Three days later, everything changed.
Rhys was in the palace library—a quiet sanctuary he'd discovered tucked away in the eastern wing—when he heard the commotion. Raised voices echoed through the corridors, followed by the thunder of running feet. He set down the volume of poetry he'd been reading and moved to the doorway, his heart already beginning to race.
A servant rushed past, her face pale with fear.
"What's happened?" Rhys called after her.
She barely slowed. "The King! He's collapsed!"
Rhys's blood ran cold.
He abandoned the library and made his way toward the council chambers, following the growing crowd of courtiers and servants. The atmosphere in the palace had shifted instantly—where there had been calm routine, now there was barely controlled chaos. Whispers rippled through the corridors like wildfire.
"Poison, they say—"
"—saw him fall right in the middle of council—"
"—fever so high he was burning to the touch—"
"The Prince will have to take the throne—"
"—too young, too inexperienced—"
Rhys pushed through the crowd until he reached the outer chamber of the King's private quarters. Guards stood at attention, their faces grim, allowing only the most senior advisors and healers to pass. Rhys caught a glimpse through the doorway—King Aldric lying on an enormous bed, his broad frame looking somehow diminished, his skin flushed with fever. Healers moved around him with urgent efficiency while advisors clustered in worried knots.
And there, standing at his father's bedside, was Elias.
The Prince looked stricken. His usual easy confidence was gone, replaced by something raw and vulnerable. His massive shoulders were tense, his jaw clenched, his blue eyes fixed on his father's face with an intensity that made Rhys's chest ache.
Rhys wanted to go to him, to offer comfort, but the guards wouldn't let him pass. He was just the Lord of the Bedchamber—a glorified companion, not family, not an advisor. He had no place in that room.
So he waited.
Hours passed. The crowd in the corridors grew and shifted as news spread through the palace and into the capital beyond. Rhys heard the whispers change, evolve, become more dangerous.
"If the King dies, the Prince will inherit—"
"—but he's not ready, everyone knows it—"
"—spends all his time training and fucking instead of learning statecraft—"
"House Valemont will make a move, mark my words—"
"—and House Corwin, they've been waiting for an opportunity like this—"
Rhys felt eyes on him. When he turned, he found a cluster of well-dressed nobles watching him with expressions that ranged from calculation to outright hostility. One of them—a thin man with a pointed beard and the colors of House Valemont on his doublet—smiled coldly.
"The Prince's little pet," the man said, loud enough for others to hear. "I wonder if you'll still have a place here when the dust settles."
Rhys met his gaze steadily, refusing to be intimidated. "I serve at the Prince's pleasure."
"Ah, yes. His pleasure." The man's smile widened. "How convenient for you. Though I wonder—does the Prince's pleasure serve the kingdom? Or does it merely... distract him from his duties?"
Before Rhys could respond, the man turned and walked away, his companions following. But Rhys could feel their eyes on him, could hear their whispered conversations. And he realized, with a sinking feeling in his gut, that he had just become a target.
The King did not die that first day, but he did not wake either.
The fever raged through him, leaving him delirious and weak. The healers worked tirelessly, applying poultices and potions, but nothing seemed to help. And as the hours turned into days, the whispers grew louder, more insistent.
Poison.
Assassination.
A plot by rival houses.
The kingdom is falling apart.
Rhys tried to see Elias, but the Prince was constantly surrounded by advisors, pulled into emergency councils, forced to make decisions about things he barely understood. When they did manage to steal moments together, Elias looked exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, his usual vitality dimmed.
"I don't know what I'm doing," Elias confessed one night, collapsing onto his bed fully clothed. Rhys sat beside him, running his fingers through the Prince's golden hair. "They keep asking me questions about trade agreements and military deployments and I have no fucking idea what the right answers are. My father always handled this stuff. I just... I trained. I fought. I thought I had more time to learn."
"You're doing your best," Rhys said softly. "That's all anyone can ask."
