Oliver still hadn't grown used to the idea of being there — sitting beside Ian in the luxurious quarters of Stockholm's Royal Palace, as a personal guest of King Magnus.

Queen Charlotte, after subtle and persistent insistence, had convinced him to attend. Ian, with that determined look, was the final push. And so, they found themselves in a silent limousine, the dark glass reflecting only glimpses of the city lights, on their way to the royal estate.

As they crossed the entrance hall, they were greeted by elegantly dressed staff, each one impeccable in their attire. The light marble beneath their feet seemed to glow on its own, the walls adorned with contemporary art, carefully illuminated. There was no excess; everything was calculated to appear modern and imposing. When the dining room doors opened, Oliver needed a moment to adjust to the grandeur unfolding before him. The table was long and dazzling, covered with a golden cloth that reflected the soft glow of the chandeliers above. Wildflowers, with an almost untamed beauty, dotted the room — a subtle break from the surrounding sophistication.

Oliver could hardly focus on King Magnus's endless speech about Sweden's technological wonders; his eyes were fixed on Ian, sitting beside him. Even under the warm lights, Ian's black suit seemed to absorb the attention of the room, as if he, not the king, were the true center of that universe. His curls fell carelessly over his forehead, his sideburns framing his face in a way that was almost indecent. The short beard gave a casual air to an image that would otherwise have been oppressively perfect.

Ian leaned forward, capturing the king's attention. "Indeed, Your Majesty, Sweden's tech industry is an example to the world, but I see even greater potential in closer collaboration between our nations."

His voice, firm and controlled, filled the room, and Oliver could barely hide his fascination as Ian played the role of eloquent advocate, throwing polite but cold smiles at the king. He loved the way Ian took control of the situation, even if the subject was the last thing Oliver wanted to pay attention to.

"Beyond the economic benefits, we would have a personal bond between our leaders." Queen Ingrid joined the conversation, clearly charmed by the idea of deeper alliances. "Don't you agree, dear Oliver?" she asked, her voice melodic but tinged with expectation.

Three pairs of eyes turned toward him. Startled, Oliver straightened up, his hands carefully resting on the table.

"Ah, yes, of course... Your Majesty," he began, his tone barely hiding how distant his mind was. "Contributing to the economic and... political strengthening of our nations would be a pleasure."

The words sounded vague even to his own ears, but Ian, as always, didn't miss the chance to correct him. "What we want, actually," Ian clarified, "is to ensure this union transcends mere symbolism, creating a true alliance, sustained by mutual trust." Ian's sharp gaze pierced through, as if underlining each word with intent.

For a moment, Oliver just watched, lost in the details that made Ian the irresistible force that he was. His voice became a distant melody, almost comforting. Without thinking, Oliver's hand gently rested on Ian's thigh, as if it were a natural, unconscious movement. The reaction was immediate: Ian tensed slightly, his usual composure faltering. A teasing smile appeared on Oliver's face, a silent satisfaction from the crack he knew he'd created.

Ian shifted in his seat, adjusting himself with a subtle discomfort that only Oliver could perceive. Every calculated gesture, every well-placed word seemed less solid now, as if his senses were being overwhelmed by Oliver's unbearably close presence.

"Your Majesty," Ian said, his voice faltering just enough to betray his discomfort, "beyond political matters, it's essential to consider the personal dynamics involved. A strong alliance requires harmony not only between nations but also between individuals."

Oliver kept his eyes fixed on Ian, the conversations around them becoming distant noise. As King Magnus spoke about the qualities of his daughter, Oliver allowed his fingers, casually resting on Ian's thigh, to move upward by a millimeter in a slow, almost imperceptible touch. Ian reacted with a faint gasp, inaudible to others, but for Oliver, it was a subtle and satisfying confirmation.

He had found the crack in the armor.

"An excellent observation, Mr. Harrison-Jones," Oliver murmured, a subtle glint in his eyes, teasing him. "We should, without a doubt, explore that idea further."

The King, oblivious to the tension simmering between the two, continued calmly. "Sofia is a remarkable young woman. I have every confidence that she and the Prince will find common ground that goes beyond political needs."

Oliver nodded automatically, but his focus was on the blush creeping across Ian's cheeks. Small beads of sweat formed on his brow, signaling the effort he was making to maintain his composure. Ian's usual control was slipping, and Oliver realized he was closer to winning this game than he had imagined.

