before she smiled. "We appreciate your thoroughness, Edmund, but perhaps we could discuss this another time? I'm sure Ilya is tired after today's hunt."
"Of course, of course." Forger closed the notebook but didn't put it away. "But there is the matter of the royal couple's future residence. The east wing of the palace is being prepared, but the queen's chambers need updating to Rose's taste."
Ilya's stomach turned. The east wing. His mother's wing. Of course. Even the dead were expected to make room for politics.
"The future is bright for both our nations," Forger said, raising his glass. "To the union of Zakoria and Valestria."
Ilya lifted his glass mechanically. Rose lifted hers a half-second later, her smile polished thin. Shane did not move. Ilya wondered what it cost Shane to stand there and listen to men plan the wedding that would end them.
***
After dinner, Ilya returned to his rooms. Shane followed him inside, checked the lock, and walked the room’s perimeter once with his hand on his sword hilt. The ritual was the same as every evening, but the air between them had shifted. Shane's fingers brushed his wrist when he passed.
"I'll check the corridor," Shane said. His voice was low, meant for Ilya alone. "And the adjoining passage entrance. Then I’ll be next door."
Ilya nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak.
Shane paused at the door. His hand rested on the handle for a moment longer than necessary, and when he glanced back, warmth moved through his eyes before the mask returned. Then he was gone, the door closing with a soft click.
Ilya stood alone in the center of the room. The fire had been lit in the grate while they were at dinner, and the amber light threw long shadows across the walls. He heard Shane’s footsteps in the corridor, then the adjoining door opening and closing as Shane checked his own room. The familiar rhythm of it was almost soothing.
He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots. His body ached pleasantly—from the hunt, from the cave, from Shane’s hands and voice and the way he had said I love you like it was easy. Ilya pressed his palms flat against the mattress and let the feeling settle in his chest.
He was happy.
The realization was so startling he almost laughed.
Actual happiness.
He lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The old beams were dark with age, the plaster between them cracked in places, and he found himself cataloging the damage the way his mother used to. The thought didn't hurt as much as it should have. It felt almost like company.
He closed his eyes. The fire crackled. He was drifting when the shouting started.
One voice rose in alarm. Then others joined it. He heard doors slamming and footsteps pounding through the corridor outside. Ilya was on his feet before his mind had fully caught up. His hand found the dagger on the bedside table by instinct and he crossed to the door in three strides. The shouting grew closer. He could make out individual words and beneath it all, the sound of steel being drawn.
He pulled the door open and the corridor erupted around him.
Guards were moving in both directions. Two of Lukov's men were pushing a cluster of palace staff back toward the servants' stairs, their voices sharp with orders. A maid pressed herself against the wall, her hands over her mouth. At the far end of the corridor, a door stood open, light spilling from it in a yellow rectangle across the floor.
Lukov's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "Secure that wing! No one enters, no one leaves! I want every exit covered!"
Ilya shoved past the guards at his door. Their hands reached for him. He knocked them aside without breaking stride.
“What is it?” he demanded. “What happened?”
No one answered him. The guards were too busy forming a cordon around the open door, their swords drawn, their attention fixed on whatever lay beyond it. Ilya pushed through the cluster of bodies, using his height and title to force his way forward. The guards parted before him.
He reached the door and stopped.
Shane stood in the center of the room. His adjoining room. The small space was full of guards. Four of them had formed a loose circle around Shane, their swords not drawn but their hands on their hilts, and Shane's hands were raised at his sides in a gesture that was not quite surrender.
He looked genuinely confused. His jacket was unbuttoned, his hair mussed from the hunt and still damp at the temples.
On the writing desk, laid out with careful precision, were several items that had no business being there. A small glass vial, empty, its cork missing. A folded piece of parchment, opened to reveal the decoy route, the real route, travel times, and guard positions with Shane’s initials forged at the bottom.A cloth pouch with its drawstring loose, dried herbs spilling from its mouth. And beside them, a knife designed for close work, with a curved edge that caught the candlelight.
Ilya's blood went cold.
"That's not mine," Shane said. His voice was steady, but Ilya could hear the strain beneath it. “I’ve never seen any of that before.”
Captain Lukov stood at the edge of the desk, his weathered face grim. He was looking at the evidence, then at Shane, then back at the evidence, and the conflict in his expression was painful to look at.
“The vial was behind the wardrobe,” one guard said, reading from a ledger with a shaking voice. “The parchment was between the mattress and the frame. The knife was wrapped in the spare linens.”
“Same kind of vial as the poisoner’s,” another guard added. "The apothecary in the capital identified it. Same seal on the bottom, same—"
"I know what it looks like." Lukov's voice cut through the room. He looked at Shane, and something passed between them that Ilya couldn't read. "Sir Shane. When is the last time you were in this room alone?"
"I haven't been alone in this room since we got here," Shane said. "I've been with the prince. Or on duty. Or—" He stopped. His jaw tightened. "Someone planted this."
“Who had access?” Lukov asked, to no one in particular.
"The servants change the linens," one of the guards offered. "And the steward has a master key to all the rooms."