"My best isn't good enough." Elias's voice was raw. "The kingdom needs a king, not a... not a dumb jock who's better with a sword than a ledger."
Rhys's heart clenched. He leaned down and kissed Elias's forehead. "You're more than you think you are. I've seen it. You're strong and brave and people listen to you. You just need to trust yourself."
Elias pulled Rhys down beside him, wrapping his massive arms around him and burying his face in Rhys's neck. "I'm glad you're here," he mumbled. "You're the only thing keeping me sane."
They fell asleep like that, fully clothed, holding each other in the darkness.
But Rhys's presence was becoming a problem.
It started subtly. Servants who had once smiled at him now averted their eyes. Courtiers who had been friendly now gave him a wide berth. And then the approaches began.
The first came from an envoy of House Corwin—a smooth-talking man with silver hair and expensive rings who cornered Rhys in the gardens one afternoon.
"Lord Rhys," the man said, his tone friendly but his eyes calculating. "I hope you're well. These are difficult times for everyone."
"They are," Rhys agreed cautiously.
"I wanted to speak with you about... the Prince's wellbeing." The man stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You're close to him, yes? Closer than most. You have his ear, his trust."
"I'm his companion," Rhys said carefully.
"Exactly. And in times like these, companions can be... invaluable." The man smiled. "House Corwin has always been loyal to the crown. We want what's best for the kingdom. And we believe the Prince needs guidance—wise counsel from those who understand the complexities of rule."
"He has advisors for that."
"Advisors can be... biased. But you—you could help ensure the Prince makes the right decisions. Decisions that benefit everyone." The man's smile widened. "And House Corwin would be very grateful for such assistance. Grateful enough to ensure your position here is secure, no matter what happens. Grateful enough to make you a very wealthy man."
Rhys felt his stomach turn. "You're asking me to spy on him."
"I'm asking you to help him. To help the kingdom." The man's tone hardened slightly. "Think carefully, Lord Rhys. The Prince's position is precarious. If he fails, if he's seen as unfit to rule... well, those close to him will fall as well. But if you're wise, if you align yourself with the right people, you could have a very comfortable future."
He walked away, leaving Rhys standing alone in the garden, his heart pounding.
But that was only the beginning.
Over the next two days, Rhys was approached by representatives of three other houses—each with similar offers, similar threats. They wanted him to influence Elias, to report on his decisions, to undermine his confidence. And when Rhys refused, their tones grew darker.
"You're a liability to him," one woman hissed. "A distraction. Proof that he's more interested in pleasure than duty. If you truly cared about him, you'd leave."
"Accidents happen in times of chaos," another man said with a cold smile. "It would be a shame if something were to happen to you. The Prince would be devastated, I'm sure. But perhaps it would also... focus his attention where it belongs."
Rhys began to feel eyes on him constantly. He started checking his food and wine before consuming anything. He avoided isolated corridors and dark corners.
The breaking point came two days later.
The throne room was packed with nobles, merchants, and courtiers—all demanding answers about the King's condition, about the succession, about what would happen to the kingdom. The atmosphere was volatile, teetering on the edge of panic. Shouting matches broke out. Accusations were hurled. Someone threw a goblet, and it shattered against a pillar.
The guards tried to restore order, but the crowd was too large, too agitated.
And then Elias entered.
He didn't announce himself. He simply walked into the throne room, and the sheer presence of him—the size of him, the power radiating from his massive frame—made people fall silent.
Elias climbed the steps to the throne and turned to face the crowd. He was dressed in full royal regalia—a deep blue doublet that stretched across his enormous chest, gold embroidery catching the light, his crown sitting on his golden hair. He looked every inch a king.
"Enough," he said, and his voice carried through the chamber like a command from the gods themselves.
The room went completely silent.
"My father is ill," Elias continued, his tone steady and strong. "But he is not dead. The healers are doing everything they can, and we have faith that he will recover. In the meantime, I am here. I am your Prince, and I will not let this kingdom fall into chaos."