"Is everything alright, dear?" Queen Ingrid's sweet, attentive voice cut through the air. Ian cleared his throat, struggling to maintain his posture, though the hoarseness in his voice betrayed him. "Yes, Your Majesty. Just a slight discomfort." Oliver, feigning concern, quickly responded. "Perhaps it's the effects of the journey," he suggested, his expression composed while his fingers continued their subtle, yet deeply provocative touch. The Queen offered, with genuine courtesy, "Shall I call our private physician, if you prefer?"

"That won't be necessary," Ian replied quickly. His eyes closed for a brief moment, as if trying, in vain, to distance himself from Oliver's unsettling touch. "Thank you."

Oliver then resumed the conversation with unnerving serenity, his control fully regained. "Your Majesty, I firmly believe that an alliance based on genuine affinities would bring not only political benefits but also long-lasting stability for both realms." The silence that followed seemed to stretch for an eternity. Ian, desperate to escape the vicious circle of provocation, searched desperately for a way out. "And Princess Sofia?" he asked, his voice laced with barely concealed urgency. "Perhaps it would be interesting to hear her opinion."

Before the King could respond, Oliver pressed firmly on Ian's thigh, a silent warning. The tension mounted, the heat of Oliver's touch radiating like a silent fire, burning away any coherent thoughts Ian might have tried to form. Queen Ingrid smiled, satisfied. "Our daughter is at her riding lesson. Sofia fully trusts our judgment, Mr. Harrison-Jones." Before Ian could react or formulate a response, Oliver's hand slid imperceptibly, resting against Ian's groin. A light touch, yet laden with hidden intent. Ian almost faltered but held his composure, though the discomfort — and repressed desire — was palpable.

Oliver, with the cunning of someone who knew they had already won, didn't need to push further to escalate the situation.

"Counselor," Oliver began, his voice low, almost velvety, every word carefully chosen to maximize the impact, "you don't seem well. Your Majesties, allow me to accompany Mr. Harrison-Jones for some fresh air."

The King, noticing only the surface of what was happening, smiled understandingly. "Of course, fresh air will certainly help."

Both rose with the elegance expected of the occasion. Oliver, as always, maintained his impeccable posture, but as he passed Ian, his hand slid across Ian's back with a disguised smoothness. It wasn't a kindness; it was a reminder. Ian felt the electric jolt of that touch, a spark running down his spine that made his skin shiver.

The two walked in silence through the decorated corridors, the portraits of former monarchs watching them with their austere gazes. The sound of their shoes echoing against the marble seemed to amplify the tension between them. The contrast between the grandeur of the palace and the intensity filling the space between them was almost ironic, and Oliver relished the strange disconnect between the setting and what was truly happening.

When they reached an ornate door, Oliver opened it slowly and deliberately, allowing Ian to enter first. The soft click of the lock sounded like the closing of a chapter, as if their fate had been sealed at that very moment. But instead of heading to where Ian expected — the exit for "fresh air" — Oliver silently led him to a small, adorned restroom, hidden from public view and discreetly away from prying eyes.

"I told you before, you have a terrible sense of timing and place," Ian murmured, his voice carrying a restrained reprimand, though laced with resignation, as if he already knew resisting was futile. Oliver approached slowly, each step calculated, until their faces were mere inches apart. "I was mortally bored," he teased, his voice low and luxurious. "If I had to hear one more word about treaties, I'd have gouged out my own eyes."

Ian let out a brief, stifled laugh, the sound tense and muffled. "This is madness," he said, but his hand was already tugging at Oliver's tie, fingers eager — his body betraying the words from his lips. The first touch felt like the anticipation before a storm — the moment when the air compresses, lungs hesitate to breathe. The kiss didn't come with the violence Ian expected, but with a calmness that made everything else fade away. Ian's lips weren't a plea or a command, but a restrained surrender, the beginning of a slow descent.

Oliver could feel the texture of Ian's mouth, warm, paradoxically soft and rough at once. There was no rush, no desperation of bodies starved for each other. His hands found Ian's skin, and that's when the shock came — a surge running through his fingers, vibrating up his spine.

Ian tried to protest, "We can't do this here..." but the words were drowned out, swallowed between kisses that stripped away any capacity for rational thought.

"It'll be quick," Oliver whispered with a mischievous smile against Ian's neck, his warm breath making him shiver. "And quiet."

Ian smiled, raising an eyebrow. "Those are two qualities you don't handle very well."

But despite the tease, he was already surrendering. Oliver knew.

Ian's eyes held his, unwavering, as though waiting for the ground to collapse beneath them. But it was Oliver who knelt, as if daring Ian to resist. "You can't just exist like that beside me and expect me not to do something about it."

