The light came slow.
Not the sharp blaze of midday or the soft romance of dusk, but that quiet, silvery hour before sunrise when the world still held it. The fire in the hearth had burned to coals, and the sheets were tangled, their warmth pulled tight around two bodies pressed together in sleep.
Liam stirred first. He didn’t open his eyes right away. He just felt. Carlo’s chest against his back, one arm draped lazily around his waist. The steady breath at the nape of his neck. The heat of skin on skin. For a moment, he let himself drift in it, weightless, suspended in that fragile stillness.
But the quiet wasn’t empty. There was something under it. A tension. A knowing.
Liam opened his eyes.
The palace outside their window was still wrapped in night, but the sky beyond was beginning to shift. Soft indigo giving way to pale grey. The first suggestion of day. And with it, the reality of what it held.
Carlo.
And the meeting with his father.
Liam turned carefully, shifting until he could see Carlo’s face. His dark curls had fallen loose in sleep, fanned out across the pillow. His features were calm, but there was a line between his brows, like even in dreams, something inside him stayed alert.
Liam reached up and gently smoothed the crease away with his thumb. Carlo didn’t wake, but his breathing changed slightly, deeper, more aware.
Liam whispered, “It’s almost time.”
Carlo’s eyes opened slowly. For a moment, he just blinked at Liam, then exhaled and closed them again.
“Already?”
Liam nodded. “He did say that he wanted to meet with you at first light.”
Carlo groaned softly and buried his face against Liam’s shoulder. “I hate how metaphorical I’ve become.”
Liam smiled and threaded his fingers into Carlo’s hair. “You’re just dramatic enough.”
They lay there a little longer, quietly absorbing the moment. The weight of it. The coming day. Neither of them wanted to be the first to move.
Eventually, Carlo pulled back and looked at Liam more directly.
“How do I look?”
Liam took a long, deliberate moment to gaze at him. Sleep-creased skin, tangled hair, the bare curve of his chest, the soft line of his mouth.
“Like someone I’d fight kingdoms for,” he said.
Carlo huffed a breath. “Let’s hope my father doesn’t ask you to prove it.”
They finally got up, moving slowly, reluctantly. Naked bodies slipping from the sheets, feet touching soft rugs laid over cold stone. Liam lit a few candles near the wardrobe while Carlo disappeared into the adjoining bathroom. The faint sound of running water echoed back.
Liam dressed with care. Not in anything showy. Just a clean, elegant shirt tucked into dark trousers. He didn’t want to look like he was trying. But he also didn’t want to look like he wasn’t trying.
He was halfway through buttoning when Carlo emerged in nothing but a towel. Hair damp, chest glistening, face unreadable.
Liam stilled.
Carlo caught the look and gave a soft smile. “Save it for later.”
“Not making any promises.”
Carlo dressed in silence, choosing a fitted grey suit, understated but tailored so perfectly it looked effortless. No tie. Just a crisp white shirt, open at the collar. His signet ring glinted faintly in the firelight.
He caught Liam looking and paused. “Too formal?”
“No,” Liam said, voice quiet. “You look like a man your father will recognize. And maybe, for the first time, see.”
Carlo nodded slowly. “And you?”
Liam stepped closer, smoothed a wrinkle at Carlo’s collar. “I look like the man who’s not going anywhere.”
There was a knock at the door. A soft double tap, followed by silence. The signal.
Carlo reached for his watch. 5:47. Right on time.
Liam followed him to the door but didn’t open it.
“I’ll wait here.”
Carlo hesitated. “I want you to come. At least to the solarium doors. You don’t have to come inside.”
Liam searched his face. “Are you sure?”
Carlo didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted toward the window, where the sky had turned a pale, expectant blue.
“What’s your father really like?” Liam asked softly.
Carlo chose his words carefully. “He rules with dignity. Always has. People trust him because he rarely falters. But sometimes...” He paused, searching for the right words. “Sometimes I don’t think he understands love when it doesn’t come in the form of duty.”
Liam’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then let him see it in the form of truth.”
