The Reborn Sovereign of Ruin, Bound by His Star

Arik’s breath hitched, the sound caught somewhere between a laugh and genuine disbelief. The delight that had been simmering in his chest since the mention of Bastian finally spilled over, warm and bright and dangerously unguarded. Not the unbearable heat of an Alpha making a claim, but the quiet awe of a man who had just been given something he never thought he could keep.

"Perfect?" Arik repeated softly, his voice dropping lower, the sound vibrating straight through Liam. "Liam, I am currently being held hostage by a man wrapped in a blanket who keeps testing my restraint. I am far from perfect."

"You are," Liam insisted, stubborn even through the haze. The suppressant chill still clung to his skin, but a different kind of heat had started to replace it, creeping slowly beneath his exhaustion. "You’re sitting there being noble about all this. And you’re mine. And Bastian is mine. And you’re just... taking it."

Arik’s hands tightened around his waist, thumbs brushing slow arcs over the heavy wool pooled around Liam’s hips. The look in his eyes nearly undid him. Gold and unbearably soft. Like sunlight caught inside something sharp enough to destroy kingdoms.

"Yours," Arik murmured, the word sounding less like teasing and more like a vow. "Yes. I suppose I am."

That smile was a mistake.

Liam stared at it for one second too long and felt panic lance straight through his chest.

He was falling into this. Into Arik’s calmness. Into the awful truth that lies beneath all the fun, games, and sharp teeth. Every defense Liam had spent years building felt like it was quietly peeling away under the weight of that expression.

He could not sit here wrapped in blankets on Arik’s lap, feeling the steady beat of a heart that had somehow decided Liam belonged beside it, and survive the vulnerability of it all intact.

"I can’t do this," Liam snapped suddenly.

Arik blinked.

Liam scrambled out of his lap with surprising speed for someone half-drugged and running on stubbornness alone. The moment his feet touched the carpet, the room tilted unpleasantly beneath him, and he caught himself on the arm of the sofa before pride could kill him outright. He dragged the blanket tighter around his shoulders like armor.

"Liam?" Arik immediately started to rise, all traces of teasing gone. Concern replaced it so quickly it almost made things worse. "Are you feeling worse? Is it the reaction—"

"I’m fine," Liam cut in sharply, retreating toward the hallway before Arik could get any closer. "I’m sweaty, freezing, emotionally compromised, and I need a shower."

Arik took one step after him anyway.

"You can barely stand."

"Stay there," Liam ordered, pointing a trembling finger at him with as much authority as a man wrapped like an angry burrito could manage. "Do not follow me. Do not help me. And absolutely do not keep looking delighted. It’s irritating."

Arik stopped immediately, both hands lifting in surrender, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him completely.

"I am merely standing here, Liam."

"You are standing there fondly," Liam accused.

"That sounds fabricated."

"It is not fabricated. I can see your face."

Arik’s smile deepened just enough to become insufferable.

Liam narrowed his eyes with genuine betrayal. "You’re enjoying this."

"You called me yours three times in under a minute," Arik replied calmly. "I am having an understandable reaction to that information."

Liam made a strangled sound that was probably meant to be threatening and failed entirely.

"You are impossible."

"And yet," Arik said lightly, "you continue to keep me."

—

The moment Liam disappeared into the bathroom and the sound of the shower started behind the closed door, the suite fell into an unfamiliar kind of silence.

Arik remained exactly where he was for several seconds, elbows resting loosely on his knees, staring at the hallway with the expression of a man trying very hard to maintain dignity while internally losing a war.

"Mine," he repeated quietly to himself.

The word settled somewhere deep and catastrophic.

Then he leaned back against the sofa and laughed once under his breath, covering his eyes briefly with one hand.

This was becoming a problem.

A serious one.

Liam had said it with complete honesty while lying in bed with a fever from suppressants. Arik, the crown prince of Agaron, a political disaster, a veteran of diplomatic warfare, and a survivor of assassination attempts and state dinners, had almost followed him into the bathroom like a lovesick criminal.

The shower continued running.

Arik exhaled slowly and reached for the comm unit resting on the low table beside the sofa.

One of the staff answered almost immediately. "Your Highness?"

"Liam needs fresh clothes," Arik said, calm and composed in a way that would have fooled anyone who had not known him for years. "Something comfortable."

"Of course, Your Highness. We prepared several options earlier in case—"

Arik’s gaze drifted toward the hallway again.

Toward the closed bathroom door.

Toward the image of Liam flushed from heat and exhaustion, wrapped in fabric far too large for him, and smelling of Arik rather than suppressants and cold medicine.

A terrible idea formed instantly.

Arik smiled. Slowly. Wickedly.

"No," he said after a thoughtful pause. "Actually, send one of my night sets."

There was a brief silence on the other end.

The staff in this residence had survived Gabriel Lyon and Damian Lyon. They understood dangerous expressions when they heard them through a communicator.

"...Your own pajamas, Your Highness?"

"Yes."

"We do have clothing tailored to Lord Liam’s measurements."

"I am aware."

Another pause.

Arik could almost hear the poor employee realize this was no longer a logistical issue, but rather a personal moral failing on the Crown Prince’s behalf.

"Would you prefer silk or cotton?"

Arik’s smile widened immediately. "Cotton."

The answer came too fast to be accidental.

Because silk would look sinful on Liam’s slender frame, and that would really test Arik’s restraint.

Cotton would destroy Liam emotionally.

Arik closed his eyes briefly.

This was becoming less of a plan and more of a medical emergency.

"Understood, Your Highness," the staff member replied with the careful neutrality of someone refusing to become involved in royal psychological warfare. "We will send it shortly."

The line disconnected.

Arik leaned his head back against the sofa and stared at the ceiling for a long moment.

He should feel guilty about this.

He did not.

Not even slightly.

Because Liam had spent the last hour wrapped around him, flushed and stubborn and accidentally devastating, while calling Arik his with complete confidence. If the universe intended to punish Arik for enjoying the sight of Liam in his clothes afterward, then frankly the universe should have intervened earlier.

The bathroom door remained closed.

Steam curled faintly beneath it.

Arik’s attention drifted there again automatically.

Then immediately away again with the discipline of a man actively trying not to commit crimes against his own self-control.

Barely.

A knock came at the suite entrance several minutes later.

Arik opened the door himself.

One of the senior attendants stood there holding a neatly folded dark set of sleep clothes over their arm. Deep charcoal fabric with silver stitching at the cuffs and collar—one of Arik’s older sets, soft after years of wear.

Perfect.

The attendant handed it over with admirable professionalism, though there was unmistakable amusement hiding in their eyes.

"Will there be anything else, Your Highness?"

"No," Arik replied smoothly. Then, after a beat: "And not a word to my parents."

The attendant’s expression became deeply diplomatic.

"Of course."