Ian's fingers gripped the edge of the sink, his body instinctively responding to Oliver's touch. Without breaking eye contact, Ian spread his legs wider, a silent invitation that Oliver accepted without hesitation.

Oliver knew Ian's body like a map, each reaction a precise coordinate that he deciphered with mastery. The way Ian breathed heavily, his Adam's apple moving visibly, his lips curling in words that never came — everything was a clear signal that Oliver was in control. It was hypnotizing, an intimate spectacle that Oliver never tired of watching.

But observing was no longer enough. He needed more — something that would erase any notion of where they were. In a sudden movement, Oliver stood, bringing their faces close, capturing Ian's lips in an urgent kiss, leaving no room for tenderness.

"No time for foreplay."

Something about Ian being submissive and aroused stirred in Oliver a desire to possess, a need to claim. However, he wasn't ready to relinquish control so easily. His fingers tangled in Oliver's hair, pulling him back firmly, forcing him to tilt his head.

Ian's gaze was sharp, almost predatory.

"Turn around, Your Highness," he ordered, his voice low, leaving no room for question.

In fact, he wanted this. He wanted to lose himself in Ian, to get lost in this feeling that grew stronger by the second. When Ian slid a leg between Oliver's, opening him up without ceremony, Oliver felt a shiver run down his spine. Ian's breath was hot on his neck, a sensation that made Oliver's body surrender completely. Ian guided him with confident movements, his large hands sometimes exploring with an almost brutal urgency, other times caressing with disconcerting tenderness. Everything he wanted — everything he could feel — was right there, in Ian's hands and breath.

"Did you plan all of this?" Ian asked directly into Oliver's ear, his voice almost inaudible.

"You never know when an irresistible counselor will drive me mad during dinner," he whispered, knowing those words were only a half-truth. Because the whole truth was that he hadn't planned any of this — not the dinner, not the desire, and certainly not what he felt for Ian. But there he was, unable to resist, unable to stop.

Ian didn't respond. Instead, he let his actions speak louder, his hands sliding down Oliver's lower back, firm but with a surprising gentleness that startled Oliver. The way Ian leaned him forward was both an intimate gesture and an assertion of control, making Oliver feel the weight of surrender and the freedom that came with it. Ian's lips traced a slow, deliberate path between Oliver's shoulder blades, leaving a trail of heat that rooted itself deep within his body.

"What are you doing to me?" Ian whispered, his words barely escaping as a sigh in the space between them.

It was rhetorical, Oliver knew. It wasn't a genuine question but a veiled confession, a truth Ian was finally letting surface.

But Oliver knew what Ian needed to hear. "I'm showing you who you really are," he murmured in response, his voice low and strained, but damn near relieved at the same time. "Someone who finally understands what they want. And isn't afraid to reach out and take it."

"Is that a pretty way of saying completely reckless?" As Ian spoke, Oliver felt the tension in him shift — a mix of reluctant acceptance and a desire that began to take shape. Ian was moving differently now, more freely, as if each touch was a conscious choice, a decision to move forward.

"I'd rather call it courage," he shot back, surprising himself, as always, at how Ian could penetrate so deeply into his soul, dismantling every one of his defenses with devastating precision. There was no room for modesty or hesitation — with Ian, it was as if he were exposed, stripped bare to the core, and yet more alive than he had ever felt.

Oliver's body trembled in Ian's arms, air trapped in his lungs as he fought to contain the sound threatening to escape. The sensation wasn't just a knot but a current surging inside, tightening and releasing all at once, as if every touch from Ian carved something new within him. Every kiss on his neck felt like a secret forcibly sealed, every gesture demanded more self-control than he could offer. And still, Oliver clung to the silence — a silence Ian wouldn't allow to last. When a deeper breath nearly slipped out, Ian's hand moved swiftly, firm, covering his lips. The touch was resolute, demanding, leaving no room for failure.

Oliver's body was already surrendered, a whirlwind of unrestrained sensations he could no longer control. With every deliberate, rhythmic thrust from Ian, his body arched further, sinking into the suffocating intensity between them. The firmness of Ian's movements was relentless, each one more precise, deeper, tearing from Oliver a desperation he struggled to contain behind the barrier of Ian's hand.

"Shh..." Ian whispered, his lips grazing Oliver's ear, a sound barely audible but echoing with an almost predatory need. "Look at me," his voice was a low, possessive command. Oliver couldn't ignore it — even if he wanted to.