"You're too young!" someone shouted from the crowd. "Too inexperienced!"
"Perhaps," Elias said calmly. "But I am also strong. I am loyal. And I will do whatever it takes to protect this kingdom and its people." He paused, his blue eyes scanning the crowd. "I know there are those among you who see this crisis as an opportunity. Who think they can manipulate me, control me, use me for their own gain."
His voice hardened.
"You're wrong."
He descended the steps slowly, his massive frame seeming to fill the entire room. "I may not know every detail of trade law or tax policy. But I know loyalty. I know honor. And I know when someone is trying to fuck with me."
A ripple of shock went through the crowd at the crude language, but Elias didn't care.
"Anyone who tries to harm this kingdom—anyone who tries to harm the people I care about—will answer to me personally." His gaze swept the room, landing on several nobles who had been particularly vocal in their scheming. "And trust me, you don't want that."
The threat was clear. And coming from a man who stood six-foot-four and could break a person in half with his bare hands, it was effective.
The crowd began to disperse, the tension broken. Elias had done it—he'd quelled a near-riot through sheer force of personality and presence.
Rhys, watching from the side of the room, felt something shift inside him.
This was the man he'd fallen for. Not just the beautiful, charming prince, but the leader beneath. The king in waiting.
That night, Elias came to his chambers looking exhausted but triumphant.
"Did you see?" he asked, a tired grin on his face. "I didn't fuck it up."
"You were incredible," Rhys said honestly.
Elias crossed the room and pulled Rhys into his arms. "I was terrified," he admitted. "The whole time, I was terrified I'd say the wrong thing, that they'd laugh at me, that I'd make everything worse."
"But you didn't."
"No." Elias rested his forehead against Rhys's. "I keep thinking about what you said. About trusting myself. And I realized... I don't have to be my father. I don't have to be some brilliant strategist. I just have to be me. And hope that's enough."
"It is," Rhys whispered. "You are."
They stood like that for a long moment, just holding each other, and Rhys felt the weight of the past few days pressing down on him. The fear, the danger, the constant threat. He'd considered running—gods, he'd considered it so many times. Packing his things in the dead of night and disappearing back to the eastern coast where he'd be safe.
But he couldn't.
Because this—Elias, this connection, this feeling of being exactly where he was meant to be—was worth the risk.
"I'm not leaving," Rhys said quietly. "No matter what happens. I'm staying."
Elias pulled back to look at him, his blue eyes searching Rhys's face. "It's dangerous. You know that."
"I know."
"You're the only real thing I have left," said Elias. "Everything else is politics and duty and people wanting things from me. But you... you're just here. For me. And I don't know what I'd do if—"
Rhys kissed him, cutting off the words. "You're not going to lose me," he said against Elias's lips. "I promise."
Elias made a desperate sound and kissed him back, hard and hungry. His massive hands came up to cup Rhys's face, then slid down to his shoulders, his waist, his ass. He gripped Rhys's bubble butt and squeezed, pulling him closer, and Rhys could feel the Prince's cock already hardening against him.
"I need you," Elias breathed. "Fuck, Rhys, I need you so badly."
Elias growled—an actual growl, low and possessive—and crashed their mouths together. His tongue plunged deep, tasting of wine and salt and desperation. He kissed Rhys like he was drowning and Rhys was air, like he needed to consume him, claim him, make him his in every possible way.
His hands were everywhere—kneading Rhys's ass, sliding up under his shirt to feel the smooth skin of his back, tangling in his wavy auburn hair. And then he was tearing at Rhys's clothes, literally tearing them, the fabric ripping under his strength.
Rhys laughed breathlessly as his shirt came off in tatters, followed quickly by his breeches. And then he was naked, and Elias was staring at him with such raw hunger that Rhys felt his cock twitch.
"Your turn," Rhys said.