Carlo stepped closer and touched his jaw. “You being near me helps me breathe.”
They stepped into the hall together, the morning hush settling around them. A palace steward in crisp navy waited, hands clasped, eyes respectfully lowered. He led them through a series of winding corridors until the soft amber glow of the solarium spilled into view.
Just before the final turn, Liam stopped.
Carlo paused with him, confused at first, until Liam reached for his hand. His fingers were steady. Warm.
“Whatever happens in there,” Liam said, voice low but sure, “you walk out as my partner.”
Carlo’s breath hitched. His eyes searched Liam’s face and softened. “And you as mine.”
They stood like that for a moment. Two men dressed for diplomacy, held together by something older than rules. Stronger than fear.
Then, slowly, they let go. Liam’s eyes widened in disbelief when he saw the solarium.
It was a glass-walled space that opened to the east, bathed in the first gold of morning. Sunlight poured through soaring panes that stretched from marble floor to vaulted ceiling, casting long shafts of warmth across polished stone and delicate mosaic inlays. Pale columns framed the room like sentinels, their surfaces etched with climbing vines and royal crests. Despite the scale, the solarium didn’t feel cold or ceremonial. It felt lived in. Intentional. Like a place meant for quiet beginnings.
Near the window, a breakfast setting had been laid out — a silver coffee pot, three porcelain cups, a shallow bowl of sliced figs and paper-thin cured meats. And it wasn’t set for two.
It was set for three.
Liam noticed first, his steps slowing slightly. Then Carlo followed his gaze. Three cups. Three chairs.
He glanced at Liam, voice barely audible. “That wasn’t an accident.”
Liam swallowed. “He’s leaving space.”
Carlo nodded slowly. “That’s something.”
It was more than something. It was hope.
There were no guards. No audience.
Just a king waiting by the window.
His back was straight, hands clasped behind him, the early light catching in the silver of his neatly groomed hair. He wore a dark jacket over a cream shirt, collar open, no insignia or medals - only the quiet authority of a man who didn’t need them. His profile was unmistakable. Sharp Roman nose, strong brow, a mouth set in calm consideration. Age had carved its presence into his features, but it hadn’t softened them. If anything, it had refined them. He looked like a man who had been carrying the weight of a nation for so long it had become a part of his posture. Still, there was something stately in the stillness, something almost regal in the quiet patience of his stance. This was a man born into power but aged into dignity.
The King looked up as Carlo entered. Alone.
Carlo approached quietly, stopping a respectful distance away.
“Father.”
King Paolo inclined his head, regarded Carlo with a faint curve of the mouth.
His gaze swept over Carlo with a careful, practiced calm. His face betrayed little, but his eyes held something more difficult to place. Not disapproval. Not warmth. Something measured.
“You’re well?” Paolo enquired.
“Yes, sir.”
There was a pause, and then Paolo inclined his head toward the table. “Join me.”
Carlo moved to sit and Paolo sat across from him, posture impeccable. He poured a cup of coffee without asking and passed it to Carlo, who accepted it with a quiet thanks.
“I imagine you know why I’ve asked to see you,” the King said.
Carlo held his cup with both hands. “You want to understand my intentions.”
“I want to understand how serious this is,” Paolo corrected. “And what it means for the crown. For Bologna.”
Carlo met his eyes. “It’s not a phase. It’s not a scandal waiting to pass. I love him.”
The King’s face remained still. “Love is not a word lightly used at this level of responsibility.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” The King leaned slightly forward. “Do you understand what it would mean if a Prince of Bologna, a future King, lived openly with another man? This has never been done. Not here. Not anywhere.”
Carlo inhaled, slowly, before answering. “That’s why I kept quiet for so long. I didn’t think it was possible.”
“And now?”
“Now I’ve fallen in love. And I’ve thought about it. Deeply. I believe it can be done. With care. With strategy. But only with the support of the Palace.”
Paolo studied him in silence.
Carlo continued. “This isn’t just about me anymore. Or even about Liam. It’s about what kind of legacy I want to carry. What kind of King I want to be. And who I want beside me when I do.”
