The storm unleashed its merciless fury as they left the De Courcelle estate. 

Lightning streaked across the sky with fierce cracks, momentarily transforming the darkness around them into a theater of ghostly shadows. The trail had turned into a treacherous quagmire, and the roar of the engine almost sounded like a wail against the relentless thunder. The vehicle swayed, struggling for traction, and Oliver's hands trembled slightly as he clutched the seatbelt, watching the raindrops whip the windshield with deafening violence. Beside him, Ian drove with a clenched jaw, his focus locked on the road ahead. But out of the corner of his eye, he studied Oliver with the sharpness of a hunting hawk, as if trying to decipher the emotions slipping behind his composed expression.

After an oppressive silence, his deep voice broke through the barrier of the storm. "I hope you understand the consequences of what we've done." His words were choked, though solemn as a vow. "Your little escape could compromise the entire alliance with Belgium. And tarnish my reputation forever."

Oliver turned, the leather seat creaking under his abrupt movement. A surge of indignation rose in his chest. "Is that what you're worried about now? Your reputation?"

Ian's eyes sparked like the lightning tearing through the sky ahead. "Do you have any idea what's at stake, Your Highness?" The title came out as sharp as well-practiced sarcasm, an acidic reminder of his position.

"Don't call me that," Oliver muttered through gritted teeth.

Ian sighed loudly, running a hand through his wet hair. "The Queen will dismiss me the moment we step on English soil," he said with resignation. "And she'll be right."

"I would never accept that agreement. You know very well why." Oliver's voice was now sharp, filled with a conviction that both frightened and comforted him. "I'd feel like a criminal... a monster."

"Ian, pay attention." Oliver challenged, his eyes fixed on Ian's tense profile. For a moment, Ian glanced away from the muddy road to stare at him, brows furrowed. "I could never agree to that deal, and you know why. I'd feel like a criminal, a monster."

Ian let out a dry, bitter laugh. "If it's not you, it'll be someone else. Princess Anne is going to marry someone, whether you like it or not. Reality doesn't bend to your whims."

Oliver stubbornly crossed his arms as a feeling of helplessness tightened his heart. That truth hit his stomach like a stone, but he wouldn't be intimidated.

The weight of that truth struck Oliver, a heavy blow in the pit of his stomach. Helplessness crept through his veins, making him squirm inside, but his stubbornness wouldn't let him yield. "The Queen won't fire you because of me," he challenged, raising his voice to compete with the sound of the rain hammering on the car roof.

"That's not your decision to make."

The tension in Ian's muscles was palpable, his grip on the steering wheel so tight his knuckles were white. He turned to face Oliver, and in that moment, his eyes blazed with something almost untamable—pure, distilled rage.

"I'm sick of your meddling, Your Highness. You think you can give me orders, as if I were a lackey with no authority to handle a spoiled prince!"

Oliver met his gaze, defiant. "If half of our problems are my fault, the other half comes from you underestimating me."

Ian exploded, slamming his hands against the steering wheel, frustration overflowing. "Then start acting like an adult!"

"I would, if you'd let me make my own decisions!"

Oliver's heavy breathing filled the cramped space of the SUV, as he tried to control the anger boiling inside him. He knew he was teetering on the edge of something irrevocable. "I'm not marrying her, no matter what the Queen orders. This is absurd, and you know it."

Ian shook his head, an incredulous, almost exasperated gesture. He was preparing to deliver an ultimatum. "You can test the Queen's patience as much as you want, Oliver," he hissed in a warning tone. "You can ignore my guidance, argue with a damned king in his damned palace, but I guarantee the Crown will tire of it sooner or later. And then, the little power you still have will be completely stripped from you."

Ian's words echoed, hitting Oliver with the force of an undeniable truth, a direct blow to the gut. No matter how much he rebelled, the final decision was in the Queen's hands. And Charlotte was not known for her leniency.

Oliver opened his mouth to retort, but the sound died on his lips when a terrible crash echoed beneath them, shaking the SUV with brutal force. He was thrown forward, his head almost colliding with the windshield, as another impact, accompanied by the sharp screech of tearing metal, rang out in the storm.

