August thrashed, pinned beneath Elias, a captive offering. The air crackled with unspoken desires, the storm outside mirroring the tempest within. Elias's mouth traced a searing path down August's throat, each kiss a brand.
"Elias…" August breathed, the name a plea and a question.
Elias ignored him, his lips now nipping at the hollow of August's throat, then lower, to his collarbone. A trail of fire ignited beneath the cool ivory skin. He kissed, he sucked, he bit, each touch deliberate, possessive.
"Ah…" August whimpered, arching his back, a trapped animal desperate for release.
Elias's hands roamed, exploring every inch of August's flesh, lingering at the curve of his hips, the swell of his chest. He teased, tormented, driving August closer to the edge with each calculated caress. Finally, his fingers found their mark, circling August's nipples, gently at first, then with increasing pressure.
August flinched, a sharp intake of breath. He bit his lip, trying to stifle the sounds that threatened to erupt from his throat. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, unshed, unwanted witnesses to his surrender.
Elias paused, his eyes like forest locking onto August's. "Too much?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble.
August shook his head, a silent plea for Elias to continue. He couldn't speak, couldn't articulate the swirling vortex of pleasure and pain that consumed him.
Elias smirked, a predatory glint in his eyes. He knew August was his. He leaned down, his mouth closing over one taut nipple, sucking hard, drawing a strangled cry from August's lips.
"Mmm…
Elias…
please…"
August whimpered, his hands reaching for Elias's head, pushing, pleading.
Elias only intensified his ministrations, biting down with just enough force to elicit a sharp gasp. He moved to the other nipple, repeating the torment, reveling in August's mounting distress.
"Stop… please… it hurts…"
August choked out, tears now streaming down his face.
Elias ignored his pleas, his teeth scraping against August's skin, his tongue swirling, teasing. He was a predator, and August was his prey.
He leaned closer, his teeth grazing August's earlobe.
"Oh, my dear August," he whispered, his breath hot against August's skin. "Why are you still fighting it?"
He thrust harder, deeper, ignoring the gasp of pain that tore from August's throat. "Can't you feel me, right there?"
August's vision blurred, the room spinning around him. He was lost, drift in a sea of sensation, pain and pleasure indistinguishable.
Elias laughed, it felt almost a mocking sound. "Come on, snap out of it, August. Are you really going to fall apart on me now?"
Just as the pressure built to an unbearable crescendo, just as August was teetering on the precipice of oblivion, he jolted awake.
He gasped, his eyes snapping open. He was alone, the storm raging outside, but the heat, the touch, the overwhelming sensation of Elias's presence was gone.
It wasn't Elias's chamber. It was his own, cold and sterile. He was tangled in his own sheets, sweat-soaked and trembling.
"No…" he whispered, disbelief warring with a dawning horror.
He looked down at his body, then away, shame burning in his cheeks. He had been dreaming, lusting, craving… Elias.
The silence after the storm was worse than thunder.
August sat motionless on the edge of his bed, clothes clutched like armor, though it couldn't guard him from himself. The sheets behind him were a battlefield—creased, stained with sweat, haunted. He didn't dare look back at them. As if the mere glance might summon the phantom of Elias's mouth again, still burning on his skin.
His breath trembled, sharp as broken glass in his lungs. What have I done? The dream had crawled under his skin and rooted itself like rot. Even now, his legs betrayed him—wobbly, untrustworthy, buckling under the weight of something vile. Not pain. Not fever. Shame.
His fingers curled into fists.
You're disgusting.
The words slithered up from the hollow beneath his ribs, curling around his throat like a curse. He had not only let the dream touch him—he had welcomed it, moaned for it, bled for it in soundless surrender.
And it was Elias.
Not a stranger. Not a faceless phantom. Elias—with the forest eyes and battle-scarred hands, the boy who had guarded him, fed him, watched over him like a loyal dog curled by the fire. And August, in the darkness of his sleep, had twisted him—tainted him—turned him into something that bit, bruised, took.
He buried his face in his hands, nails digging into the tender skin beneath his eyes.
What's wrong with you?
He had reduced Elias into a vessel of desire. Worse, he'd reduced himself. There was nothing left now but the wreckage of want. The lingering heat in his belly. The ache in his thighs. A trembling, shame-spilled vessel of lust and memory.
His knees touched. He flinched.
Even now, his body responded like a fool, like a traitor. It remembered every inch of that dream with horrifying clarity. The pressure. The teeth. The voice. The thrust.
A sob swelled in his throat but never made it past his lips. He would not cry. Not for this. He didn't deserve the grace of grief.
He stood—barefoot, pale, a revenant of his own body—but his legs wavered again, traitorous stilts beneath a shell of a man.
"Get a grip," he whispered, as if scolding a stranger.
The reflection in the mirror didn't answer. It only stared, hollow-eyed and haunted. Hair disheveled, mouth swollen from sleep, neck flushed with ghost-kisses no one had given him.
A nightmare, he told himself. Nothing more.
But nightmares don't leave this kind of ruin. Nightmares don't make your body ache like this. Don't twist you into craving what you're afraid of.
He gripped his clothes, knuckles white.
How would he face Elias now?
How could he look him in the eye, knowing that somewhere in the night, his soul had knelt at Elias's feet and begged?
