There was nothing more dangerous than having a soulmate. That’s what James had been taught his entire life. Being bound to another, life for life, got one killed just as surely as treason. Anyone with the mark of a binding was executed. Kings and peasants alike, it didn’t matter. There was nothing more dangerous than secondary loyalty to your Kingdom.
The South had started the war by protecting them. They celebrated bonded pairs. A binding was upheld as the most important thing someone could possess. They were upheld above law and honor. Venerated. Protected.
They’d taken James’ home. They’d taken his family. And when his Kingdom tried to defend itself from their scourge, when his King put a bounty on the heads of those with a binding, the South had retaliated.
James mastered the art of knives and silence, he learned to move like a shadow, unseen and inescapable. Bondeds were a disease, and he was a cure. He’d rather have his hands stained red than see his people suffer. Bondeds killed to protect one life. James killed to protect them all.
He became the Shadow of the North, ward of the King. He killed and disappeared. Always hunting. Always ready. A ghost.
***
Steve rode for home, disappointment and exhaustion dragging him down. After four months of sieges and battle plans and hard fought victories, the North had proposed an armistice. Bone-weary, Steve had accepted on behalf of his ma. One week. His shield was heavy on his back.
“What do you think your mother will say about their terms?” Sam, his lieutenant and friend, rode next to him, looking just as worn down as Steve felt.
Steve sighed, rubbing at his face. “She’ll never agree,” he said. “We fight to keep their freedom, and our own. Unless Bondeds give themselves up, the war will continue.”
“I know you think you’re right, Steve,” Sam said, “but how many lives will be lost over this?”
Steve stared at him. If he hadn’t seen Sam’s mouth move, he would’ve believed someone else had asked the question. Sam had never once questioned their fight. “You think the North is right and they should be slaughtered because their bond goes beyond our understanding? Because their devotion to each other is so great and strong that they die if their partner dies? You think we should give Clint and Natasha over to be tortured?”
Sam shook his head slowly, breathing deeply. “No. But I do think you should look at it from their side. How many of their people have been killed because of a Bonded’s rage? In their eyes, we protect murderers, Steve.”
“And they are murderers, Sam. They publicly execute anyone with a binding and only kill one half. They chain the other and make them watch, and then they’re left to die.”
Steve would never forget the first time he’d witnessed one half of a bonded pair wither in front of him. Perfectly healthy and strong, dead because the other half of their soul was gone.
“No one chooses to have a soulmate, Sam,” Steve murmured. “Why should we punish those who do?”
When Sam stayed quiet, Steve nudged his horse into a canter and rode ahead.
The council was silent as Steve reported on the state of the front lines, the fragile peace, and the price for the end of the war. When he finished, no one spoke. They watched as Sarah took in the information, her brows furrowed. She didn’t wear her crown—she rarely did unless she met with representatives—but Steve couldn’t help but think it would help his ma now. There were still those who believed she shouldn’t be Queen, that after the death of her husband, she should’ve abdicated the throne to a more fitting ruler. Steve knew some of her council believed it, but no matter how often he tried to convince her to remove them, she refused. Dissenting opinions were important, she said. Single-mindedness could destroy just as surely as feuds.
“We should give them up.” Steve’s mood soured further when Arnim Zola stood, his voice soft and greasy. He’d come from the North shortly after his father’s death, claiming he sought sanctuary from the ruthlessness of the Northern King. Steve despised him. There were poisonous snakes safer than him. “They won’t fight for themselves, leaving innocent men to die in their stead. We give them up and our people are safe.”
“You’re a fool if you believe that would truly satisfy the North,” Steve said, ignoring the curl of Zola’s lip as he spoke. “There will always be bonded pairs and blood will always be spilt because of them.”
“So says the great Prince who led our troops to their death,” Zola sneered. “You shouldn’t be here, boy.”
Steve refused to show the pain that statement brought. After being promoted to Captain, he’d led his first battalion into an ambush. Over half of his men had been killed. He still suffered nightmares from it. Screams and blood and moving shadows.
“The Prince is right, Arnim,” Commander Fury said. Zola glared venomously at Steve and sank down into his chair, his expression dark.
“What Alexander Pierce wants is control,” Maria said. She’d always been Steve’s favorite member of his ma’s council. While Fury had taught him how to fight, she’d been the one to teach him how to think on the field. Orders given weren’t always the right way forward. “He knows he can’t control the bonded, so he kills them. If we diminish our protections, if we hand them over to be slaughtered, he’ll see it as weakness.”
His ma stayed silent, listening and thinking. “How long is the armistice?”
