Eric’s private apartment occupied the highest floor of the northern keep.

Ian expected chains on the walls.

Instead, he found dark wood, clean stone, a fire burning behind glass, and enough empty space to confirm every rumor about Eric’s obsession with order. Not a book lay crooked. Not a glass carried a fingerprint. Even the snow beyond the windows seemed arranged.

Ian walked in with mud on his boots.

Eric looked at the footprints.

Ian deliberately made another.

“Take off the boots,” Eric said.

“Take off the collar.”

“I cannot.”

“Then learn to appreciate mud.”

Two guards remained outside. Eric closed the door in their faces and entered a code that sealed it.

Ian studied the exits. One door led to a bathroom. Another to a bedroom. Windows, reinforced. Ventilation shafts, too narrow. Fireplace, sealed. Eric had brought a war commander into a beautiful prison.

“There is one bed,” Ian said.

“You can have the couch.”

“Your hospitality remains legendary.”

“You tried to strangle me fourteen minutes ago.”

“And yet you brought me home. People will talk.”

Eric removed his jacket. The white shirt beneath it stretched across his back. Ian looked away before his wolf could interpret the motion as interest.

The collar warmed.

Eric glanced over his shoulder. “What did you feel?”

“Disgust.”

“The stone changed color.”

“Maybe it dislikes your furniture.”

Eric approached. Ian held his ground.

“The bond carries physical pain,” Eric said. “Possibly strong emotion. We need to test its limits.”

“Use Silas.”

“The collar bears our names.”

“Tragic for both of us.”

Eric reached toward the bite on Ian’s neck. Ian caught his hand.

Their wolves surged at the contact.

Ian twisted Eric’s wrist, turned under his arm, and shoved him against the wall. He used the loose length of chain from his remaining cuff to pin Eric’s forearm above his head.

“Rule one,” Ian said. “You don’t touch me without permission.”

Eric’s breathing deepened, but he did not fight the hold. “You challenged me to bite you.”

“I challenged you to kill me.”

“Your communication needs work.”

Ian pulled the chain tighter. “Rule two: You don’t confuse a mate reaction with consent.”

Something in Eric’s expression settled.

“Agreed.”

The immediate answer threw Ian off balance.

Eric used the pause. He reversed their positions, but instead of pinning Ian, he stepped back and released him.

“Your rules apply to both of us,” Eric said.

“Afraid I’ll bite?”

“Curious whether you will.”

Ian’s wolf approved of the idea far too much.

He turned toward the bedroom. “I’m taking the bed.”

“No.”

Ian opened the door.

The room smelled like Eric: pine, cold metal, and restrained violence. A low bed stood between two windows. On the nightstand sat a glass of water, a watch, and a small carved wolf no larger than Ian’s thumb.

The toy was worn smooth by small hands.

Ian picked it up.

Eric crossed the room with startling speed and took it from him.

The collar pulsed with fear.

Not anger.

Fear.

Ian stared at him. “Whose is it?”

“Put your questions away for tonight.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“It was the only one you’re getting.”

Eric placed the wolf inside the nightstand and locked the drawer.

Ian filed away the location of the key.

Dinner arrived on a silver cart. Eric inspected every plate before allowing it inside. He changed the cutlery after noticing a spot on one fork. Ian watched with growing disbelief.

“You really are insane.”

“The last person who served me an uninspected meal used wolfsbane.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No.”

Ian lifted an eyebrow.

“He gave me the names of the people who paid him.”

“Then you killed him.”

“Eventually.”

Ian stole food from Eric’s plate.

The king stared at the missing piece of steak.

“What?” Ian asked while chewing.

Eric looked genuinely unsettled.

Ian took another piece with his fingers.

“Stop that.”

“Make me.”

The challenge heated the room. Eric’s gaze dropped to Ian’s mouth. The collar warmed between them.

Ian swallowed slowly.

Eric gripped the table edge until the wood groaned.

A knock broke the moment.

“Your Majesty,” a guard called through the door. “Chairman Voss requests the prisoner be returned to the lower cells.”

“Denied.”

“He invoked council authority.”

“Tell him I invoked mine.”

The guard retreated.

Ian leaned back. “Your uncle wants me away from the eastern wing.”

“My uncle wants many things.”

“What was crying behind that wall?”

“You heard pipes.”

“Pipes don’t laugh.”

Eric’s scent tightened.

Ian waited until Eric turned toward the fire. Then he palmed a dinner knife and sliced it across his own forearm.

Eric hissed.

A matching red line opened beneath his rolled sleeve.

They both looked at the blood.

“Ian.”

“Still think you’re holding my leash?”

Eric crossed the room and seized the knife. “Do not do that again.”

“Or what? You’ll feel it?”

“Or I will stop asking permission to keep you alive.”

The threat should have angered him. Instead, Ian heard the raw fear beneath it.

He stepped closer. “You don’t want a mate.”

“No.”

“You hate being touched.”

“Usually.”

“You planned to take my claws.”

Eric’s eyes shifted toward the wound on Ian’s arm.

“I planned to cut off the lockstone cuffs,” he said.

Ian went still.

“The ceremonial blade cannot remove claws,” Eric continued. “Silas knows that. Most of the court does not.”

“Why stage an execution?”

“Because someone moved your transfer to tonight. Someone needed you exposed in that hall.”

Before Ian could answer, a metallic click sounded inside the wall behind the bed.

Small footsteps crossed the hidden space.

Then a child’s muffled voice whispered through the panel.

“Dad?”

Eric closed his eyes.

Ian turned slowly toward him.

“Pipes?”

Eric refused to answer. Instead, he opened the closet and threw Ian a clean black shirt. Ian caught it one-handed.

“I don’t wear your clothes.”

“Your blood is on mine, so we are already past territorial purity.”

Ian examined the shirt. It was expensive, plain, and several sizes too broad through the shoulders. He changed without turning away. Eric tried not to watch and failed with such rigid concentration that Ian almost enjoyed it.

The collar warmed.

“Still disgust?” Eric asked.

“Mostly pity.”

“For whom?”

“The king who has never seen another man change a shirt.”

Eric approached until only a breath separated them. “I have seen men undress.”

“Did they survive your disappointment?”

The tension sharpened, but Eric stopped himself and stepped away. He honored Ian’s rule even while his eyes burned red.

That restraint mattered. Ian did not want it to.

On the desk, Eric’s secure tablet lit with a message from the lower prison. Ian saw his own name beside an order dated eighteen months earlier: TRANSFER DENIED—ROYAL COMMAND.

Eric picked it up. “I never issued this.”

“Your seal did.”

“Someone has used my authority to keep you poisoned and isolated.”

“And hidden a child in your wall.”

The small voice came again, followed by a suppressed giggle.

This time even Eric could not pretend it was plumbing.

He stood between Ian and the hidden door, yet his posture no longer looked like command. It looked like a man waiting for judgment from the only person capable of destroying him.