The cell stank of damp straw and old iron, but the man beside Muchavi smelled of something else;sweat, earth, and a heat that had no business being in this cold dungeon. The man was a Bolshali soldier, captured in the same skirmish, his dark hair matted across his brow, his eyes the color of forest shadows. He’d been silent for hours, just watching Muchavi with a stillness that made the prince’s skin prickle.
Muchavi tried to ignore him, pressing his back against the stone wall. His fine tunic was torn, his wrists raw from the ropes they’d cut off only a few hours ago. His father, the king, was somewhere in this fortress, a prisoner of the same enemy that had overrun Frisenso’s gates. And now Muchavi was here, locked in a cell meant for common criminals, with a man who kept staring at him like he was something to eat.
“You keep looking at me like that,” Muchavi said, his voice rough. He hated how weak it sounded.
The soldier smiled. It was a slow, dangerous pull of his lips. “I’m trying to figure out what you are.”
“I’m the prince of Frisenso.”
“No, I know that. I saw you in the courtyard, fighting with that little sword. You moved like a dancer, not a warrior.” The man shifted closer, the straw rustling. “I mean, what kind of man are you? You’ve got the face of a girl, but the shoulders of a boy who’s never had to work. And your eyes… they’re too soft.”
Muchavi’s jaw clenched. “I am a man.”
“Are you?” The soldier’s voice dropped, intimate, teasing. “Have you ever touched a woman?”
The question hit Muchavi like a slap. He opened his mouth to say yes, of course, but nothing came. He had courted no ladies. He had never stolen a kiss behind a tapestry. He had watched his brothers paw at servant girls, but he’d always felt a strange revulsion, a distance. He thought it was because he was too noble, too focused on his studies and his duty. Now, under this stranger’s gaze, that excuse crumbled.
“Don’t bother lying,” the soldier said. “I can smell it on you. You’ve never been touched, have you? Never felt a hand on your skin that made your blood sing.”
Muchavi’s throat tightened. “I don’t......this is improper. You’re my enemy.”
“I’m a man.” The soldier crawled closer, knees on the damp floor, until he was inches away. His hand reached out, and Muchavi flinched, but he didn’t pull away when those rough fingers brushed his cheek. “Your kingdom calls it a sin. My kingdom calls it a gift. Let me show you what you’ve been missing.”
Muchavi’s heart hammered. Every lesson from his tutors screamed at him: This is wrong. This is death. But his body.....his traitorous body.....leaned into the touch. The soldier’s thumb traced his jawline, and a shiver ran down Muchavi’s spine, pooling warmth in his groin.
“I don’t like men,” Muchavi whispered, but it was a lie, and they both knew it.
“Your mouth says no, but your cock says maybe.” The soldier glanced down at the bulge forming in Muchavi’s breeches, then back up with a dark chuckle. “You’re hard, prince. You’ve been hard since I started looking at you.”
It was true. Muchavi felt the ache, the pressure, the desperate throb. He’d never been so aware of his own body before, never felt such a raw, hungry need. The soldier’s hand slid from his cheek to his neck, then down his chest, palming the fabric over his heart.
“Let me,” the soldier said, and it wasn’t a request.
Muchavi’s breath hitched. He nodded, a tiny, shameful movement. The soldier’s hand dropped lower, cupping his cock through the wool, squeezing gently. Muchavi gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily. The touch was electric, nothing like the perfunctory washings his servants gave him. This was deliberate, possessive, wanting.
“You like that,” the soldier murmured. “You like being touched by a man.”
Muchavi couldn’t speak. His mind was a storm of terror and pleasure, but the pleasure was drowning out the terror. The soldier’s fingers worked the laces of his breeches, yanking them open, and Muchavi’s cock sprang free;pale, flushed, already leaking at the tip.
“Beautiful,” the soldier breathed. “You’ve got a beautiful cock, prince. Let me taste it.”
Muchavi had read about such things in forbidden scrolls, but the reality was nothing like parchment and ink. The soldier’s mouth was wet and hot, engulfing him, and Muchavi cried out, his head thunking against the stone wall. The tongue swirled around the head, the suction pulled at his soul, and his hands; without his permission; clawed into the soldier’s hair, holding him there.
“Oh gods—oh gods—” Muchavi’s hips thrust forward, and the soldier took him deeper, throat working around him. The wet sounds filled the cell: slurp, gulp, choke. Muchavi felt every nerve in his body fire at once. He’d never come before—he’d touched himself in secret, but always with shame, never finishing. Now the pressure built like a flood behind a dam, and he couldn’t stop it.
“I’m going to—I’m going to—”
The soldier hummed, a vibration that shot through Muchavi’s shaft, and that was it. He erupted into the soldier’s mouth, a hot, violent stream of release, his body convulsing, his vision whiting out. He screamed—not with pain, but with a pleasure so intense it felt like death.
When he came back to himself, he was slumped against the wall, the soldier licking his lips, smiling like a cat who’d eaten a canary. Muchavi’s cock was softening, still wet with saliva and his own seed.
“That,” the soldier said, “is what you’ve been missing.”
Muchavi stared at him, chest heaving. The world had tilted. Everything he’d been taught—the laws, the executions, the whispers of sodomite and abomination—felt like a distant nightmare compared to the reality of what had just happened. He had liked it. He had craved it, and he craved it still, even as the aftershocks faded.
“I’m not…” Muchavi’s voice cracked. “I’m not what they said.”
“No,” the soldier agreed, leaning in to kiss his forehead, soft and reverent. “You’re what you are. And now you know.”
Muchavi’s hand found the soldier’s, lacing their fingers together. The cell was still cold, the stone still damp, but his blood was fire. He thought of his father, the king, a prisoner who would sooner see his son dead than loving a man. He thought of the gallows in Frisenso’s square, where they burned those caught in the act.
And he thought of the soldier’s mouth, and how he would kill to feel it again.
“Tell me your name,” Muchavi whispered.
“Darian,” the soldier said.
“Darian,” Muchavi repeated, tasting the name like a prayer. “Teach me more.”
Darian’s grin widened. “With pleasure, prince.”
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