"I want you," Cecil said.

Before Frederik could gather an answer, Cecil went on as if the matter had already moved past debate, his hands still resting against Frederik’s ribs.

"If I were an alpha, you would already be marked," he said. "But I’m not. And unlike them, I cannot take that step without your will in it. I need your intention, Frederik. Your choice."

His gaze did not waver.

"I can corner half the court into silence. I can make nobles regret speaking my name carelessly. But this?" His fingers brushed the skin under him. "This is the one thing I cannot force. You would have to want it too."

Cecil went quiet after that.

Not because he regretted saying it. Cecil rarely regretted saying exactly what he meant. But he knew Frederik well enough by now to recognize silences, and this one felt dangerously familiar. The kind that usually came just before Frederik tried to soften the conversation into something easier to manage, something cleaner and less exposing than the truth Cecil had just laid between them.

So that was how this would go.

Frederik would sigh, say something composed and aggravatingly reasonable, and attempt to move them away from the edge as if Cecil had not just handed him the most vulnerable part of himself without armor.

Cecil was already preparing to dislike that outcome.

Instead, Frederik let out a slow breath and reached to the side, extending one hand toward the coat he had abandoned on the nightstand - most likely thrown there by Cecil himself earlier, with significantly less care than the garment deserved. His long, elegant fingers caught the dark material and pulled it closer before holding it out.

Cecil looked at the coat, then at him.

Frederik’s expression had changed in a way that made the room feel very still.

"Search the inner pocket," Frederik said.

For one rare moment, Cecil did not move.

Then, slowly, he took the coat.

The fabric was still warm in places, the lining creased from being handled carelessly and worn properly only hours earlier. Cecil kept his face composed as he slipped his hand inside, though something low and strange had begun to tighten beneath his ribs. The first pocket yielded nothing useful. The second...

His fingers brushed velvet.

Cecil stilled.

Frederik said nothing.

Cecil drew out a small case.

For the first time since the conversation began, Cecil looked genuinely caught off guard.

Frederik watched him from beneath half-lowered lashes, still lying back against the bed, though there was nothing relaxed about him now. Some of his usual composure remained, but not all of it. Cecil could see the tension in the line of his mouth, the thoughtful calm of a man who had reached the point where retreat would only make things worse.

"You," Cecil said after a moment, "have very questionable timing."

Frederik’s mouth shifted faintly. "I was under the impression yours was worse."

Cecil ignored that.

He opened the case.

Inside, set against the dark velvet, was a ring.

The metal was pale, clean-lined, and strong without heaviness, and set into it with quiet restraint was a stone the color of Cecil’s eyes.

Cecil stared at it.

His expression did not crack, but something behind it did.

Frederik continued to watch him with that infuriating steadiness, as if he hadn’t simply taken the conversation, turned it on its head, and put Cecil in a vulnerable position.

"You had this prepared," Cecil said.

It was not a question.

"A while ago," Frederik admitted.

"How long?"

Frederik hesitated just enough to annoy him. "Long enough that I would prefer not to be mocked for it."

Cecil lifted his eyes from the ring to Frederik’s face.

That answer told him more than a number would have.

Long enough, then, to matter. Long enough that this had not been a reaction to rumors, pressure, family expectations, or the court deciding to sniff around their lives like bored vultures in silk. Long enough that Frederik had thought about this in private, said nothing, and carried the proof of it on his person like a secret he had not yet found the courage, or opportunity, to place into Cecil’s hands.

The realization landed with far more force than Cecil had expected.

"You let me speak that entire time," he said.

Frederik’s brow lifted slightly. "You were making a point."

Then something clicked for Cecil, his dark brow furrowing at the unpleasant thought of something escaping him. "You would have accepted my mark any time."

Frederik looked at him for half a second.

Then he smiled.

Wide, unguarded, and far too pleased with himself.

"You never tried," he said.

Cecil stared at him.

For one rare moment, he looked genuinely offended.

"I have spent months," Cecil said slowly, "being dignified."

Frederik’s grin only deepened. "That was your first mistake."

"I was waiting for certainty."

"You had it."

"You are exceptionally good at looking like a man one wrong move away from fleeing through a wall."

Frederik actually laughed at that, low and warm and entirely too satisfied for Cecil’s peace of mind.

"And yet," he said, "you still ended up in my bed."

"That is not the same as consent to being marked."

"No," Frederik agreed easily. "It is only consent to everything that usually comes before it."

Cecil narrowed his eyes.

Frederik, lying beneath him with his hair disordered and his control visibly compromised, still managed to look infuriatingly elegant. Worse, now that the ring had been found and the truth had been dragged into the open, he looked relieved.

"You are telling me," Cecil said, each word precise, "that I could have asked months ago."

"Yes."

"And you would have said yes."

Frederik tilted his head against the pillow, watching him with open amusement. "Most likely."

"Most likely," Cecil repeated flatly.

"I am trying not to reward your arrogance too quickly."

"My arrogance is justified."

"That is what makes it insufferable."

Cecil looked down at him for a long moment, then reached out and set the ring case aside with thoughtfulness, as though he no longer trusted himself to hold too many important things at once.

"You really were going to wait forever," he said.

Frederik’s expression softened by a fraction. "No. I was going to wait until you stopped pretending you were the only one making choices here."

That landed harder than Cecil expected.

He had spent so much time measuring the distance between them, controlling it, closing it, testing where Frederik would yield and where he would hold. He had thought himself patient. Strategic. Restrained, even.

Apparently Frederik had spent the same months standing in place and letting Cecil circle him like a man who had not yet realized the door was unlocked.

The thought was deeply irritating.

It was also, against all reason, comforting.

Cecil’s hand moved over Frederik’s ribs again, slower this time, not teasing now, but thoughtful. "You should have said something."

Frederik’s grin returned, though softer around the edges. "And deprive myself of this expression?"

"I am not making an expression."

"You are. It is very prince-like. Mildly murderous. Deeply affronted."

Cecil looked at him without blinking.

"I asked a year ago," he said. "And you said no."

Frederik’s expression did not change, though something drier entered his eyes.

"You asked for a hidden mark," he said. "That is still a no."

Cecil’s brows drew together. "You were refusing the secrecy."

"I was refusing to be tucked away like a vice you intended to keep under formalwear."

That hit cleanly enough to quiet the room for a beat.

Frederik shifted slightly beneath him, not retreating, not softening the point, only making sure Cecil understood exactly where the line had always been.

"You did not ask me for a mark," Frederik said. "You asked me whether I would let you put your claim on me where no one else could see it. Those are not the same thing."

Cecil held his gaze.

The distinction irritated him immediately, mostly because it was precise and therefore difficult to argue with.

"At the time," he said, "I was attempting to be practical."

"At the time," Frederik replied, "you were attempting to be impossible."