The rain had not stopped.
Long after the candlelight flickered out and the echoes of their breath faded into the heavy velvet curtains, the storm remained—a steady, relentless rhythm that beat against the windowpanes like a second heartbeat. Yet even that soft sound could not pierce the silence now blooming between them.
Cassian stirred first.
His skin, still damp with sweat and heat, clung to the silk sheets tangled around his waist. The embers in the hearth had died, and the fire's glow had softened to a sleepy orange pulse, casting flickering shadows across Riven's bare shoulder beside him.
For a moment, Cassian allowed himself the illusion: that they were just two men, not emperor and exile, not war-forged lovers surrounded by thorns. That the night they shared was something whole and untainted.
But the illusion shattered the moment Riven shifted, drawing a sharp inhale through his teeth—subtle, but telling.
Cassian turned his head, his voice low and rough. "Did I hurt you?"
Riven didn't answer right away. His gaze remained fixed on the ceiling, the muscles of his chest rising and falling with shallow breath.
"No," he finally said, but it was a lie.
Cassian pushed himself up onto one elbow, the motion slow. Every inch of his body ached with residual pleasure, but his mind was already sharpening again. "Then why do you look like you regret it?"
Riven's jaw tensed. His eyes flicked over, meeting Cassian's.
"I don't regret you," he said. "But I do regret what happens after."
Cassian flinched, barely perceptible. But Riven saw it.
"Don't do that," Cassian said quietly. "Don't touch me like I'm yours, then speak to me like I'm a consequence."
The air in the room thickened—like smoke curling in the lungs.
Riven sat up, the sheets falling from his waist, exposing the bare stretch of his back, littered with old scars and new bruises from training. "You were never just a man, Cassian. You're a myth we all worshipped until it devoured us. And I… I'm tired of being faithful to ghosts."
Cassian slid from the bed, letting the silk robe fall open as he moved toward the window. His breath fogged the glass as he stared into the drenched courtyard below.
"You could've stayed gone," he said. "You could've stayed with your rebels and your hatred."
"I tried."
Cassian turned. "Not hard enough."
Riven stood then too, crossing the room slowly, naked and unashamed. He stopped just behind Cassian, his presence electric—too warm, too near.
"I couldn't forget you," Riven said. "Even when I hated you, I still wanted you."
Cassian's breath caught.
Riven's hands slid around him, wrapping low around Cassian's waist, fingers splaying against the hard lines of his abdomen. The contrast was maddening—his voice sharp like a blade, his touch molten.
"I still want you," Riven whispered, lips brushing the shell of Cassian's ear.
Cassian closed his eyes.
His body betrayed him first. He leaned back—just slightly, just enough. And Riven took it as invitation.
His hands moved lower, slow and deliberate, exploring the familiar terrain of Cassian's body with the reverence of a returning pilgrim. His mouth followed, pressing heat to the back of Cassian's neck, then lower, tongue tracing the edge of a fading bruise.
Cassian turned—too suddenly—and their mouths collided with a hunger that was no longer careful.
It was sharp and frenzied, teeth clashing, tongues tangling. Riven pushed him back against the glass, the chill of the window a cruel counterpoint to the fire growing between them.
Cassian's robe slid open fully, baring him. Riven's hands gripped his hips, nails digging into flesh as he dropped to his knees.
Cassian looked down, chest heaving, fingers tangling in Riven's dark hair. "You always do this," he whispered.
Riven glanced up, lips ghosting over sensitive skin. "Do what?"
"Punish me with pleasure."
Riven didn't answer. He didn't need to.
His mouth was answer enough.
Cassian's breath shattered.
The glass behind him rattled softly from the pressure of his spine against it, the cool pane a shocking contrast to the burning heat of Riven's mouth. Each stroke of his tongue was maddening—slow, deliberate, punishingly skilled. He wasn't merciful. He never had been.
Riven had always known how to break Cassian apart. Not with cruelty—but with devotion. With the unbearable tenderness of someone who once loved so hard, it became a wound.
Cassian's fingers clenched tighter in Riven's hair, his lips parting in a low, guttural sound that no emperor should make.
"Fuck—" he gasped. "Riven…"
He felt the responding hum of satisfaction vibrate against his skin.
Riven had never looked more dangerous than when he knelt.
But there was no mockery in it. No games.
Only a worship that bordered on desperate.
He didn't slow—not until Cassian was trembling, every muscle locked taut like a string about to snap. Not until his breath came in harsh, broken syllables. Not until—
Cassian gritted his teeth. "Stop."
Riven did.
His mouth withdrew, wet and flushed and too beautiful, his chin slick with heat. He looked up, panting softly, but something else simmered in those eyes—defiance laced with need.
Cassian pulled him up with one hand, gripping his arm, dragging him to his feet.
