Alex shifted, moving to the basin of water on the nightstand. He soaked a linen cloth in the chilled water and returned to the bed. With a hand that was surprisingly gentle, he began to wipe the cloth across Kyle's forehead, then down the column of his throat.
"Please, make it stop."
The words hung in the air like smoke—Kyle's plea, raw and desperate, echoing in the dim chamber.
Alex froze, his hand still hovering near the water bowl.
The distant strains of the ball's music mocked him from below, a reminder of the world outside this room—a world of crowns and conspiracies where he was meant to be unbreakable.
But here, in the flickering candlelight, he felt anything but.
Kyle's eyes, glazed with fever and need, locked onto his, pulling at something deep and forbidden within him.
No, Alex thought, his mind a whirlwind. He's not himself. This isn't him asking—it's the drug.