"Shit!" Ian shouted, his hands wrestling with the steering wheel, trying to tame the out-of-control vehicle. The car began to spin on the rain-soaked mud, the tires losing all traction. The SUV skidded violently until, with a desperate, sharp maneuver, Ian steered it toward the side of the road. The front tires sank into the muddy ground, spraying thick mud as the vehicle finally came to a stop, the engine still roaring like a wounded beast.

Ian slammed his fists against the steering wheel, his eyes burning with suppressed fury. "Stay in the car!" he ordered, his voice reverberating with an authority that made it clear this was no suggestion.

But Oliver, adrenaline pulsing through his veins, was already unbuckling his seatbelt. He wasn't going to just sit there, powerless, as chaos unfolded around him. Opening the door, he was immediately hit by a wall of icy rain, each drop cutting his skin like needles. The cold wrapped around him in a suffocating embrace, but still, he stepped out of the car, his feet sinking into the mud.

Ian was already circling the vehicle, furiously inspecting the front tires that looked like they had been through a battlefield. Deep gashes and holes marked the shredded sides, scars of a recent war.

"You think someone did this on purpose?" Oliver asked, almost naively, and Ian looked at him with no emotion. "Someone who knew we were here?"

He trudged heavily to the center of the dirt road, his boots sinking into the thick mud with each step. A herd of cows watched them calmly from a short distance, an indifferent audience to their spectacle of misfortunes. Their serene expressions and lazy chewing of fresh grass grotesquely contrasted with the chaotic situation Ian and Oliver found themselves in.

It was then that Oliver noticed, lying in the mud, a twisted strip of barbed wire—the clear weapon of choice that had shredded the tires.

"We've clearly been sabotaged, no doubt about it," Ian concluded, gesturing ironically toward the animals, as if trying to accuse them of being the masterminds behind the sabotage.

To Oliver's surprise, however, Ian suddenly bent over, resting his hands on his knees, and let out a loud, bitter laugh that echoed through the stormy night, while the cows simply continued grazing, oblivious to the chaos they had inadvertently caused.

Oliver stared at him, dumbfounded. He couldn't understand where that reaction was coming from. "This is wonderful!" Ian exclaimed, his eyes gleaming with a half-crazed look, his broad shoulders shaking as a booming laugh echoed across the vast, deserted road. "We're literally in the middle of nowhere, no sign of civilization, probably no hotel or gas station within 50 kilometers! And I'll bet everything I own there's no cell signal in this godforsaken place."

The rain continued to fall in heavy cascades, but Oliver couldn't help but notice how the drops traced the sculpted features of Ian's face, outlining the contours of his jaw with almost cruel precision. What should have been a mundane sight of someone drenched suddenly carried an electric charge—Oliver's eyes, despite his effort, insisted on capturing the wet sheen reflecting off the muscles outlined beneath Ian's soaked shirt.

"What do we do now?" Oliver asked, raising an eyebrow, waiting patiently for Ian's hysterical laughter to finally subside.

"We'll have to spend the night right here," Ian said, gesturing in defeat to the dark, muddy, and completely deserted road, with no sign of another soul. He then trudged back into the SUV, while Oliver stood stunned outside, secretly wishing this was just another of Ian's jokes.

"You mean inside the car?" Oliver followed him hesitantly. Through the fogged window, he saw Ian shrug off his wet jacket, his white shirt now clinging tightly to his skin, revealing every line and curve of his body. Something stirred inside Oliver, a visceral reaction he couldn't suppress in time.

"Unless Your Royal Highness prefers to push the car to the next town, I don't see a better option," Ian quipped with his usual sarcasm as he tried to settle into the seat.

Oliver froze as Ian's hands went to the buttons of his shirt, starting to unbutton it.

"W-what do you think you're doing?" He asked, his voice sounding more nervous than he intended.

Ian shot him a quick look, casually stripping off the wet fabric. "Would you prefer I catch pneumonia?"