The King added, softly. “And this legacy you speak of… what shape does it take, if no royal child can be born from it?”
Carlo almost choked on his coffee, surprised by how quickly the conversation had turned so personal, and how plainly the question had been put. But it was fair. Of course it was fair.
“I’ve thought about that too,” he said. “We may not be able to conceive children between us, but there are other paths. Surrogacy. Adoption. The royal line has endured across centuries through far more fragile means.”
Paolo’s gaze narrowed slightly, though not in anger. “Adoption is out of the question. Your offspring must have royal blood. But do you think Bologna is ready for a royal heir born of no queen? Raised by two men?”
“I don’t know,” Carlo admitted. “But I think we can help them become ready. If we lead with dignity. With transparency. If the child is raised with love and duty and the same expectations you raised me with… then yes. I believe the country will follow.”
“Legacy is not only in blood,” Carlo continued quietly. “It’s also in values. In the kind of world we choose to leave behind.”
The King didn’t respond at first. He simply studied his son, his silence sharp as a scalpel, his thoughts unreadable. Then, after a long pause, he gave the smallest of nods.
“Please ask Mr. Hart to join us.”
A steward opened the door with a polite bow. Liam stepped in, his shoulders square, his face calm. He glanced at Carlo first, then at the imposing man still seated at the head of the table.
“Your Majesty,” Liam said, offering a small but respectful bow.
Paolo stood but did not step forward. He looked at Liam with the air of a man used to reading people the moment they entered a room. His gaze moved from Liam’s face to his posture, then to the ringless fingers at his side.
“I have read the press, Mr. Hart. You are quite… visible.”
“Your Majesty, I know I’ve become visible in ways I never intended, but I believe honesty matters, especially in how we love.”
Another pause. Paolo lifted his cup again but didn’t drink. Instead gestured for Liam to sit. Invited him to help himself to a cup of coffee.
“Do you understand what it means to walk beside a crown?”
Liam’s voice was even. “I do.”
“Do you?” Paolo asked, his tone still neutral. “Because it does not only mean proximity. It means scrutiny. Sacrifice. Silence. Often more silence than speaking.”
Liam nodded. “I’m not here to steal your son’s crown. I’m here to walk with him when it gets too heavy.”
That gave Paolo pause.
It was not a flourish. Not a line rehearsed for drama. It was spoken plainly.
The king’s gaze lingered. He looked at Liam for a long time, then at Carlo, who had remained quiet since Liam entered.
Carlo met his father’s eyes without wavering.
“I am not asking you to understand all of this immediately,” he said. “But I am asking you not to look away from it.”
The room quieted again. Only the faint clink of a spoon against porcelain as the king stirred his coffee.
“I do not look away,” Paolo said at last. “That has never been my failing.”
Then he set the spoon down, turned to Liam, and said, “Tell me what you love about him.”
Liam blinked. He hadn’t expected that.
But he didn’t hesitate.
“He’s kind,” Liam said. “Not in a soft way, but in a deliberate one. He’s brave, even when he’s scared. And he never stops trying to be better than he was the day before. He listens. He fights. He feels things deeply. And he still believes in good.”
Carlo’s eyes dropped, briefly, but his lips parted as if holding back emotion.
Paolo nodded once. Small. Almost imperceptible. Not approval. But acknowledgment.
“I see.”
Carlo’s hand, resting on the table, twitched slightly but didn’t move.
The King’s expression didn’t change, but something in the lines around his mouth relaxed. He looked at Carlo. “He is very loyal.” Paolo said this as statement, not a question. Borne from years of experience of reading a room and the people in it.
“He is,” Carlo said.
There was a long moment of silence. Not awkward. Just full.
Finally, Paolo sat back. “I will not pretend that this is easy for me, and I’ll admit that I don’t understand it yet. I am also not sure how we will proceed. But I have always respected integrity.”
He looked at Liam again. “And yours seems to be intact.”
“Thank you,” Liam said.
“I did not say you had my blessing,” Paolo replied. “But you have earned a conversation.”