He obeyed, and what he found nearly stopped his heart: Ian's almond-shaped, sharp eyes burned with an intensity that seemed to devour him through the mirror. The reflection showed Ian's muscles taut, his gaze fierce and inescapable as he held Oliver firm, and Oliver's own image, lost in that vision that enveloped him, trapping him, keeping him there, utterly submissive.

Ian leaned in again, his mouth so close to Oliver's ear that he felt the heat of every word. "Keep your eyes on me," Ian growled, his voice low and firm, his body moving with a controlled, almost smooth cadence that made Oliver feel like he might collapse.

Oliver's breath quickened, his chest rising and falling in a frantic rhythm, and just when he thought he might lose control, Ian's touch over his lips intensified, a reminder of the absolute silence they had to maintain.

He rolled his eyes instinctively, unable to respond any other way, but the strength of that connection held him, as if escape were impossible. That gaze consumed him, just as Ian's touch dominated him, so deep that it felt as if it could tear him apart from the inside out. Oliver couldn't resist any longer. Every part of him surrendered, melting under Ian's firm touch, under the relentless rhythm that intensified with every second.

The mirror captured not just their bodies but the unbreakable bond between them, the need that consumed them. Even though they hadn't spoken about the unresolved feelings between them, there was something in that look.

For Oliver, the evidence was there, raw and exposed, and the thought terrified him.

That crystalline gleam, deepening the green of Ian's own eyes, seemed to go beyond passion, touching something deeper, something that could be...

Then, like a jolt of reality, the sound of firm knocks on the door brought them back to the surface.

"Prince Oliver? Mr. Harrison-Jones? Are you in there?"

The familiar voice of Queen Bernadotte sounded worried, an unwelcome reminder that they were far from alone.

Oliver froze for a moment, his gaze locked on Ian's eyes, waiting for him to back down. Hoping that, somehow, reason would prevail. But Ian was never the kind of man who backed away from obstacles. On the contrary, the faint smirk lifting the corner of his lips, subtle and audacious, was the only answer he gave before responding with irritatingly controlled calm:

"Yes, Your Majesty. We'll be ready in a minute."

Instead of stepping back, Ian moved closer, as if the danger surrounding them was just another spice, something to savor in every second. The urgency in his movements intensified, as if the queen's presence outside the door was nothing more than extra motivation to carry on. When Ian leaned in to whisper in Oliver's ear, "Don't hold back, baby. I'm almost there too," a sudden rush of adrenaline hit.

The palace, the opulent walls, the cold marble — they all disappeared. It was reduced to the heat building from the inside out, a heat that boiled in his veins like a fever he couldn't shake. Ian's voice, the way he called him "love" for the first time, the rhythm of his thrusts — each one firmer than the last — and the risk of being caught all blended together, creating a pressure that built to breaking point. Oliver felt something inside him expand, stretch to its limit, and then collapse entirely. His body reacted like a coiled spring released, trembling as he unraveled under Ian's hands.

Ian's hand clamped firmly over his mouth stifled the groan that burned in his throat, each sensation crashing over him like waves against rocks. Ian buried his face in the crook of Oliver's neck, his breath ragged, lips warm against sweat-slicked skin. When Ian reached his climax, the sound that escaped him was muffled, almost pained. His arms tightened around Oliver, holding him as if he could keep him from falling apart entirely.

"Fuck," was all Oliver managed to say after a long moment of silence, still trying to gather his thoughts.

Ian chuckled softly, a sound so gentle and intimate that it sent a strange pang through Oliver's chest—a quiet longing for that moment, that bubble in time, to last forever. So damn captivated.

"I know," Ian replied, a satisfied smile on his face, as if he understood exactly what Oliver was trying to say.

As they composed themselves in silence, the soft lights of the bathroom revealed details that spoke more than words could: Ian's finger marks on Oliver's skin, the sheen of sweat on his face, the lingering flush on his cheeks. Oliver tried to lighten the moment, joking, "If I'd known these boring dinners could end like this, I'd have done it sooner." His attempt at humor came out weaker than he intended, a thin armor against the vulnerability he felt. But Ian, rather than distancing himself as Oliver expected, gave him a fleeting, almost shy smile, a sweetness that made Oliver's heart twist in discomfort. The kind of feeling he knew he should avoid, but for some inexplicable reason, made him want to get even closer to Ian.

"Do I look like someone who just threw up?" Ian joked, adjusting his tie, but his flush, the satin sheen on his skin, betrayed a satisfaction Oliver knew all too well. Everything about him radiated lust, not nausea.