“A week,” Steve said. “Through the festivals.”
Sarah nodded, looking grim. “Then we have time to propose another end to the war.”
“Extend an invitation to the King’s ward,” Zola said. “If the King won’t talk peace, perhaps his heir will.”
Steve looked at his ma, expecting her to dismiss the idea at once. She looked thoughtful, as did Fury and Maria.
“I don’t think I’ve spoken to anyone who’s met him, let alone know his beliefs, “ Maria said, nodding.
“He controls the Shadow of the North,” Steve said. “What more is there to know?”
“And you help command our army,” his ma said. “We’re who our environment creates.”
“Ma,” Steve murmured, taking her hand. “Don’t.”
“Bloodshed has solved nothing,” she said. “Perhaps speaking can.”
“Ma—”
She silenced him with a hand to his cheek. “I won’t be on the throne forever, Stiofán, and neither will Alexander. We’ll invite him.”
Steve didn’t miss Zola’s smile.
***
James paced outside the door of the council chamber, impatiently waiting for the meeting to end. He might be the King’s ward and his heir, but there were meetings he wasn’t yet privy to. He was a tool. A weapon to be used by the hand of the King.
The door finally opened and he swept in, his footsteps near silent on the stone. Alexander Pierce sat at the head of the table, speaking casually with one of his commanders. The ring that proved him King gleamed in the light as he waved his hand. Upon seeing James, he dismissed Rumlow. The man bowed and left.
“What’s this I heard about an armistice?” James hissed when they were alone.
“The war is on a tipping point between order and chaos, James. It’s time for us to nurture that.” He motioned for James to sit. From his robes, he pulled out a rolled piece of parchment. “In two days, the South will celebrate their Independence. Every bonded pair will be in the city for the festivals. As will you.”
James unraveled the letter and read the Queen’s neat hand inviting him to witness the three days of celebration. No doubt a foolish hope that he would see the bonded and how they cohabited with their people.
“They wouldn’t be so foolish,” James said, rereading the letter.
“Sarah wants an end to this war. She will do whatever she thinks will foster a relationship between us.”
James rubbed a hand over his eyes. He was exhausted. Past exhausted. But ghosts didn’t sleep. They hunted and haunted. “They’ll see right through me.”
“Sarah sees what she wants to see. As for her son? You do whatever it takes to gain his trust.”
“He’ll never trust me.”
“He will,” Pierce said. “Zola will help make sure of that. And once he trusts you, you learn his weaknesses. You learn what makes him tick. And then we lean on them. If her son is in distress, Sarah will do anything. She will hand us the war if it keeps him safe.”
“He’s on the front lines,” James said. “If she was so concerned for his safety, she wouldn’t let him go near the fighting.”
“His men lay down their lives to protect him,” Pierce corrected. “What you need to find out is what he’s willing to lay his life down for.”
“Do I have a choice?”
The King stared at him, his gaze stern and commanding. “You leave in an hour.”
The only thing James would give the Southern Kingdom was its warmth and beauty. Seaside cliffs with white sand beaches, gulls crying overhead in the salt-smelling air. Wildflowers dotted the coasts in patches of vibrant color. Looking at it all, the idyllic peacefulness, it was easy to forget the war that raged beyond the city.
James pulled back on the reins, stopping his horse on the top of a rise. The sun warmed his face and he breathed in deeply. Before him, the capital city spread out in a tangle of streets. In the middle of it all was the palace. Made of white sea stone, it almost seemed to glow in the sun. It really was beautiful.
Its beauty hid the ugly truth of the lie it upheld. Their protection of the bonded perpetuated the deaths of thousands. James knew the power of disguise all too well. He nudged his horse into a trot and started down toward the city.
A man with blond hair and an insolent expression leaned against the gates, glaring at James as he approached. His fine clothing would’ve given him away if James hadn’t already known who he was. Steve. The crown prince. As was custom in the South, his sleeves were cuffed, revealing well-muscled forearms.
James dismounted and walked the final few feet between them. “Your Highness,” he said, forcing himself to sound polite.
“Let’s go,” Steve said, mounting his own horse, a magnificent roan stallion.
“Sire, we have to search him,” one of the guards said. He was half a head shorter than James, though he had a kind face. A poorly made beaded necklace was just visible beneath his armor, indicating he most likely had a young daughter.
“Make it fast, Scott. I want to get back before dark.”
Knowing the search would happen, James had brought nothing of consequence. He’d get weapons while he was here. There was no question about that.
“All clear,” Scott confirmed.