As Ian continued undressing, Oliver looked away, heat rising in his face despite the cold rain still dripping from his clothes. The sound of buttons coming undone seemed louder than it should, the slide of fabric against skin echoing in the small space as if it were the only thing happening in the world. Every movement felt calculated to test Oliver. And he knew he was failing.

He tried to focus on the rain, on the cold, even on the discomfort of his own soaked clothes. But his thoughts betrayed him, always circling back to the same place: Ian. He imagined the warmth radiating from his body, a stark contrast to the cold, damp air outside. The truth was, everything Oliver wanted — everything he was fighting to deny — was just inches away. His body, without asking permission, had already begun to react. He was mentally preparing himself to resist, but the truth hit him hard: sooner or later, one of them would give in.

And deep down, Oliver knew it would be him.

"It's fine. Let's just... wait for sunrise."

◃───────────▹

The air inside the SUV felt stifling, filled with a muggy heat and the bittersweet smell of mud and wet clothes.

Oliver felt trapped in that cramped space, where even breathing seemed to require effort. Every movement brought a growing discomfort, from the damp fabric of his shirt clinging to his body to the soaked socks inside his shoes. As he peeled off his jacket and shirt, the wet slap of the fabrics hitting the floor felt like a final crack of surrender, as if there was no dignity left to preserve.

Ian had reclined his seat almost completely, his long body stretched out in a lazy, insolent pose. The faint light from the dashboard outlined the contours of his tanned arms, the veins running along his forearms, disappearing under his skin. The silence was almost deafening, broken only by the relentless pounding of the torrential rain against the metal roof. It was as if the world outside had dissolved into liquid chaos, leaving them suspended in a cloudy bubble of temporary quiet.

"Can you turn on the heater?" Oliver asked after a long time, rubbing his exposed arms in an attempt to chase away the cold that seemed to have settled into his bones. "I'm freezing here."

Without a word, Ian sat up, unhurried. The movement of his muscles glistened under the dim light, and the moisture sliding down his bare chest captured Oliver's attention in an almost hypnotic way. The dashboard light illuminated Ian's face for a brief second, making him both real and distant at the same time, like a figure from a dream Oliver didn't want to wake from. Or maybe Oliver was just staring too much. With a few precise touches, Ian started the engine, and warm air began to flow from the vents.

"Thank God," Oliver murmured, feeling the heat start to relax his muscles, though his mind remained on high alert, too aware of the presence next to him. Ian had his eyes closed, head resting casually on the headrest, as if everything was under control.

"Do you want the back seat to sleep?" Ian broke the silence with that deep voice, which always seemed laced with irony, even when he didn't intend it.

Oliver blinked, confused, taking a few seconds to process the words. "What?"

"The back seat," Ian repeated, opening his eyes with a touch of impatience. "It's bigger. You can get more comfortable there."

"No, it's fine," Oliver shook his head. "You're taller, you can take the bigger seat."

This time, Ian looked at him for longer, as if trying to figure out exactly what was going on inside Oliver. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "I'm a simple man, Your Highness. This one works."

The heat rising to Oliver's cheeks was uncontrollable. Ian always had that effect: a mix of irreverent charm and carefree disdain that left Oliver flustered. He tried reclining his seat as far back as it would go, but there was no way to find comfort. Being close to Ian was a discomfort greater than anything the weather could inflict.

"This must be hard for you," Ian said after a long stretch of silence, his voice carrying a teasing note. "Being away from your palace silk sheets."

Oliver turned to him, frowning. "You really don't know me."

"Maybe not," Ian laughed, that low, ironic laugh that always made something in Oliver's stomach tighten. "But here we are, alone on the deserted road."

"Against your will, I imagine," Oliver retorted with a faint smile.

"It's not like I had much choice," Ian replied, and his sarcasm was there, but softer, almost conspiratorial. "After all, I'm just following orders."

Oliver rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress a smile in return. "When I was in Paris, I didn't miss luxury."

"Oh, the humble prince," Ian mocked, but the playful dimples that appeared showed there was innocent teasing behind all the cynicism.