They stood chest to chest, breath to breath. "Get on the bed," Cassian rasped.
But Riven shook his head. "No."
Cassian's brow lifted slowly, dangerous. "No?"
Riven's voice dropped an octave. "You don't get to give orders, Your Majesty. Not tonight."
Cassian's jaw clenched, a thousand warnings on his tongue—but Riven was already turning the tides.
He pushed Cassian back, palms flat against his chest, walking him backward until he hit the edge of the carved obsidian desk. Maps and letters scattered to the floor in a soft flurry of parchment.
Riven pressed into him, kissing him hard, filthy, hungry.
"I want to fuck you," Riven growled against his mouth.
Cassian froze.
Riven had never taken. He had always submitted, always offered himself like a soldier on his knees. But now—
"Don't look at me like that," Riven murmured. "You think you're still in control of me, Cassian? That I haven't changed?"
Cassian's throat was dry. He was too hard, too ready, too exposed.
"You said you hated me."
"I do," Riven whispered. "But I never stopped craving you."
He didn't give Cassian a chance to respond.
The next moment, Cassian was bent over the desk, his cheek pressed to the smooth surface, his hands flat against scattered scrolls.
Riven's hand gripped his hip, anchoring him in place.
The sound Cassian made—raw and needy—betrayed just how deeply the man who wore the crown wanted this. Needed to surrender, if only for a moment, to someone who saw him beyond the throne.
There was no preparation. No slow easing in.
Riven pushed in, slow but firm, until Cassian gasped—a sound that tasted like sin and forgiveness.
It was fire and punishment.
It was a homecoming laced with fury.
Cassian bit down hard on his own wrist, stifling a cry, as Riven rocked into him with ruthless grace. The rhythm built fast—hard, deep, desperate. The desk creaked under the strain. Papers crumpled. Ink smeared across Cassian's forearm.
"You feel the same," Riven growled. "You still feel like mine."
Cassian's fingers curled. "I was never yours."
"You were. You just didn't stay."
Riven reached around, gripping him with a hand slick and practiced, stroking him in time with each hard thrust until Cassian couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
The release hit them almost simultaneously.
Cassian came first—broken and voiceless, his muscles locking tight, his body shuddering beneath Riven's weight.
Riven followed with a strangled moan, burying himself to the hilt, collapsing over Cassian's back.
The silence afterward was a different kind of torment.
Both men were gasping. Covered in sweat. Streaked in ink and shame and something dangerously close to longing.
Riven withdrew first, stepping back, chest heaving. His hands trembled, just slightly.
Cassian didn't rise. Not yet. He let himself lie there for a breath longer, forehead pressed to the desk, heart racing.
Then slowly, without a word, he stood.
The ink stain on his wrist was already drying. He didn't look at Riven.
Riven didn't move.
"You should go," Cassian said hoarsely. "Before I ask you to stay."
Riven's jaw tightened, his eyes flaring. "You think I won't?"
"I think," Cassian said, turning finally, "that if you stay, I'll stop being the man this empire needs. And start becoming the man who would burn it all down for you."
Riven took one step forward.
Then another.
But at the last second—he stopped.
Silence, again.
This time, it didn't ache.
It bled.
Cassian didn't move for a long while after the door clicked shut behind Riven.
The silence returned—not peaceful, but cavernous. Like the space between thunder and lightning.
He stared at the desk, the scattered maps, the crushed ink bottle bleeding dark across a fragile letter bearing the royal seal of Velrith. A part of him wanted to scream, to smash everything in the room. Another part wanted to follow Riven and say what he hadn't said in three years.
But emperors didn't chase.
They commanded. They endured.
They bled in silence.
---
That night, Cassian stood before the mirror in his chamber, shirtless, staring at the mark Riven had left—just above his hipbone. A bruise blooming like ink beneath pale skin.
His own breath hitched.
His body remembered more than his heart could safely admit. Every ache between his thighs, every raw scrape on his skin, reminded him just how deeply he had let go.
And how easily Riven could still ruin him.
He touched the bruise with two fingers. Closed his eyes.
He needed a distraction.
And the empire, as always, offered one.
---
⟣
By morning, the war council was called to order.
The great silver table in the Hall of Iron gleamed beneath candlelight. Generals, advisors, lords of old blood and new ambitions—all gathered, cloaked in fine velvets and sharper intentions.
Cassian entered without his crown.
He didn't need it.
He sat at the head of the table, flanked by his steward, Lord Neren, and the newest addition to his inner circle: Commander Velys.
Not Riven.
Not today.
"Velrith has issued a formal declaration," Neren said as Cassian reviewed the parchment in front of him. "They believe the attempt on your life weakens the throne. They will test us soon."
"They always do." Cassian's voice was low, composed.
General Thorne cleared his throat. "We have reports that their eastern battalions are amassing. Three legions. Possibly more."