He closed his eyes. Breathed deep.
This wasn't hunger. It wasn't longing. It was madness.
Or worse—
Desire.
And he feared that would be harder to kill.
The corridor whispered beneath his steps, floorboards sighing under bare feet that carried more than just a body—they carried weight, ghost, and guilt.
August moved like a wraith, swaddled in a thin robe the color of winter fog, barely clinging to his slender frame. It slipped as he walked, slinking from one pale shoulder like it too had lost the will to cling to him. By the time he reached the bath, the fabric hung from him like regret—loose, silent, and about to fall.
The chamber was dimly lit, steam rising like veils from the bath, swirls of rose-scented vapor softening the cruel sharpness of the world. Floating petals littered the water's surface—crimson, blush, and ghost-pale white—like the scattered remains of a heart broken into color.
He let the robe fall.
It dropped without resistance, pooling around his ankles like silk-spilled sin. His body, ivory and slender, stood bare beneath the breath of the candles. He stepped in slowly, one foot then the other, the water greeting him with warmth too kind for what he felt.
When he lowered himself fully into the bath, it was not a descent—it was a retreat.
The petals clung to his skin, delicate and mocking, like kisses he hadn't earned. He tucked both legs together tightly, knees drawn inward, as if shielding himself from something invisible. The water rippled around him, wrapping him like a shroud, only his shoulders and face peeking through the floral embrace.
But his mind betrayed him.
Again.
The moment returned with sickening clarity—Elias's voice like smoke in his ear, the weight of him, the hunger. August gasping, begging, breaking beneath the imagined press of skin on skin. It was only a dream. Yet his body remembered. And that made it worse.
He pressed his knees tighter, as though he could close himself off, keep the memory from slipping between his thighs like a sin reborn.
It wasn't real.
It wasn't him.
You did this. You dreamed it. You made it filthy.
He sank lower, until only his mouth and nose hovered above the waterline, breath shallow, rippling the rose-covered surface.
He was afraid.
Not of Elias.
But of seeing him now—after what his traitorous mind had done. After the dream had turned trust into touch, kindness into carnal, and August himself into something needy. Wanting. Ruined.
Even Elias's voice now—if it came from beyond the door—might shatter him.
He had done nothing wrong. Nothing at all.
But shame does not care for facts.
Shame only knows how to bloom like thorns in the blood.
So August stayed there, submerged in the steaming water, a porcelain doll half-drowned in petals. Hiding. Trying to wash himself clean of something that had never touched him.
But still—it lingered.
He remained in the bath until the water cooled and the roses wilted, their petals sagging like weary sighs. Only then did August move—a slow, liquid unfurling of limbs. His body, once coiled tight like a secret, now drifted looser in the water, though his mind still pulsed with silent tension beneath the calm.
The ache lingered in his temples like fading thunder, but it no longer ruled him.
He rose, pale skin gleaming under the half-lit chamber, water sliding off his frame in rivulets that kissed every hollow and curve. His long curls clung to his back like silver threads soaked in shadow, a shimmering veil down his spine.
He stepped out—quiet as snowfall.
Reaching for a fresh robe, he slipped it around his damp body, fingers trembling only slightly as he tied it shut. The fabric whispered against his skin, a fragile armor against the memory that had bruised him from the inside out.
He crossed into his chamber, floor cool beneath his bare feet, heart a little steadier now. With delicate precision, he opened his wardrobe—not as a man dressing, but as a soul crafting a disguise.
He would not let that dream own him. Not now. Not in daylight.
From the silken spectrum of color, he chose ivory again—timeless and pure. A long-sleeved shirt, high-collared and kissed with ornate lace that spilled down like frostbitten vines over his wrists. The fabric clung lightly to his frame but veiled everything—no skin left for longing to stain.
Then the trousers—high-waisted, tailored to perfection, a pearl-toned hush of formality cinched at the waist with quiet pride. He stepped into them with care, as though claiming back some piece of himself. Heels followed—soft suede, elegant, lifting him from shame's reach just enough to breathe again.
Lastly, the coat—long, dark, regal. He slid into it like dusk slipping over the world. Its weight anchored him.
At the vanity, he met his reflection not with disdain, but cautious recognition. His skin held the faint flush of fever, but the color suited him. He took up his brush and moved it through the wet tangle of his curls, each stroke steady, slow, like painting calm over chaos.
But whenever the brush met a knot or the curls clung too close to his neck, the dream would flicker—brief, searing.
Elias's breath against his ear.
His own voice, gasping.
That helpless, shameful "please."
August's hand would pause mid-air, and he'd glance over his shoulder, cheeks suddenly blooming with the memory's heat—as if someone might be watching, as if Elias had somehow heard everything across dream and time.
No. He would not crumble now. He stood, fixed the line of his collar, adjusted the cuffs of his lace sleeves, and exhaled a soft, controlled breath.
He still ached. In his temples. In his limbs. Somewhere far deeper, unnameable. But he was not shattered.
He was dressed. Brushed. Beautiful, again.
With the composure of a ghost learning how to live again, he moved through the halls of his chamber. Each step a whisper. Each breath carefully owned. The sun had begun to rise, timid but golden, casting pale fingers across the corridors.
When he entered the study, it was like stepping into a new self.
The morning had taken its place. And so had he.