Elias stripped with efficient speed, and Rhys's breath caught—it always did—at the sight of him.
The candlelight painted Elias's body in gold and shadow, highlighting every perfect muscle. His shoulders were impossibly broad, the muscles bunching and flexing as he moved. His chest was a work of art—two massive pecs that rose and fell with his heavy breathing, the skin smooth and golden, small tight nipples already hard with arousal. His abs were deeply cut, each ridge and valley defined and perfect, leading down to the sharp V of his hips.
And his cock—gods, his cock. Twelve inches of thick, hard perfection, jutting out from his groin like a weapon. The shaft was flushed dark red, veins throbbing visibly along its length, and the head was swollen and glistening with pre-cum that dripped in heavy strands.
Elias was sweating already—nervous sweat, anxious sweat—and it made his skin glisten in the candlelight. He looked like a god of war, beautiful and terrifying and utterly irresistible.
"Come here," Elias commanded, his voice rough.
Rhys went to him, and Elias lifted him effortlessly, his thick arms bulging with the effort. He carried Rhys to the bed and laid him down on the silk sheets, then climbed on top of him, his massive body covering Rhys completely.
Elias didn't rush. Instead, he kissed down Rhys's body—his neck, his chest, his stomach—taking his time, worshipping every inch of skin. And then he flipped Rhys onto his stomach.
"Spread your legs," Elias ordered.
Rhys obeyed, and felt Elias's large hands on his ass, spreading his cheeks wide. The exposure was intense, vulnerable, and Rhys felt his hole clench in anticipation.
"Fuck," Elias breathed. "This ass. This perfect fucking ass."
And then his mouth was on Rhys.
Rhys cried out as Elias's hot, wet tongue circled his hole, licking over the sensitive hole with broad, firm strokes. It felt incredible—obscene and intimate and so, so good. Elias licked again, then again, each stroke firmer than the last, and then his tongue pushed inside.
"Oh fuck," Rhys gasped, his hands fisting in the sheets. "Elias, oh gods—"
Elias groaned against him, the vibrations traveling straight into Rhys's core. He ate Rhys out with ravenous hunger, his tongue plunging deep and then pulling back, fucking into him with slow, deliberate thrusts. The sounds were obscene—wet and sloppy, punctuated by Elias's groans and Rhys's desperate moans.
Rhys could feel the scrape of Elias's stubble against his smooth skin, could smell the heady mix of his own musk and Elias's sweat. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, and he found himself pushing back against Elias's face, fucking himself on the Prince's tongue.
"Yes," Elias mumbled against him. "Fuck, yes, give it to me."
He licked deeper, his hands gripping Rhys's ass so hard it would definitely leave bruises. And then he pulled back, spat on Rhys's hole—a hot, wet glob of saliva—and dove back in, his tongue pushing the spit inside.
Rhys was sobbing with pleasure, his cock leaking steadily onto the sheets beneath him. He'd never felt anything like this—never been so thoroughly claimed, so completely consumed.
And then Elias's fingers joined his tongue.
One thick finger pushed inside alongside his tongue, stretching Rhys open, and Rhys's whole body shuddered. Elias worked the finger in slowly, letting Rhys adjust, and then added a second. The stretch was intense, but Elias was patient, scissoring his fingers, working Rhys open with careful precision.
And then he crooked his fingers and found Rhys's prostate.
"Fuck!" Rhys screamed, his back arching off the bed. "There, right there, please—"
Elias rubbed that spot relentlessly, his fingers moving faster, harder, and Rhys felt like he was going to come apart. His hole was clenching around Elias's fingers, trying to pull them deeper, and he was leaking so much pre-cum it was pooling beneath him.
"You're so tight," Elias breathed, watching his fingers disappear into Rhys's body. "So hot and wet. Fuck, I can't wait to feel this around my cock."
He added a third finger, stretching Rhys wider, and Rhys sobbed into the sheets. It was too much and not enough, pleasure bordering on pain, and he needed more.