Carlo let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
The King reached for his cup again and sipped. “Let us eat. And then we will talk about the rest.”
It could have gone worse. Much worse.
And in the space between tradition and change, something small but unmistakable had shifted.
They didn’t speak as they left the solarium. Didn’t need to. The weight of the encounter still lingered on both their shoulders, but something else moved with them too. A quiet thread of hope.
A steward led them to a private wing of the palace, down a corridor lined with carved archways and marble pedestals bearing sculpted urns. At the end stood a tall wooden door, its surface etched with olive branches and gold inlay.
Carlo opened it without knocking.
The garden room was warm with filtered sun, enclosed by high glass walls veiled in ivy. The scent of orange blossoms and thyme hung in the air. A fountain trickled softly in one corner, its stream catching light as it fell. Moss grew in patches beneath the greenery, and soft white cushions lined a low stone bench set against the far wall.
They stepped inside and let the door close behind them.
Only then did Carlo speak.
“He didn’t say yes,” he murmured.
Liam reached for his hand. “But he didn’t say no either.”
Carlo turned to him, face bare of performance now, only exhaustion and the flicker of something tender.
Liam cupped his cheek. “You said yes. That’s what matters to me.”
A flicker of something unreadable passed through Carlo’s expression.
The kiss came slow at first. A careful meeting of mouths, as if confirming that they were still here, still real. But it deepened fast. Hunger creeping in, then taking over. Carlo’s hands clutched at Liam’s shirt. Liam leaned in, coaxing Carlo down onto the soft cushions, their bodies folding together like instinct.
Carlo gasped against his lips. “Please. I need..”
“I know,” Liam smiled, and kissed him harder.
He removed Carlo’s jacket, then tugged his shirt free and pulled it off over his head, lips never leaving his skin. Liam’s own clothes fell next, scattered across moss and cushion and stone. Carlo’s trousers slipped low on his hips, Liam dragging them down with a rough tug until they pooled around his ankles. Liam removed them, and they stood bare, fully exposed in the warm dappled light.
Liam looked at him. Really looked.
Carlo lay back against the cushions, framed by the soft green of moss and the spill of light through the garden glass. His chest rose fast, flushed with colour, dark curls clinging damp to his temples. His arms were open, not in surrender but in invitation, his shoulders broad, stomach tight, the faintest trail of hair drawing Liam’s gaze lower.
His cock was already hard. Thick. Beautiful. Arched proudly against his belly, the tip glistening with need. It wasn’t just the size of it, but also the way it sat in the cradle of his body, heavy and alive, a perfect counterpoint to the soft vulnerability in his face.
Liam felt it like a gravity. Not just the body, but the trust it took to show it all. To lie there without hiding, without flinching. Carlo, the prince, the public figure. Naked now, and not just undressed.
Wanting.
Waiting.
His cock twitched slightly as Liam’s eyes swept over him, a bead of slick slipping from the tip and catching in the hair at his base. His thighs tensed, parted just enough to reveal everything, not shy, but not showy either.
It was an offering. A challenge. A truth.
And Liam, heart pounding, accepted it without words.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
Carlo flushed. “Don’t say it like I’m breakable.”
Liam’s mouth curved. “I won’t. Not today.”
It wasn’t just about the sex. Not anymore. Not here. It was about being claimed, not as property, but as partner. About being chosen, and wanted without shame.
Liam leaned in and kissed down Carlo’s chest. Tongue dragging along his sternum, teeth grazing the sharp line of his hip. Carlo arched beneath him, breath catching with each pass. His cock was dripping. Liam licked a long, slow line up the underside and watched Carlo writhe.
“You want this?” he asked, voice low and rough.
“Yes,” Carlo rasped. “Take it. Take all of me.”
That was all Liam needed.
He slicked his fingers quickly, but his touch was deliberate, steady. He breached Carlo with one, then two, working him open with rhythmic pressure, curling just enough to make Carlo cry out. But it was his mouth that did the rest. Liam kissed him while he stretched him, kissed him hard and deep, until Carlo’s hands were clawing at his back and his thighs trembled.