"Decidedly," Oliver replied, knowing Ian would catch the soft sarcasm, but Ian just nodded, seemingly satisfied with the response.

Then, Ian did something unexpected—he didn't pull away, didn't distance himself. Instead, he leaned in, capturing Oliver's lips in a kiss so delicate it made Oliver's heart stumble in its rhythm.

"Duty calls," Ian murmured against his lips, lingering for another second before finally pulling away. There was no hesitation in his posture as he headed for the door, but something about his shoulders seemed... different, more relaxed, as if some old tension had finally eased.

As they left the bathroom, the clock seemed to mock them. Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes that changed everything, and yet opened a silent chasm between what they were and what they could be now. Oliver still felt the tremor in his hands, struggling to hold onto reality. But Ian's presence, so close yet so impossible to decipher, made everything feel unreal.

When they returned to the dining room, Oliver immediately noticed a new presence at the table. Sofia, in her immaculate equestrian uniform, seemed to stand out effortlessly, as if the luxury around her was just a secondary detail. Her blonde hair, loose and slightly tousled, framed a face lit by a calm expression. When her blue eyes met Oliver's, she offered an easy smile, free from forced formalities.

"Your Royal Highness, Prince Oliver." She gave a graceful curtsy before turning to Ian, a shadow of concern in her voice. "Mr. Harrison-Jones, I hope you're feeling better."

Ian replied with his usual politeness, his voice cold and precise, as if merely fulfilling a social obligation. "I'm better, thank you, Your Highness."

"Sorry for the outfit," Sofia continued, her wide eyes turning to Oliver as if seeking complicity. "I didn't expect to see you tonight."

Oliver seized the opportunity, smiling with a certain ease. "I once had a horse, you know? His name was Kafka."

"Intense name for a horse," Sofia replied, a hint of humor curling her lips. The momentary lightness in the air was a relief, a pause in the storm brewing inside Oliver.

"Mine's Matteo."

Oliver tilted his head, pretending to ponder. "Matteo... Sounds more like an Italian barista who makes artistic coffees with hearts in the foam."

Sofia smiled, a warm glow lighting up her face. "He's an Italian Sella. My sweetest companion." Sofia then pulled up the sleeve of her jacket, revealing a small, delicate tattoo on her wrist. "And here he is," she said, offering her arm for Oliver to see.

He leaned in, observing the minimalist artwork that depicted the elegant profile of a horse. "Well, that's not something you expect to see on a princess," he commented with genuine curiosity.

"Honestly, I think too many protocols keep us from being ourselves."

"Sofia, please," Queen Ingrid intervened softly, but her daughter didn't seem to care.

Oliver couldn't help but admire that subtle rebellion, a spark of authenticity amidst the exhausting formality. "To be fair, I feel the same," Oliver murmured, as if confessing a secret.

Sofia nodded, and for the first time, he felt understood by someone who lived under the same unyielding rules.

But when he looked at Ian, expecting to see a reflection of that understanding, all he found was a distant look, a flicker of disapproval. Ian's frown was a silent reminder that, despite everything, there were still barriers that couldn't be crossed.

"Well, if you'll excuse me," Sofia said politely, the brief glance she gave Oliver carrying a strange mix of challenge and understanding. "I need to freshen up and change into something more appropriate to join you for dessert."

Oliver nodded, trying to hide the sudden discomfort with a polite smile. Sofia returned the gesture, her eyes sparkling like sapphires beneath dark lashes before she turned to leave.

When Oliver finally turned to Ian, the scene seemed to have shifted in a matter of seconds. Ian, who had been so present, was now lost in thought, staring at his shoes. The furrowed brow and tense jaw were unmistakable.

When Oliver touched his wrist, hoping for a response, he found only a disconcerting rigidity, as if he were touching cold marble.

"Is everything okay?" The question came out almost as a whisper.

Ian's gaze finally met Oliver's, turbulent like waves before a storm. "Perfectly."

Helpless, Oliver watched as Ian erected yet another layer of the barrier that separated them. The man he had known in the bathroom, the one who had been vulnerable and kind, was slipping away with each passing second. Within minutes, he had disappeared completely, replaced by the methodical, impenetrable lawyer Oliver had met in the beginning.

For the rest of the evening, Ian kept himself busy with bureaucratic conversations with the hosts, addressing Oliver with only monosyllabic, impersonal words, as if they had gone back to square one. Once again, Oliver felt like a stranger, untouchable and isolated. And Ian, once again, was a fortress.