"Please," Rhys begged. "Please, Elias, I need you inside me."
Elias pulled his fingers out, and Rhys whimpered at the loss. But then the Prince was flipping him onto his back, and Rhys found himself staring up at Elias's beautiful face.
"I want to see you," Elias said, positioning himself between Rhys's legs. "Want to watch your face when I fuck you."
He lined up his massive cock with Rhys's hole, the thick head pressing against the slick entrance, and Rhys held his breath.
And then Elias pushed inside.
The stretch was overwhelming—more than Rhys remembered, more than he thought he could take. Elias's cock was so thick, so long, and Rhys felt every inch as it slowly sank into him. It burned, but it was a good burn, a fullness that made him feel complete.
He was gripping Rhys's hips so hard his knuckles were white, his whole body trembling with the effort of going slow.
When he was finally fully seated inside, both of them were panting. Elias's massive chest was pressed flush against Rhys's slimmer torso, their sweat-slick skin sliding together with each breath. Rhys could feel the heavy weight of Elias's body on top of him, could feel the thick cock buried deep inside him, and it was perfect.
Elias pulled back slowly, and Rhys felt every ridge and vein of his cock dragging against his inner walls. Then he pushed back in, just as slowly, and Rhys moaned.
"Like that?" Elias asked, his voice rough.
"Yes. Fuck, yes."
Elias started to fuck him with slow, deep strokes. He leaned down, pressing his forehead to Rhys's, and they breathed the same air as they moved together. Sweat began to bead on their skin, making them slick and hot.
Rhys wrapped his legs around Elias's waist, pulling him deeper, and the Prince groaned. His massive pecs were right in Rhys's face, and Rhys couldn't resist leaning up to suck on one of his nipples.
"Fuck!" Elias gasped, his hips stuttering. "Rhys, that's—"
Rhys sucked harder, his tongue swirling around the tight bud, and Elias started fucking faster. The slow, gentle pace gave way to something more urgent, more desperate. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, along with their moans and gasps.
"Harder," Rhys begged. "Fuck me harder."
Elias obliged, his hips snapping forward with more force. Rhys's hole squelched obscenely with each thrust, the wet sounds mixing with their heavy breathing. Rhys reached back and grabbed Elias's ass, feeling the muscles flex and contract as the Prince fucked into him.
"Deeper," Rhys gasped. "I want all of you."
Elias pulled Rhys's legs up, hooking them over his shoulders, and the new angle let him sink even deeper. Rhys cried out, his back arching, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the sheets.
"Like this?" Elias grunted, fucking hard and deep. "Is this what you want?"
"Yes!" Rhys practically screamed. "Yes, fuck, yes!"
Elias was hitting that spot inside him with every thrust now, and Rhys was seeing stars. His cock was leaking steadily, untouched, and he knew he wouldn't last much longer.
But then Elias changed positions again.
He pulled out—Rhys whimpered at the loss—and flipped Rhys onto his stomach. Then he covered Rhys completely with his massive body, his chest pressed to Rhys's back, his weight crushing him deliciously into the mattress.
"I need to feel all of you," Elias breathed against Rhys's neck. "Need to cover you, claim you, make you mine."
He pushed back inside in one smooth thrust, and Rhys sobbed into the sheets. This position was even deeper, even more intense, and Elias's weight on top of him made him feel utterly possessed.
Elias started to fuck him again—slow, grinding thrusts that had his cock dragging against Rhys's prostate with every movement. And then he started to speed up, his hips snapping forward with increasing urgency.
"You're the only real thing left," Elias growled in Rhys's ear. "Everything else is falling apart, but you're here. You're mine. Don't ever fucking leave me."
"Never," Rhys gasped. "I'm yours. Always yours."
Elias's hand slid up to grip Rhys's wrists, pinning them above his head. His other hand gripped Rhys's thigh, holding him in place as he fucked harder, faster, more desperately.