“Now,” Carlo begged. “I can’t wait.”
Liam lined up, one hand wrapped around the base of his cock, the other on Carlo’s thigh. He looked into Carlo’s eyes as he pushed in. The stretch made Carlo groan. Loud, raw, desperate.
He took him slow at first. Long, deep strokes that filled every inch. Carlo clung to him, legs wrapped around Liam’s waist, breath coming in ragged gasps. Every movement rubbed the heat between them hotter, tighter.
Then Liam’s restraint snapped.
He drove in harder, hips pistoning now, cock dragging over Carlo’s prostate again and again. The sound of skin on skin echoed in the glass room. Carlo’s cries grew louder, urgent, wordless. His nails raked down Liam’s back.
“Yes.. fuck! Don’t stop..”
“I won’t,” Liam gritted out. “I want you to feel this for days.”
Carlo’s whole body trembled. Sweat slicked his chest. Liam bent to bite at his shoulder, then kissed it better. Their rhythm turned brutal and intimate at once. Not angry. Not violent. Just unfiltered need. The kind that lived deep in the spine, in the throat, in the marrow.
Liam reached down and fisted Carlo’s cock, stroking in time with each thrust. It didn’t take long.
Carlo’s body arched off the cushions, his voice breaking in a helpless cry as he came, striping his own chest and stomach with heat. Liam kept fucking him through it, chasing his own release until he buried himself deep and came with a groan so guttural it felt like it came from another lifetime.
He collapsed onto Carlo, both of them slick and shaking, breathing in shallow bursts.
The air was thick with scent. Sex, flowers, morning sun.
They stayed like that for a long time, Liam softening inside him, Carlo’s arms wrapped tight around his back.
Eventually, Liam kissed his temple and pulled away. He helped Carlo sit up, then reached for the small basin beside the fountain. Cool water, a linen cloth.
He cleaned Carlo gently. Between his legs. Over his chest. Down his thighs. Then did the same to himself. No rush. No shame. Just care.
When they were done, Liam pulled Carlo onto his lap, arms wrapped tight. They sat in silence, the ivy rustling above them, the water still trickling.
Carlo whispered, “You’re not scared of any of this, are you?”
“I’m terrified,” Liam said. “But I’m more terrified of not doing it with you.”
Carlo let out a soft, cracked laugh. “You keep saying exactly what I need.”
“Then I’ll keep saying it.”
They didn’t move for a long time. Not until the sun had crept higher through the glass. Not until the tension had fully faded and something gentler had taken its place.
Love. Not just spoken now, but lived.
They didn’t linger in the garden.
Afterward, they rose quietly, rinsed themselves beneath the copper shower hidden behind a wall of greenery, and slipped back into their clothes. Liam tucked his shirt in with slightly trembling fingers, still flushed from what had passed between them. As they stepped into the corridor leading back to their quarters, he turned to Carlo:
“Your mother sent word. We’re expected at a luncheon,” Liam said, brushing wet curls off his forehead. “Nothing formal. Just… timely.”
Carlo arched an eyebrow. “She always has a way of knowing.”
They didn’t have to wonder long how much she knew.
As they turned the corner near the upper gallery, Queen Elena herself was waiting by a set of arched windows overlooking the southern courtyard. She was dressed impeccably in soft lavender, her hair swept up, a single pin glinting with mother-of-pearl.
“Well,” she said lightly, looking them both up and down, “I suppose the ivy room saw some action today.”
Liam blinked. Carlo froze.
Elena tilted her head, lips curving. “It was booked for a private conversation, I was told. Though judging by the glow of your cheeks and the way you’re walking slightly slower than usual, I assume it wasn’t just talk.”
Liam’s face went pink. Carlo made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.
“Relax,” she added, eyes warm. “Paolo and I have done the same over the years. Nearly got caught by my Nonna once. It's tradition, in a way.”
Carlo laughed despite himself. “Mamma…”
“You’re both adults,” she said, brushing an invisible speck from her sleeve. “Just keep your hands off each other during dessert. People tend to notice.”