"I'm serious," Oliver insisted, feeling the need to defend himself, though he didn't know why. "I appreciated the anonymity. You, on the other hand, seem much more attached to comfort than I am."

Ian, for his part, seemed to settle even more into the seat, exuding a calmness that contrasted with Oliver's internal turmoil. "I see nothing wrong with a good mattress," Ian murmured, his voice now a bit more distant, as if exhaustion was beginning to overtake him. "It took me a while to get this kind of comfort."

That moment of vulnerability caught Oliver by surprise. For a moment, it was as if he saw Ian truly, stripped not just of clothes, but of any arrogance or sarcasm. And it disarmed him in a way he hadn't expected. Oliver's gaze inevitably drifted back to Ian's body. The defined lines of his abdomen, the trail of hair disappearing beneath the low waistband of his pants. Every detail seemed to take on a life of its own, and Oliver hated himself for not being able to look away.

Why did that petulant, sarcastic royal advisor have such a powerful, irresistible pull on him? Maybe it was his disarmingly laid-back confidence, so unlike the austerity of the nobles Oliver was used to. Or perhaps it was the way his dimpled smile popped up, irreverent, even when it shouldn't. The silence was broken by the soft sound of Ian's snoring, and Oliver let out a short, incredulous laugh.

There he was, confused and tense, while Ian simply slept, oblivious to the chaos his presence caused.

◃───────────▹

Oliver felt the exhaustion pull him under like a silent wave, his thoughts dissolving into vague fragments. In that precise space between reality and the surreal, Ian's image surfaced with unsettling clarity. Every tiny detail — the warmth radiating from his skin, the shimmering gold of his eyes, the exact shape of his lips — was so vivid that Oliver could almost feel the touch, almost inhale his scent. Then, he was jolted back to the present by a sharp shake, as if being yanked from a deep dream. When he opened his eyes, he found Ian staring at him, that intensity burning something between them. Something indescribable, but enough to make Oliver's chest tighten.

"Oliver," Ian murmured, his voice carrying an urgent tone, as if the world could collapse any second. "For the love of anything, don't pass out again."

Oliver blinked, trying to distinguish what was real from what wasn't. But the ghostly sensation of a kiss that had never happened still tingled on his lips. Ian moved closer, gripping his shoulder with an almost possessive strength, as if the contact was the only thing anchoring Oliver in that moment. "Whatever you were dreaming about," Ian's voice broke when a shaky breath escaped his lips, his eyebrows furrowed in visceral torment. "Just... stay awake."

And then, like a bolt of lightning, it hit him. "Ian..." Oliver's voice was low, almost a purr, thick with a desire he could no longer suppress. "It was you. You were right here and—" Ian stared at him with those liquid amber eyes that always seemed to see far more than Oliver wanted them to. He squeezed his eyes shut, hopeful that if he broke the gaze, that unbearable pull would lose its grip. But it was useless. Without thinking, Oliver leaned in toward Ian, his body acting before his mind could stop it. But Ian dodged at the last second, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face like a shadow. A quick, almost involuntary reflex, as if resisting was the last barrier to maintaining control.

"What are you doing, Oliver?" Ian's voice, tense and deep, made Oliver shiver.

Oliver opened his eyes again, diving into Ian's gaze. A distant voice begged him not to rush, to pull back before it was too late. But Ian's eyes poured over him like fresh honey — golden, thick, irresistible. And Oliver found himself helplessly drawn to them, like a bee craving sweetness. His hand slid across Ian's chest, heat radiating through his fingers and burning into his skin. "You were everywhere," he murmured, his voice barely making it out. "In my dreams, in my thoughts... And now you're here, and I just want to..."

Make it real. The touch was tentative, almost as if Oliver still couldn't believe Ian was real, that he was truly there. Ian wavered, the closeness between them dissolving and reforming with every breath. His gaze, still warm and intoxicating, searched for something. Answers, perhaps. Courage. Or the end of restraint.

"What? What do you want?" Ian's question came low, a wavering whisper, laced with fear and longing. As if he knew what was coming, but was still trying to hold the reins.

Oliver knew. He always knew.

