The King's Gamma (#Wattys2024)

One Hundred and Five

Felix returned to the Blue Tower long past midnight, the canals below shimmering like liquid silver in the moonlight. His steps were buoyant, his blood still humming from the day's encounter. That fleeting moment when the water had curled around Hal's wrists—when the boy hadn't immediately pulled away—played on a relentless loop in his mind.

He dreamed of drowning. Of being kept.

The thought sent a thrill through Felix's veins.

The tower doors groaned open before him, the very stones recognizing their master. Apprentices lingering in the halls scattered like startled fish, bowing hastily as he passed. He barely noticed them. His mind was elsewhere—fixated on storm-gray eyes and that stubborn, defiant mouth.

Hal was young. Sixteen, perhaps seventeen. Old enough to know desire, yet still untouched by its full consequences. And Felix—

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

He was the Lord of the Blue Tower. A man of power, of influence. And yet here he was, pacing his chambers like some lovestruck fool, his magic restless and churning around him.

A goblet of wine floated to his hand, the dark liquid swirling on its own accord. He drank deeply, savoring the burn.

This is madness.

Hal was just a boy. A beautiful, sharp-tongued, infuriating boy who had somehow gotten under his skin like no one else ever had.

Felix set the goblet down with a sharp clink.

He should let this go.

He wouldn't.

The water in the chamber's central pool rippled, responding to his agitation. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it spiraling upward in a twisting column, shaping it into something sinuous and serpentine—a mimicry of the way Hal moved, all coiled tension and controlled grace.

A knock at the door shattered his reverie.

"Enter," he snapped.

His spymaster slipped inside, his narrow face pinched with unease. "My lord," he murmured, bowing. "The scholar has been... discouraged. He won't approach Hal again."

Felix barely glanced at him. "Good."

The spymaster hesitated. "There's more. The High Council has summoned you. At dawn."

Felix went very still.

The spymaster swallowed. "They've heard... rumors."

Of course they had.

The Tower Lords were not meant to fixate on street rats, no matter how intriguing. They were certainly not meant to be caught chasing after boys barely out of adolescence.

For a wild, reckless moment, Felix considered throwing it all away—the tower, the title, the politics. What did any of it matter, if he could have him instead?

But no.

That was the wine talking. The hunger. The want.

He was Felix Vaelith, Lord of the Blue Tower. He did not abandon power—he wielded it.

And Hal?

Hal would be his.

Not by force. Never by force. But by slow, relentless seduction—by making the boy ache for it, until he came to Felix willingly, desperately, drowning in the very desire he now resisted.

"Tell the Council I'll be there," Felix said, his voice dangerously soft.

The spymaster bowed and retreated, leaving Felix alone with the weight of his own hunger.