"And what of Arien?" Cassian asked.
That question made the room still.
Neren hesitated. "Gone. The last known contact was three nights ago. He left no trail."
Of course not. Arien knew the palace like he knew Cassian's habits—intimately. If Arien had defected, it would not be quiet for long.
Cassian's jaw tensed. "Send scouts to the edge of the Blackridge border. If he's with Velrith, I want confirmation. And if he's acting alone…"
He didn't finish.
He didn't need to.
---
That night, Cassian didn't sleep.
His mind replayed every word, every glance, every touch from Riven. Over and over.
How could a man who had just claimed him so completely still feel like a stranger?
He was in the middle of removing his shirt when he heard the door creak open behind him.
His pulse didn't spike.
He knew who it was before he turned.
"Is this how we do it now?" he asked quietly, voice bitter. "You come to my chambers like a lover. You leave like a soldier."
Riven said nothing.
Cassian turned.
The other man stood in the shadows, still wearing his dark guard uniform, unbuttoned at the throat, revealing just the hint of his collarbone.
Something inside Cassian snapped.
He crossed the room in three long strides, gripped Riven by the lapels, and kissed him—hard. A kiss that bruised. That questioned. That punished.
Riven kissed back with equal violence.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to.
Fingers tangled in fabric. Belts clinked. Buttons scattered across the floor. They moved like two storms colliding—chaotic, feral, hot enough to burn the air between them.
Cassian shoved Riven against the wall, lips dragging down the column of his throat. "Tell me what you want."
"You," Riven gasped.
Cassian dropped to his knees.
And this time, he worshipped.
---
Riven couldn't breathe.
Cassian's mouth was ruthless—sliding down his length with no hesitation, no mercy, no shame. His lips, his tongue, the way his hands anchored Riven against the wall like he belonged there.
"F-fuck, Cass…" Riven's head thudded back.
Cassian moaned around him, slow and deliberate.
Riven didn't last long. The Emperor had always known how to unravel him. He cried out when he came, hips jerking, muscles locking. Cassian swallowed every drop like it was penance.
When he stood again, Riven pulled him close.
The air between them crackled.
They made it to the bed—barely.
And this time, Riven did stay.
---
⟣
When dawn finally painted the windows gold, they lay in silence.
Naked. Twisted in silk sheets. Breathing each other in.
Cassian's hand rested lightly on Riven's bare chest, just over his heart.
"I don't trust you," he whispered.
Riven didn't flinch. "I don't trust me either."
Silence.
Then—
"Do you still love me?" Cassian asked, barely audible.
Riven didn't answer for a long, long time.
But his fingers found Cassian's beneath the sheets. Twined them together.
That was answer enough.
By midday, Riven had already dressed and left the Emperor's bed, but not without glancing back once.
Cassian had not stirred.
At least not outwardly.
But Riven could feel his gaze long after the door closed. That gaze burned like a fever along his skin. Not from desire—but from something heavier. Something neither of them had dared to name.
Not after what happened last time.
---
Riven stalked the outer palace grounds, armor still half-unfastened, mind thick with memories. The scent of Cassian still clung to his skin. But with every step into the sunlight, the night they shared seemed more like a dream.
He didn't know how to survive this version of Cassian—the one that could kiss him like a dying man one moment and speak of war the next.
He found solace at the stables, brushing down one of the imperial horses with trembling fingers. A stable boy watched him from a respectful distance.
"You're bleeding," the boy whispered.
Riven looked down.
His knuckles were raw.
He hadn't even noticed.
---
Back in the palace, Cassian stood at the balcony of the Tower of Glass, overlooking the southern courtyard where Riven trained.
He didn't go down.
He just watched—silent, aching.
Riven was stripped to the waist, sparring with three elite guards at once, his body slick with sweat, movements vicious and precise. Like he was trying to beat something out of himself.
Cassian clenched his fists.
He remembered that body. Every part of it. The way it arched beneath him. The way it trembled when Cassian whispered his name, slowly, deliberately, between thrusts.
He had taken Riven again.
But he hadn't kept him.
That was the difference.
---
That evening, Cassian summoned Riven.
Not to his chambers. Not to the war room.
But to the bathhouse.
---
The imperial bathhouse was carved from black obsidian, lit with floating candles and shallow waterfalls. Steam curled in the air like ghosts. The water shimmered with heat.
Cassian stood waist-deep, hair damp, chest bare, golden skin kissed by flickering light.
Riven didn't speak as he approached.
He dropped his outer armor. Then his tunic. Then—
He stepped in, fully nude, muscles tensing at the warmth.
Their eyes met across the pool.
No guards.
No rules.
Just silence.
"Why did you call me here?" Riven asked finally.
Cassian turned, offering his back. "Wash me."
