The cold in the lower cells didn't just sit on the skin, it crawled into the marrow. Kael had spent the last eighteen hours suspended against the weeping stone wall. The chains were short, forcing him to stand on the balls of his feet if he wanted to ease the pressure on his shoulders.
Throughout the night and the long, silent morning, Kael had been a whirlwind of futile motion. He had thrashed until his wrists were raw, purple rings of bruised flesh forming beneath the iron cuffs. He had snarled at the darkness, his mind replaying the moment Theron had looked down at him, the look of a master realizing he owned a particularly troublesome beast. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Theron's polished, perfect face. He imagined wrapping his chains around the Prince's throat, hearing that refined voice choke and sputter. The hate was the only thing keeping him warm, it was a physical fire in his gut that burned hotter with every drip of water from the ceiling that he couldn't reach to drink.
In the palace above, Theron moved through his day like a man carved from ice. He attended council meetings, signed trade decrees, and sat across from the Princess at lunch. She was pale, her eyes rimmed with red, her voice trembling as she asked after the 'missing' guard.
Theron had leaned over, his voice a masterpiece of gentle concern. "Kael? It seems he took his leave in the night, darling. Perhaps the responsibility of your safety was too much for a man of his... limited background. Do not fret, I have replaced him with someone far more reliable."
Watching her break inside gave him a surge of power that was terrifyingly addictive. But beneath the satisfaction was a gnawing restlessness. He found himself looking at his own hands, remembering the heat of Kael's skin when he'd grabbed his jaw. He felt a phantom weight in his chest, an obsession that drove him to skip his evening meal and descend into the dark once more.
Later that night, The heavy iron door groaned on its hinges. Theron entered alone. He carried a single torch and a glass of water, the condensation on the glass shimmering like diamonds in the firelight.
He set the glass on a small stone ledge, just out of Kael's reach. The sound of the glass clinking against the stone was loud as a gunshot in the silence.
Kael's head snapped up. His hair was matted with sweat and dried blood, his face shadowed with a day's worth of dark stubble. He looked primal, a fallen titan in the dirt. Theron, by contrast, was in a clean silk tunic of deep midnight blue, his chestnut hair perfectly in place.
They fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.
For the first time, without guards or a Princess to distract them, they truly looked. Kael's stormy eyes traced the line of Theron's jaw, the elegant curve of his neck, and the surprisingly firm set of his shoulders. Despite the loathing, he couldn't deny the Prince was a masterpiece of human form refined, symmetrical, and radiating a quiet, intellectual power. It made Kael want to ruin him even more.
Theron, meanwhile, felt his breath hitch as he took in the sheer mass of the man before him. Kael's chest was broad, his muscles defined even in the dim light, his skin bronzed and scarred from battles Theron had only read about. There was a raw, masculine magnetism to the guard, a scent of salt, sweat, and defiance that made Theron's pulse spike with a confusing, shameful heat.
The realization hit them both at once… they found each other… attractive?
The reaction was instantaneous. Kael's lip curled in a snarl of self loathing, and Theron's eyes darkened with a new, sharper cruelty. They hated each other more for that moment of recognition than for anything else.
"You look pathetic," Theron whispered, his voice smooth and cold. He picked up a heavy leather strap from the table, a remnant of a darker age in this dungeon.
"And you look like a man who's never done his own dirty work," Kael rasped, his throat bone dry. His eyes flicked to the water bottle, then back to Theron. "Go on then. Show me what a Prince does when he's not hiding behind his father's shadow."
Theron didn't hesitate. He swung the strap, the leather cracking against Kael's ribcage. Kael didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He just stared at Theron with a mocking, bloody grin.
"Is that it?" Kael taunted. "I've had flea bites that stung more. You swing like a courtier, Theron. No weight behind it. No heart."
Theron's face flushed. He dropped the strap and picked up a thin, flexible rod of birch. He began to strike with a rhythmic, frantic precision, hitting the soft tissue of Kael's midsection and thighs.
For a long time, Kael remained silent, his teeth clenched, his eyes boring into Theron's. But as the minutes ticked by, the physical toll began to manifest. The pain was sharp, constant, and it began to trigger a physiological response Kael hadn't expected.
His breathing changed. It wasn't just gasps of pain, it was a deep, guttural grunting. His body, pushed to its absolute limit and deprived of everything, began to misfire. The intensity of the sensation.. the focus, the heat, the sheer presence of Theron over him began to twist into something else.
Kael's head fell back against the stone, a low, vibrating growl escaping his throat. It wasn't a sound of defeat. It was a sound of release.
Theron stopped, his chest heaving, his hand trembling. He looked down and saw it, the unmistakable physical evidence of Kael's arousal beneath his torn trousers.
He was hard.. turned on by this. By getting hurt, hit by the prince, his eyes darken and he grit his teeth.
Theron's stomach did a somersault. He felt a wave of disgust, followed immediately by a terrifying, electric jolt of his own sudden arousal at the twisted situation.
"You're sick," Theron breathed, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and bewilderment. He stepped closer, poking the rod into Kael's chest. "I'm hurting you. I'm breaking your body, and you're... you're enjoying this?"
Kael opened his eyes. They were hazy, dark with a terrifying mix of agony and lust. "Maybe I just like... seeing you lose control," he rasped, a smirk playing on his bloody lips. "Look at you, Theron. You're shaking. Your heart is hammering so hard I can see it through your shirt. Who's the one being tortured here?"