They thanked her quietly, and as she walked ahead of them, Liam whispered, “Does she always do that?”
“Only when she approves.”
The luncheon was already in motion when they entered the Hall of Saints, a high-vaulted chamber adorned with faded frescoes and heavy velvet drapes pulled back to let in the midday light. A long table ran the length of the room, set with silver chargers, crystal glasses, and the understated restraint of wealth that didn’t need to shout.
The steward’s voice rang out as they entered.
“His Royal Highness, Prince Carlo. And Mr. Liam Hart.”
No titles. No elaboration. Just names. A deliberate choice.
As they moved to their seats midway down the table, Liam caught the murmur that passed like wind across a wheat field. Some guests looked up, mildly curious. Some looked away. A few held his gaze a moment too long. They knew, of course they did. It was all over social media and the news.
Queen Elena met his eyes from her place near the head of the table and offered a small, steady nod.
Carlo sat first. Liam followed.
The meal unfolded with quiet elegance. Platters of roasted quail, spring vegetables in saffron butter, and sliced melon dusted with fennel pollen made their rounds. Conversations rose and fell, mostly in soft Italian. Politics. Culture. The occasional reference to regional appointments.
No one mentioned the couple sitting side by side. Not directly.
But their presence was felt.
At one point, Carlo shifted his leg under the table, his knee brushing Liam’s. Neither of them pulled away. Later, as a server refilled Liam’s glass, Carlo leaned in and whispered to Liam about how hard he was getting thinking about how Liam had moaned in the garden. The stem of Liam’s glass trembled slightly in his hand.
Liam, in turn, let his fingertips rest at the edge of Carlo’s chair for a moment too long, tracing a slow circle against the carved wood.
By the time the final course was cleared, Liam could barely sit still. Heat pulsed low in his abdomen, urgent and tightly wound. Every part of him was aware of the man beside him. The way Carlo’s hand flexed subtly, like he was holding back from reaching across. The slight pink at the tips of his ears. The unreadable glint in his eyes.
They rose when the Queen did. Politely excused themselves. And walked back through the corridor, this time without pause.
The moment their door closed, Liam turned, only to find himself spun gently, firmly, until his chest pressed to the cool surface of the tall wardrobe mirror.
Carlo’s voice was low. “Don’t move.”
Liam exhaled sharply, his hands bracing on the frame.
Behind him, he heard the rustle of cloth as Carlo loosened his shirt cuffs and slid his belt free. Fingers found the buttons of Liam’s trousers, slow and methodical, pushing them just far enough down to expose what he wanted. The mirror fogged slightly in front of them.
“You’ve been teasing me all through lunch,” Carlo murmured, kissing the back of Liam’s neck. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
Liam shuddered. “I wanted you to.”
“Good.”
Carlo’s hand wrapped around him, stroking once, twice, before pulling back. need.
He didn’t speak again.
Liam didn’t either.
He simply bent forward a little, inviting.
Carlo took his time. He slicked Liam open with care, but not hesitation. One hand at his hip, the other steadying him at the shoulder. And when he entered, it was with a growl muffled against Liam’s skin.
Liam’s head dropped. A quiet cry left his throat, stifled by Carlo’s palm as it slid over his mouth.
“You feel so good,” Carlo whispered, each thrust deep and claiming. “Like you’re made for me.”
Liam moaned against his hand. Pressed back, desperate to take more.
The pace was relentless, all simmering control and possessive heat. The mirror rattled softly with their rhythm. Liam’s eyes were half-closed, mouth damp from Carlo’s fingers, his cock rigid and untouched, leaking.
Carlo reached around and stroked him in time.
It didn’t take long.
Liam came hard, body taut, his moan swallowed by skin and sweat. Carlo followed seconds later, hips buried, body trembling as he spilled into him.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Carlo withdrew, watched his cum leaking from Liam’s well-used hole.
Liam leaned his forehead to the mirror, flushed and shaking slightly. “Fuck.”
Carlo kissed the back of his neck. “Exactly.”