The sensory overload was constant—the heavy, masculine scent of Elias's sweat and arousal filling the air, the slick glide of sweat between their bodies, the burning stretch and fullness inside Rhys, the wet heat of Elias's balls slapping against him with each thrust. Rhys could taste salt on his tongue from where Elias had kissed him earlier, could feel the Prince's hot breath on his neck, could hear the wet, obscene sounds of their bodies moving together.
"Fuck, Rhys," Elias groaned. "You feel so good. So tight and hot and perfect. I'm not gonna last."
"Don't hold back," Rhys begged. "Give me everything."
Elias's rhythm became frantic. He was slamming into Rhys now, his massive body shaking with the force of his thrusts, and Rhys was overwhelmed, drowning in sensation.
"Mine," Elias growled. "Say it. Say you're mine."
"Yours," Rhys sobbed. "I'm yours, Elias. Only yours."
"Fuck, yes." Elias's hand left Rhys's thigh and wrapped around his cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. "Cum for me. I want to feel you cum on my cock."
The combination of Elias's hand on his cock and the relentless pounding against his prostate was too much. Rhys's orgasm hit him like a lightning strike, his whole body seizing up, his hole clenching tight around Elias's cock as he came hard, spurting between his body and the sheets.
"Fuck, yes," Elias groaned, feeling Rhys's hole spasm around him. "That's it, baby. Cum for me. Cum for your king."
The words, the possessiveness, the raw need in Elias's voice pushed Rhys's orgasm even higher. He was sobbing, shaking, completely overwhelmed.
And then Elias was cumming too.
He roared—a primal, animalistic sound—and slammed in deep one last time, holding there as his cock pulsed inside Rhys. Rhys felt the first hot spurt of cum, then another, and another. Elias kept cumming, kept fucking through his orgasm with desperate, erratic thrusts, his whole body shuddering violently.
"Yes," Rhys moaned. "Fill me up. Give me all of it."
Elias's orgasm seemed to go on forever, pulse after pulse of hot, thick cum flooding Rhys's insides. And when it finally subsided, he collapsed on top of Rhys, still buried deep inside him, both of them gasping for air.
They lay there for a long moment, their sweat-slick bodies pressed together, trembling with aftershocks.
And then Elias started to pepper soft kisses across Rhys's shoulders, his neck, his face. He pulled out slowly—Rhys whimpered at the loss—and rolled them onto their sides, pulling Rhys back against his chest and wrapping his massive arms around him.
They must have dozed off, because Rhys woke to the sound of frantic knocking.
"Your Highness!" a voice called from the other side of the door. "Your Highness, please!"
Elias jerked awake, his arms tightening protectively around Rhys. "What is it?" he called, his voice rough with sleep.
"It's the King, Your Highness! You need to come quickly!"
Elias was out of bed in an instant, pulling on his breeches with shaking hands. Rhys scrambled to dress as well, his heart pounding. This was it. The King was dead. Everything was about to change.
They rushed to the King's chambers, Elias practically running, and burst through the doors.
And stopped.
King Aldric was sitting up in bed, looking weak but very much alive. The healers were clustered around him, smiling with relief, and the senior advisor was beaming.
"The fever broke," the advisor said. "Just an hour ago. It was a rare illness, not poison. The healers identified it and administered the correct treatment. His Majesty is recovering."
Elias stared at his father, his face a mixture of relief and disbelief. "You're... you're okay?"
"I'm fine, boy," the King said, his voice hoarse but strong. "Takes more than a fever to kill me."
Rhys watched from the doorway, his own eyes stinging. The immediate crisis was over. The King would recover. The kingdom would stabilize.
But the political fractures that had been revealed—the scheming, the rival houses jockeying for power—those wouldn't disappear so easily.
Still, for now, they had this moment. This victory.
Elias looked back at Rhys and smiled—a real, genuine smile that lit up his whole face. And Rhys smiled back, his heart full.