Theron let out a choked sound of fury. He grabbed the water bottle and poured it slowly onto the floor right in front of Kael's face, watching the dry earth soak up the moisture Kael so desperately needed.
"You're a fucking animal," Theron hissed, leaning in so close their noses almost touched. "A depraved, bottom feeding animal. You find this 'hot'? You find the pain of your own ruin stimulating?" He laughed, a high, jagged sound. "How low can you sink? You're not a man. You're a masochistic freak in chains."
"And you're the one... standing over me... watching," Kael countered, his voice a low, masculine vibration that seemed to rattle Theron's bones.
The Prince felt a surge of pure, unadulterated hate and for the first time, he realized he didn't want to leave the cell. He wanted to stay in this dark, foul smelling hole and see exactly how much more of this depravity Kael had to offer.
.
.
.
.
The heavy silence that followed Kael's admission was thick with a new, parasitic tension. Theron stared at him, his face a pale mask of horror, before he violently threw the birch rod across the room. It clattered against the far wall, the sound echoing like a dying gasp.
Without a word, Theron turned on his heel and stormed out, the iron door clanging shut with a finality that should have signaled the end of the night.
But Kael knew. He slumped against his chains, his breath coming in jagged, burning rasps. He knew the Prince wasn't finished.
Ten minutes later, the door creaked open again. Theron returned, his stride stiff. In his hand was a simple tin cup filled to the brim with water. He didn't look kind, he looked murderous. He stepped into Kael's personal space, the scent of expensive sandalwood clashing with the cellar's rot.
Suddenly, Theron's hand shot out, his fingers bruising as they clamped around Kael's jaw, forcing his head back against the stone.
"Drink," Theron hissed, his voice trembling with a dark, suppressed energy. He shoved the rim of the cup against Kael's cracked lips, tilting it so abruptly that water spilled down Kael's chin and soaked into his torn tunic. "I won't let you die of thirst. Not yet. I haven't even begun to see you crawl."
Kael swallowed greedily, his throat clicking, his eyes never leaving Theron's. Even as he drank the life saving liquid, his gaze was a challenge, a silent 'is that all you've got?' When the cup was empty, Theron pulled away as if he'd been burned. He walked toward the door, but just before he stepped into the corridor, his resolve failed him. His eyes dipped, unwillingly and sharply, to the prominent, shameful bulge between Kael's legs. He lingered for a heartbeat too long, not with desire, but with a confused, hateful fascination before vanishing into the shadows.
The visits became a ritual of blood and bile. Every night, at the stroke of midnight, Theron would descend. He brought no more guards. This was a private war.
Each session began with Theron attempting to maintain a clinical, royal detachment. He used weighted ropes, thin leather cords, and even the flat of a blade to mark Kael's skin. The conversations were no longer about the Princess or the affair Kael had with her, they were about each other, dissections of their respective failures.
"You're nothing but a blunt instrument," Theron sneered one night, as he pulled a cord tight around Kael's upper arm, cutting off the circulation. "You think having a big chest and a loud voice makes you a man? You're a servant. You were born to be used, and look at you now, I'm the only one who even knows you're alive."
Kael let out a strained, low chuckle, his forehead resting against the cold wall. "And you're just a bored little boy playing with a new toy. Does it make you feel powerful, Theron? Does hurting me make you feel like you finally have some blood in your veins instead of that lukewarm milk?"
"Silence!" Theron struck him across the cheek, his hand stinging from the impact.
But as the physical punishment intensified, the pattern repeated. Kael would start with stoic silence, then move to gritted teeth, and finally, his body would betray him. The rhythmic striking, the focused attention of the Prince, the sheer intimacy of the violence, it would culminate in that guttural, masculine growl. Kael's head would roll back, his muscles jumping under his skin, and the arousal would return, more blatant than before.
Theron's reaction was always a spiral of escalating rage.
"Look at you," Theron spat, his voice dropping to a low, venomous register. He stepped closer, his knee accidentally or perhaps not brushing against Kael's thigh. "You're absolutely disgusting. I'm marking your skin, I'm ruining you, and you're standing there like a common whore, begging for it. Enjoying the pain. Is this what you wanted? For me to notice you or what?"
He reached out, He meant to point at the evidence of Kael's depravity, to mock it, but as he spoke, his fingers grazed the rough fabric covering Kael's erection. He didn't pull away immediately. Instead, he pressed his palm against it for a split second, a gesture of pure degradation that masked a terrifyingly sharp curiosity.
"You're a masochistic dog," Theron hissed, his face inches from Kael's ear. "You don't love the Princess. You just love the feeling of being broken. You want me to do it, don't you? You want the Prince to get his hands dirty."
Kael's eyes were blown wide, his breathing coming in heavy, rhythmic heaves. "Do it then... Highness," he rasped, the title a filthy insult. "Stop talking and do it. Show me... how much you hate it."
Theron's grip tightened on kael's bulge, his knuckles white. He began to rub Kael hardened length through his attire with a rough, punishing pressure, his eyes fixed on Kael's face, watching the guard's expression crumble from defiance into a haze of pure, agonized pleasure.
"I hate you," Theron whispered, even as his own body began to respond to the dark electricity in the room. "I hate every inch of you."
"I know," Kael groaned, his body straining against the chains, leaning into Theron's touch despite the pain. "I hate you... more."
They were trapped in a loop of mutual destruction. Theron would degrade Kael for his arousal, calling him an 'animal' and a 'deviant,' while Kael would mock Theron's obsession, pointing out that the Prince never missed a night. The hate was the fuel, but crossing the lines was becoming the engine.