"You."

There was no hesitation in the answer, despite the tremor in his voice. An absolute desire. His lips brushed against Ian's, like a promise. "I want you, Ian."

For a moment, Ian hesitated, like someone on the verge of falling from a cliff, fighting gravity. But then, as if the control finally abandoned him, he pulled Oliver to him. The kiss wasn't soft, it wasn't a prelude — it was a cry, a silent scream of someone who had waited too long. Their bodies met with the hunger of those who had long crossed the line of self-restraint. The sweet and spicy taste of cinnamon gum mixed with the salty flavor of Ian's skin, a contrast that set Oliver's senses ablaze. Oliver's body moved instinctively, his fingers tracing the heated lines of Ian's body with an almost feral intensity. He slid into Ian's lap, the place that seemed like his inevitable destination. His hands explored every contour of Ian's form, discovering him with an eagerness that surprised even himself. It was like navigating in the dark, without direction, but certain of the destination. One hand braced on the backrest, the other ventured through the damp hair at Ian's nape, sliding restlessly down his neck, tracing a path to his chest, where it paused at the waistband of his pants.

Before he could go further, Ian caught his wrist, a flicker of rationality making him say, "This... this is a mistake," Ian mumbled, but the words sounded hollow, powerless, betrayed by his body pulling Oliver closer.

"A massive mistake."

He pressed his hips against Ian's, the heat of their bodies melding together, making any argument irrelevant.

"Oliver... we can't..." Ian's voice faltered, while his hips instinctively bucked upward.

"I agree, Counselor," Oliver responded with a crooked smile, his lips brushing Ian's skin in slow, calculated kisses, each touch a challenge. "This is the perfect moment for you to assert your authority over me. After all, I'm nothing but a spoiled prince, right?"

Ian's fingers dug firmly into Oliver's hips, pulling him even closer. The contact made Oliver gasp, feeling so close he could lose his mind from the feverish heat radiating from Ian. Ian hesitated again, as if standing at the last line before a definitive fall.

"Have you done this before?"

"Yes," Oliver answered, not breaking the contact. "And you?"

Ian paused, a dense silence surrounding them before confessing, almost in a whisper, "Not exactly... not with someone like you."

Oliver raised an eyebrow. "A man? Or a prince?"

A brief silence followed, until Oliver felt Ian's hand release his wrist and thread through his hair, gently pulling his face closer so their eyes met.

"Both."

"I guarantee the principle is the same," Oliver assured. Ian's warm breath heated Oliver's skin, and a brief laugh escaped him, quickly dissipating as Oliver continued, "Let me show you."

Without further hesitation, Ian captured Oliver's mouth in a kiss nothing short of scorching. Ian's hands roamed Oliver's body, gripping and scratching as if trying to memorize every inch of skin, every contour. Oliver closed his eyes, surrendering, letting himself be explored.

He had never experienced anything like this — his previous encounters were always rushed, too impersonal in comparison. But the way Ian held him, touched him, despite the inexperience, was something completely new.

It was incendiary. Irresistible.

"It's unfair that someone so insufferable is also so attractive," Oliver murmured against Ian's lips, his voice tinged with provocation, but also with disarming honesty. Almost as an involuntary reflection, he added, "Makes it very hard to hate you."

Ian let out a low laugh, but the heat in his eyes betrayed any attempt at lightness.

"I never believed you hated me, not for a second," he retorted.

Oliver smiled, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I could start right now if you don't get rid of those clothes."

Ian's response came in the form of a fierce kiss, his teeth capturing Oliver's lower lip and his tongue sliding against his without any hesitation. Oliver's body reacted instantly, every cell craving more of this contact, more of this man who somehow managed to tear down all of his defenses.

"Back pocket," Oliver indicated, breathless.

"Oliver, this is going to change everything," Ian hesitated, his self-control unraveling before Oliver's eyes.

Oliver didn't miss the chance to respond, moving his hips suggestively against Ian's, as slowly as he could, pushing him right to the edge.

"What makes you think there's any chance we could go back to the way things were?"