The command was soft. But it was still a command.
Riven hesitated, then picked up the sponge.
He stepped behind Cassian, dragging the sponge over his broad shoulders, the water sliding down taut muscles and along the curve of his spine. The intimacy of it sent a shiver through both of them.
Cassian exhaled.
Riven's hands moved slower now. Deliberate. Lingering.
The sponge dipped lower… below his waist.
"Riven," Cassian warned, voice tight.
"Tell me to stop."
He didn't.
So Riven didn't.
---
Their mouths met in the steam, desperate and clashing. The water sloshed around them as Riven shoved Cassian against the smooth stone wall, lifting his thigh around his waist.
Cassian gasped—his body already surrendering, betraying him.
Riven buried his face in Cassian's neck, biting softly. "Say it again."
Cassian's head fell back. "Say what?"
"That you don't trust me."
Cassian swallowed hard. "I don't."
Riven entered him anyway—with a rawness that was more worship than lust.
And Cassian let him.
Let him take. Let him claim. Let him burn through every wall he'd spent years building.
Their moans echoed through the obsidian chamber—low, sharp, sacred.
Cassian's nails raked Riven's back. Riven bit down on Cassian's shoulder as he came, trembling.
It was not just sex.
It was war.
---
Later, as they lay entwined in the shallow water, hearts still thundering, Cassian whispered, "What are we doing?"
Riven didn't answer right away. Instead, he took Cassian's hand and placed it over his heart.
"You're the only thing that feels real," he said.
Cassian didn't reply.
But he didn't pull away either.
Cassian dried himself in silence.
The towel hung loose around his hips, his body still marked with Riven's hands—red crescents on his skin, small bite marks hidden along the curve of his ribs, his neck. He stood at the edge of the obsidian pool, watching the candles flicker in the water.
Riven had not moved.
He remained submerged to the chest, hair wet and slicked back, gaze unreadable. There was heat in his eyes still… but also something else.
Regret? Fear? Or worse—hope.
"I should hate you," Riven said softly.
Cassian's jaw tensed.
"Then why don't you?" he asked without turning.
Riven's answer was slow. Honest. "Because when I touch you, everything else disappears."
Cassian turned, finally meeting his eyes. "That's not love."
"No," Riven said. "But it's not nothing either."
A bitter smile ghosted Cassian's lips.
They both knew the truth: nothing was ever simple between them. Not desire. Not duty. And certainly not love.
Cassian moved to the stone bench beside the pool and dressed, his body still humming with aftershocks. As he fastened the final clasp of his robe, he spoke without looking at Riven.
"I received word from the border this morning."
Riven's brows drew together. "What happened?"
"An ambush. Two of our northern supply lines have been severed." He paused. "By someone who knew our exact movements."
Silence fell between them again—but this time it was jagged.
Riven stood. Slowly.
"You think it was me."
"I think it's convenient timing."
"You think I gave them information," Riven repeated, voice sharp now.
Cassian finally turned, eyes like flint. "I think I want to trust you—but my kingdom is bleeding and I don't have the luxury of blind faith."
Riven crossed the space between them in two furious strides. "After last night—"
"Especially after last night," Cassian snapped.
Riven's breath hitched.
That single moment—like ice cracking underfoot—shattered everything.
Cassian's expression softened just slightly, but the damage had been done.
"This…" he gestured vaguely between them, "can't cloud my judgment. We both know how dangerous that is."
Riven's voice was hoarse. "Then maybe we should stop."
Cassian's lips parted. But no words came.
He didn't want to stop.
But he knew he would have to.
Riven turned to leave.
But before he could take a full step, Cassian said, "You once swore you'd never betray me. I'm asking you now, Riven. Look me in the eye and tell me—was it you?"
Riven's back was still to him. But his shoulders were rigid. When he turned around, there was something broken in his expression.
"No," he said. "I didn't betray you."
Cassian nodded once. "Then I'll believe you."
"…Even if it kills you?" Riven asked.
Cassian gave a hollow laugh. "Even if it kills me."
---
That night, Cassian didn't sleep.
He sat alone in the throne room, staring at the blade mounted on the wall—the same one Riven had once wielded in his name.
Outside, the storm had passed.
But inside him, it still raged.
---
Meanwhile, across the palace, Riven stood at the balcony of his temporary quarters, shirtless, bruised, scarred, and silent.
A courier arrived, cloaked in gray, passing a folded message into his palm with trembling hands before vanishing into shadow.
Riven unfolded the note slowly.
> "The Emperor suspects. Move faster. The next strike must come from within."
Beneath it, the seal: a sigil burned with flame and ash.
Riven crushed the note in his fist.
He looked up at the sky—then toward Cassian's tower, where a faint light still glowed.
And for the first time in years…
Riven wasn't sure which side he was on anymore.