Warnings: Sexual assault and domestic abuse.

IV: The Library

Soaked as his robes were, Aramy could barely stand. Thankfully, his beloved bonded took note of his plight and hauled him up by one arm.

Well, perhaps it wasn't generosity motivating Carnelio. As if he knew the meaning of the word. Instead, the prince wished to make a quick getaway; he bade hasty farewells to several nearby nobles before marching down the eastern path toward the royal apartments. Aramy stumbled to keep up, trying not to trip over the heavy, dragging hem of his robes.

He began to rue court fashion and its insistence on multiple layers. Perhaps the Flamelanders had the right idea dressing their ministra in only a single length of silk...but he did have the layers to thank for protecting him from the broken glass. He'd also had the forethought to throw his arms over his head, so the worst injuries he'd sustained were a few scrapes and bruises. More than he could say for the prince, who was bleeding from a cut on his brow but didn't seem to care. Figured.

When Carnelio got into this state, nothing could snap him out of it until he got what he wanted. And ah, the prince always got what he wanted.

When they reached the building, Carnelio sped up his pace, yanking so hard Aramy almost cried out. Almost. He ground his teeth against the pain. This is nothing I can't handle...

They emerged in the ground-floor apartments. A Silent Servant attendant knelt by the fire, but one glare from Carnelio made him scamper.

Aramy might or might not have felt a pang of regret. Why, he hadn't the faintest clue. It would be terribly unsexy if someone were to witness them in the act, or maybe Carnelio was turned on by that kind of thing? He'd have to check.

All thought fled when Carnelio threw open the bedroom door and hurled him atop the bed. Aramy gasped as he hit the mattress.

Then Carnelio was on top of him, straddling him, pulling the outer two layers of his robes from his shoulders. His progress halted when he reached Aramy's waist, thanks to the sash. For a second Aramy entertained the hope that Carnelio would actually try undoing the thing this time, but of course Carnelio didn't possess the patience for dealing with the intricate knot. Aramy couldn't even tie it on his own, requiring a servant's aid.

So he felt no regret when Carnelio ripped through the silk. One rip, two. The sash loosened. Carnelio resumed his frantic undressing, cursing as he fought with wet silk. Well, he only had himself to blame—not that he'd ever hear it from Aramy.

Aramy helped Carnelio along as best he could, but it was hard when he couldn't tell where Carnelio's hands were going next. He heard a few more tears and held in a sigh. All his best clothes met their end at the prince’s hands.

Somehow he'd twisted around enough to look Carnelio in the eye. The prince was a ghastly sight, half his face masked in blood.

"Your Highness," Aramy breathed, arching his back and kicking his legs so he could slide out of the next layer of silk. "Shouldn't you get your injuries treated first?"

"Shut the fuck up." Eloquent as ever. "And turn over.”

Aramy didn't resist as Carnelio pressed a hand to his back, turning him around so he lay on his stomach. The next layer to disappear was his scarlet robe, leaving him clad only in a sheer underrobe. Carnelio wasted no time tugging it off, snarling as it snagged on Aramy's cuffs and anklets, but he made no move to remove the jewelry. Aramy felt strangely grateful for that.

"Poor, poor Highness.” Craning his neck, Aramy smirked at Carnelio. "You must have been holding it in all night, hmm? Watching those idiots perform the same acts you've seen a hundred times already...it must have been unbearable. You were sitting there, burning and burning—" A gasp as Carnelio wrenched his thighs apart "—and when you got to kiss me, that couldn't have done much to slake your thirst—"

Why he insisted on babbling like an idiot was beyond him; Carnelio wasn't really turned on by dirty talk, and no matter what Aramy said, he couldn't stave off what was coming. Still, it made him feel better.

A hand pressed between his shoulder blades, forcing him further down, while his other hand pulled Aramy’s thighs up, making him lift his rear. Carnelio didn't like to talk at all during the act, come to think of it.

Face-down with his ass raised, Aramy felt like nothing so much as a bitch about to be taken by a hound. So degrading. He wished Carnelio had let him bathe first. His skin felt cold and clammy from the rain, his makeup was a smeared mess, and his hair was tangled with the chains and rubies.

He felt the furthest thing from attractive, but Carnelio didn't care as long as he got to stick his dick in something warm. When hard, throbbing flesh pressed against his hole, Aramy swallowed a protest. At least he'd long learned to keep himself prepared, because Ancestors knew Carnelio would never bother.

Still, Aramy couldn't help but tense when Carnelio shoved inside. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe, then Carnelio started moving. The rhythm barely counted as one; Carnelio just kept pounding ineptly away. His dick didn't come anywhere close to Aramy's prostate; the angle was wrong. Aramy considered correcting it, but he couldn't move when Carnelio was pressing so hard on his back.

Fuck it, Carnelio wasn't even bothering to make sure Aramy got hard too. Thanks to the position, Aramy couldn't reach for his own cock either. All he could do was lie there and take it. At least it didn't hurt. Overly much.

Carnelio grunted with each thrust, low and guttural. Aramy's own breathing came as a harsh rasp. He bit his lip until he tasted blood, but he refused to bite the duvet. It was too nice to ruin, although Carnelio's activities were probably going to stain it anyway.

The slap of flesh on flesh echoed in the room. Carnelio's pace increased, becoming more irregular. Despite himself, Aramy began to respond, jerking his hips in time with Carnelio's thrusts—or at least trying to, given Carnelio's utter disregard for rhythm. He tried, oh how he tried to make it feel good for himself, instead of something he only endured, but...

This is what a bond is, hm?

The hand on his back crept upward until it seized a fistful of his hair. And yanked. Aramy threw his head back, biting in a scream. Another, harder tug. A pin slid free from his hair, tumbling onto the duvet, and several loose locks cascaded over his ear.

Now Aramy had no choice but to look right at the ceiling, at the lights glowing merrily inside their spheres. So many lights. Hurt his eyes. He extended a trembling hand, wondering if he could grab hold of them. When he was a child, he'd thought he could pluck the stars from the sky if he reached hard enough, if he just tried...

Dimly, his eyes focused on the silver markings swirling across his forearm. Dragons-and-staves mingled with flying doves, the Basquiale emblem. Doves. What a joke. Dragons ate doves; it didn't work any other way.

He wasn't a dove. Never had been. He wasn't—he wasn't—