The air in the bedchamber was thick, almost vibrating with the weight of Alistair's predatory gaze. Asarmose didn't flinch under the pressure. Instead, he finished shedding his golden silks with a calm, deliberate slowness that felt like a silent provocation.
He didn't give Alistair the satisfaction of a long look. Instead, he reached for a light, silken robe, slipping it over his honey-colored skin and tying it loosely at the waist. Without saying a word, he passed by alistair and headed straight toward the bath chamber, where the steam from the copper tub still curled in the air.
Alistair stood frozen in the shadows for a heartbeat, his jaw tightening. His scent—the cold, sharp bergamot—was churning, turning heavy and dark. He wasn't used to being ignored, and he certainly wasn't used to someone walking away while his focus was locked on them like a hunter's.
Alistair didn't stay in the bedroom. Driven by a restless, narcissistic need to reclaim his dominance, he followed. He pushed open the heavy door to the bathroom. The room was warm and damp, smelling of the expensive oils Alistair used and the lingering, ancient spice of the Prince.
Asarmose was standing by the edge of the water, his back to the door. He didn't turn around when the King entered.
"You're very bold for someone in a foreign palace, Asarmose," Alistair said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous vibration. He closed the distance between them until he was standing right behind the Prince, his shadow tall against the damp stone walls."And you are very loud for someone who claims to be bored," Asarmose replied, his voice calm and mocking. He finally turned, his amber eyes meeting Alistair's silver ones. Alistair reached out, his hand gripping the back of Asarmose's neck. It wasn't a gentle touch; it was the grip of a man used to owning everything he looked at. He leaned in, his nose brushing against the Prince's pulse point.
For the first time, Alistair let his pheromones surge—not as a weapon, but as a possessive invitation. The cold iron and bergamot wrapped around Asarmose, heavy and sharp.
Asarmose's breath hitched. He had spent his life surrounded by Alphas who smelled of sweat and aggression. But this was different. Alistair's scent was clean and strangely refined. It didn't feel like a cage; it felt like a storm that finally made sense.
Asarmose realized with a jolt of shock that he liked it. It was the only scent in this godless city that didn't make him want to pull away. It was the only scent that actually pleased him."What's wrong, Darling?" Alistair whispered, his lips ghosting against Asarmose's ear. "Is the 'harsh reality' finally starting to feel good?"
Asarmose grabbed the lapels of Alistair's robe, pulling him closer until their chests were inches apart. "Do not mistake my interest for submission, Alistair. I may like your scent, but I still intend to break your throne."
Alistair's smirk was dark and genuine. "Then let's see who breaks first."
Asarmose's glare was like a flash of gold in the humid air of the bathroom—sharp, defiant, and completely unimpressed by Alistair's posturing. Without another word, he pulled his robe tighter, brushed past the King, and marched back into the bedchamber.
He didn't wait for an invitation. Asarmose climbed into the massive, mahogany bed and pulled the thick, midnight-blue covers all the way up to his chin, effectively burying himself in a fortress of velvet and silk.
Alistair stood in the doorway for a moment, watching the heap of blankets that now contained the Prince. A low, genuine chuckle rumbled in his chest—a sound rarely heard by anyone in the palace. He found the display of petulance from someone so powerful to be deeply amusing.
"Hiding, Darling?" Alistair called out, his voice dry and teasing. "I thought you were a 'shield' for your people. It seems the shield is currently a quilt."
There was no reply from the bundle of blankets, only a sharp, muffled "Hmph" that vibrated through the silk.
Alistair shook his head, his smirk still firmly in place. He walked to the other side of the bed and climbed in, the mattress shifting under his weight. He didn't try to pull the covers away; instead, he settled onto the pillows, lying beside the Prince.
The silence that followed was different from the one in the carriage. It was quieter, less like a battle and more like a temporary truce. The room was still filled with the scent of Alistair's cold bergamot, which seemed to wrap around the bed, and for the first time, the King felt the restless, narcissistic engine of his mind begin to slow down.
"Sleep then, my radiant nuisance," Alistair whispered into the dark, his eyes staring at the canopy above. "But don't think for a second that I've forgotten about the Council. Or the 'glimpse' of power you showed me tonight."Beside him, under the heavy layers, Asarmose's breathing eventually steadied. He wouldn't admit it, but the King's scent was acting like a balm, pulling him into a deep, dreamless sleep—the first peaceful rest he'd had since entering this iron-bound land.