"A master key," Shane repeated. He turned to look at the guard who had spoken. "Anyone with a master key could have—"
"That's enough." Lukov held up a hand. His face had gone gray. "Sir Shane, you understand what this looks like."
"I understand what someone wants it to look like." Shane's voice had dropped to something dangerous. His hands were still raised, but his fingers had curled into loose fists at his sides. “Captain, you know my record. You know what I’ve done for this kingdom.”
"I know." Lukov's voice was rough. "But I also know what's on that desk."
Footsteps in the corridor. Rose appeared in the doorway, her hair loose around her shoulders, a dressing gown pulled hastily over her nightclothes. She took in the scene and her expression shifted from confusion to horror.
"What is this?" she demanded. "Captain Lukov, what's happening?"
"Princess." Lukov turned to her, his posture straightening automatically. "Evidence has been found in Sir Shane’s quarters connecting him to the attempts on the prince’s life."
Rose's hand went to her mouth. She looked at Shane, then at Ilya, and the color drained from her face.
"That's impossible," she said. "That's—Captain, you can't possibly believe—"
"I don't believe it," Lukov said. The words came out hard, almost angry. "But I have to act on the evidence. Protocol demands—"
"Protocol demands you use your goddamn head!" Ilya's voice cracked through the room. Fury blurred the edges of his vision. He stepped forward, placing himself between Shane and the circle of guards. "This is a setup. Someone is framing him. You know that. You know Shane."
"Your Highness—"
"Release him." Ilya's hand found the hilt of his dagger. He didn't draw it. He didn't need to. "Now."
"I cannot." Lukov's voice was flat. "The evidence is too serious. Sir Shane must be detained until a full investigation can be completed. Those are the king's orders regarding any suspect in this matter."
"Those are my father's orders regarding a traitor," Ilya said. "Shane is not a traitor."
Forger appeared in the doorway, his expression a careful composition of shock and concern. His dressing gown was perfectly fastened, his hair combed.
"What's happened?" Forger asked, his voice carrying the perfect balance of authority and alarm. He looked at the desk, at the evidence laid out there, and his hand came up to cover his mouth. "My God. Is that—"
"Evidence linking Sir Shane to the assassination attempts," Lukov said.
Forger's eyes widened. He looked at Shane, then at Ilya. "This is deeply troubling." He stepped into the room. "We must all remain calm. An investigation must proceed, and it must follow the evidence wherever it leads." He turned to Lukov. "Captain, you're handling this correctly. Sir Shane must be detained for questioning, but he must also be treated with the respect his position warrants. The evidence is serious, but we cannot rush to judgment."
“Rush to judgment?” Ilya turned on him. The first words came out in Russian before he could stop them, sharp enough to make Forger’s expression falter. Ilya forced himself back to the common tongue. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Your Highness, I assure you, I want only the truth.”
"Get out," Ilya hissed.
Forger blinked. "Your Highness—"
“Get. Out.”
Forger held his gaze for a moment, then inclined his head and stepped back into the corridor.
Lukov moved forward. "Sir Shane. You will be escorted to the east tower. You will be treated with respect. You will be allowed an advocate. But you will remain in custody until this is resolved."
Two guards stepped forward. Ilya felt their movement before he saw it. His hand tightened on the dagger hilt.
"Don't." Shane's voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk. Quiet. Controlled. The voice of a man who had already made a decision. "Don't do this, Your Highness."
Shane lowered his hands slowly. He didn't look at the guards approaching from either side. He didn't look at Lukov or Rose or anyone else in the room. He looked at Ilya.
His hands came to rest at his sides, palms open, fingers relaxed. No fists. No resistance. He stood in the center of the circle and let the guards close in.
Ilya moved. He didn't think about it. His body crossed the distance before his mind finished forming the intention, and his hand shot out and caught the nearest guard’s arm.
"Stop." The word came out as a command, but the guard didn't stop. The man's eyes flicked to Lukov, who gave a single, grim nod, and then the guard's hand closed firmly around Ilya's wrist.
"Your Highness. Please."
The second guard had reached Shane. He took Shane’s arm. Shane let him.
"Ilya." Shane's voice was barely above a whisper. "Don't."
Ilya's hand was still on the guard's arm. He could feel the man's pulse beneath his fingers, rapid and anxious. He could feel his own pulse hammering in his throat, in his temples, in the hand that gripped the dagger hilt so hard the leather sheath creaked.
"You know this is wrong," Ilya said. He was looking at Shane, but the words were for Lukov. For the room. For whoever was listening. "You know it."
"Your Highness." Lukov's voice was rough. "Step back."
Shane's eyes locked with his.
They were the color of dark earth, of the forest floor at dusk. I love you.
Ilya couldn't breathe. His hand opened. The guard's arm slipped free of his grip, and the man stepped back with obvious relief.
The guards turned Shane toward the door. One on each side, their hands guiding rather than gripping, the deference of men arresting someone they respected. Shane walked between them without stumbling. His boots made soft sounds on the stone floor. His shoulders were straight, his chin level, and he did not look back.
Ilya stood in the doorway and watched him go.
