Chapter 62: A Promise He Must Keep

Aaron turned and kissed him, and Asher kissed back without hesitation. The contact landed as something natural, the love of his life, close enough to touch after too long apart. Aaron’s hand settled at the back of his neck, steady and sure, and Asher leaned into it.

"Out," Aaron said to the guards, not lifting his mouth far from Asher’s.

They left at once, closing the door as they exited the room.

Behind the tangled duo, metal screamed. Marcel thrashed against the silver hard enough that fresh blood ran down his arms. The sound that tore out of him was not a word at first, but then it shaped itself into curses, into Asher’s name, into threats that broke apart when the chains bit deeper. Asher heard it. Some distant part of him flinched, but the rest of him stayed where Aaron held him, mouth opening under the next kiss, hands finding the front of Aaron’s coat because that was what you did when the person you loved kissed you like this.

Clothes shifted and fastenings gave. The intensity climbed in a straight line that did not ask permission from the room or the man dying by inches on the wall. Asher’s body answered as if it had been waiting for exactly this. Underneath that answer, something pushed back; a pressure behind his eyes, a wrongness that could not form a full thought before the next touch scattered it. He could not stop, he did not know how to want to stop.

Marcel’s voice broke on his name again, then the world narrowed to heat and breath.

***

When it ended, Asher was unsteady on his feet. Aaron dressed him with careful, almost tender efficiency, as if the setting were a private chamber and not a blood-stained cell. He smoothed Asher’s hair back from his forehead and looked at him with open satisfaction.

"There," Aaron murmured. "That’s better."

Asher’s mouth was swollen, his pulse still ran too fast, and the wrongness under his ribs had not left. He looked toward the wall once. Marcel hung in the chains, barely upright, eyes locked on him with an expression that made Asher’s temples ache. Something tried to rise through the fog, but quickly dissolved before it could become solid.

Aaron walked to the door and opened it.

"Guards." He called and they entered at once.

"Take him back to the palace," Aaron said. "Use the side route. Put him in my private wing and post two men at the door until I return. He is not to be questioned and he is not to be left alone with anyone outside my household."

Hands settled on Asher’s arms—firm, impersonal. He went with them because Aaron had told them to take him, and Aaron was the fixed point the rest of the world arranged itself around. At the threshold he glanced back again. Marcel’s mouth moved, but Asher didn’t hear anything he could make sense of.

Aaron did not look away from the Vampire Lord.

"Once we’re clear of this place," he said to the remaining men, "burn it. The house and everything in it. I want the structure down and the cell unrecognizable. If the fire needs help, use oil. Do not open that wall for any reason. He stays where he is."

One of the guards hesitated for half a second. "My lord, the silver restraints. If the building comes down—"

"Then he comes down with it," Aaron said. "That was always the end of this arrangement. I only required him to be conscious long enough to watch. He has watched, so we are finished here."

Marcel lifted his head. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth. When he spoke, the words were weak but somehow absolutely clear.

"Asher."

Asher’s steps stuttered. The guards did not stop; they adjusted their grip and kept him moving into the corridor..

Aaron’s voice followed them, calm, almost bored.

"Enjoy the fire, Lord Thorne. Consider it a final courtesy—you won’t have to wonder what happened to him after today. He’ll be with me. Where he belongs."

The corridor took them, the smell of the upper floors gradually replacing blood and silver. Asher walked because he was being walked. His mind kept snagging on the shape of Marcel’s mouth forming his name and on the order to burn the house, and neither piece fit cleanly against the certainty that Aaron loved him and had saved him and would make everything all right.

Behind them, in the cell, the guards who remained began to move with the practical speed of men given a demolition order.

Marcel hung in the silver and listened to the preparations begin. He did not waste breath on Aaron’s retreating footsteps. He filed the prince’s face, the exact wording of the order, the sound of Asher’s interrupted turn at the door. The chains still held, and silver still burned. His body was a collection of failures kept online by will alone.

Above, the guards led Asher toward a side exit and a waiting carriage. Aaron did not ride with them. He stayed long enough to confirm the oil was laid and the exits were clear of his own people, then followed at a distance, already turning his mind toward the palace, the private wing, and the new ring that would finish what the mage’s work had started.

Once the guards were certain that the crown prince and everybody else involved with them were gone and at a safe distance, they lit the entire structure on fire and raced out before it consumed them as well.

Marcel remained chained up, every attempt to break free failing before he even tried. His body was too weak, he was poisoned by the silver, and his heart was far too broken to provide him with any will power. He didn’t know what Aaron had done to Asher, but it was clear the boy was gone. Marcel had looked into his eyes, and he couldn’t see any sense of recognition in Asher’s eyes. Perhaps this was really the end—

No! He was going to survive, he had made a promise to Aaron, and Marcel Thorne was a man famously known for keeping his promises.