Oliver's words cut through the air, and Ian seemed to struggle to keep his focus. Finally, he gave in, his fingers trembling slightly as he reached for the wallet in Oliver's pocket, the accidental touches on sensitive skin drawing shivers from him.

With deliberate movements, Ian pulled off Oliver's pants, revealing him completely.

"Give me your hand," Oliver whispered, pulling away briefly from the kiss, the intensity of his gaze locked on Ian.

Without hesitation, Ian obeyed, the submission almost unconscious in his expression. Oliver grasped his hand firmly, bringing it to his lips. A soft kiss on the tip of the index finger, another on the middle, and without warning, he sucked Ian's long fingers into his mouth, his tongue circling them slowly.

Ian gasped, his jaw dropping as he watched, mesmerized.

"Don't ask again," Oliver whispered against Ian's fingertips, his voice firm but gentle. "Go ahead, touch me."

The surrender in Ian's eyes was immediate, as if Oliver's words were the permission he needed to let go of all doubt. He slid his hand over Oliver's body, exploring him with a reverence that contrasted with the purpose. And yet, there was something deeply vulnerable in his touch, a hesitation that made Oliver's heart race — not just from desire, but from the connection they were forming.

Oliver leaned toward Ian, his eyes capturing the exact moment when Ian's eyelids drooped, heavy with restrained pleasure, his lips parted in a sigh that bordered on surrender. There was something in his expression that wavered between ecstasy and agony, a paradox that set every cell in Oliver on fire.

In the cramped space of the car, their bodies intertwined in a slow, relentless rhythm, learning each other for the first time. Oliver took control with an almost instinctive confidence, his gaze fixed on Ian's transformation — always so composed, now unraveling with every ragged breath and erratic movement. The sight was intoxicating, an image Oliver never dared to dream of, but that now consumed him like a fever.

He had never imagined Ian could be so vulnerable, so receptive, and at the same time so overwhelmingly beautiful, his eyes locked on the ripple of Oliver's body over his. His hair was disheveled, sticking to his sweaty forehead, his cracked lips moist, releasing moans that seemed to ask — in desperation and disbelief — how Oliver had learned to move like that, like a prince defying every expectation.

And it was precisely that which ignited Oliver from within — the satisfaction of dismantling the immaculate image that others insisted on projecting onto him. There was something deeply seductive about undoing this illusion of purity, and he couldn't resist pushing the boundaries.

What if he went a little further? Oliver was really good at this.

"Show me," Oliver panted, his lips brushing against the thin skin of Ian's ear, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. "Show me how you like it."

And Ian responded to the request as if it were a command engraved in his soul.

He pushed himself up on the seat, pressing a firm hand against the small of Oliver's back, keeping him steady while his other hand anchored itself to the car roof. His movements became more urgent, more instinctive. Ian's eyes sought Oliver's approval, but Oliver's expression was more lost in the lust of those almond-shaped eyes, glowing under the blue light of the dashboard.

Oliver's fingers tangled in Ian's hair, pulling with calculated force, as Ian's body enveloped him with an almost raw intensity, with no trace of gentleness. Then, as if it had been timed, Oliver felt Ian's breath catch, his teeth sink into the muscle between his shoulder and neck, and his hands push him down harder. It was enough for Oliver to lose all control.

He tilted Ian's head back, catching his muffled moan as he joined their lips, stifling his own cry against Ian's skin.

And when the breath finally returned, their bodies still intertwined in the narrow seat, Oliver traced lazy patterns on Ian's skin.

"That was..." Ian began, his voice still hoarse, as if the words were scratching their way out of his throat.

"Wrong?" Oliver suggested, the smile on his lips carrying a mix of irony and exhaustion, barely perceptible in the dim light.

"Terribly," Ian corrected, pulling Oliver closer with an almost desperate need, as if fearing reality would tear them apart. "But I have to admit, I never imagined such a colossal mistake could be, at the same time, so mind-blowingly good."

"Seems to be the case with most of them," Oliver whispered, so close to unconsciousness that he barely felt his lips form a lazy smile before sleep took him once again.