Steve barely waited for James to mount before nudging his horse into a walk. As James passed through the gates, the conversation between the guards started up again.
“Okay. I was at a wine tasting with my cousin…”
Even as the sun set, the city was busy. Lively music spilled from taverns and inns. Children ran through the streets, yelling instructions to made up games. Some men spoke to Steve as they passed and Steve returned in kind, and James watched his demeanor change into the prince he’d heard so much about. Charismatic and bold, fearless, but inherently kind. Once, he reached into his jacket and handed some gold coins to a woman sitting against a building.
“I wasn’t sure you’d actually show,” Steve eventually said. “You would’ve made my life so much easier had you not.”
“I had no choice,” James replied. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to be.”
They said nothing more as they continued. The last of the dying sun reflected off the castle, casting the white stone in red. Fitting, James thought, for the blood spilled by their hand.
Torches were being lit by the time they reached the castle courtyard. Two stablehands waited and clipped leads to their horses as soon as they dismounted. James removed his pack from his saddlebags and shouldered it, murmuring a quick thank you to the boy. Steve barely made certain he was following before turning and walking toward the courtyard.
A patrolling guard stopped his round when he spotted them. “Sire?”
“He’s a guest for the celebrations,” Steve replied. “He will be in my charge. You can pass it along that he’s to be treated as any other guest would be.”
“Of course, sire.”
“As you were.”
James followed Steve inside, keeping close to avoid getting lost in the maze of turns and corridors. Steve walked as if he were determined to shake him. Even so, James took in every last detail. It was more homey than he would’ve imagined from the family that condoned the continued death of their peoples. Flowers decorated most surfaces, filling the air with their light scent, and every wall bore paintings of seascapes and coastlines. The carpet was plush and the torches bright, and music came from a room ahead.
A woman with long red hair walked toward them, her eyes on Steve. Her cuffed sleeves revealed the band of silver wrapped around her wrist. James' blood went cold.
“You’re late,” she said.
“Not my fault, Nat.”
“Clint will be disappointed.” Her eyes were a shade of green James hadn’t seen before, dark and rich. They never left Steve, but James had the feeling she tracked his every movement. “He was hoping for a game of cards.”
“You’re his wife—he’s always disappointed.” There was a teasing note in Steve’s voice and his eyes glimmered with good humor. Nat rolled her eyes, the briefest flicker of her lips the only indication she took the joke in stride.
“I’ll be sure to tell him that. He’ll be thrilled to know you think so highly of me.”
Steve laughed, a rich sound that seemed to sink right into James’ bones, warm and comforting. He wasn’t simply a commanding officer and prince, he was human. James hated it.
“Go home, Nat. I’ll come see you both tomorrow.”
She nodded and briefly touched Steve’s arm. James couldn’t stop looking at the mark on her wrist. Nat watched him, her eyes cold and calculating, and James knew she knew exactly who he was.
“I bid you my leave,” she said.
“She’s a bonded,” James snarled the moment she was out of sight.
“Let’s go.”
“I know you’re bonded sympathizers, but for your mother to let them jaunt around her home?”
Steve turned quickly and slammed a hand into James' shoulder, pushing him hard against the stone. His forearm pressed against his chest, pinning him to the wall. His blue eyes blazed, and his jaw clenched.
“You will show my mother nothing but the utmost respect,” he growled, his voice low and restrained. “She is showing you trust you don’t deserve by inviting you here, and you will honor that.”
“I have no ill will toward your mother,” James told him. “Just those she protects.”
“Do you want this war to end?”
“What?”
“Are you also seeking an end to this pointless bloodshed?”
James studied Steve’s face. There was a freckle below his right eye, and his nose was crooked, as if it had been broken once and not set correctly. And deep within his eyes, there were flecks of green and a flicker of something . “Blood will be spilled whether or not this war ends. But good men shouldn’t be the ones to pay that debt.”
Steve’s gaze roved over him, searching and questioning. “Natasha has been my best friend since she arrived here seeking respite from the war. Tell me you would kill someone you love as family just because of a marking.”
James didn’t flinch away from his intensity. “Without hesitation.”
Steve kept his gaze for another minute before letting his arm fall and continuing down the hall.
***
Steve leaned against the back wall, the warmth of the blazing fire washing over him. James sat on the settee across from his ma. Neither of them had spoken yet. Steve hadn’t taken his eyes off the North’s ward.
“It’s an honor to be here,” James finally said. “Thank you for the invitation. I’m eager to learn all I can about your people. This war has been fought for too long.”
Steve fought not to scoff. James looked sincere enough, but Steve saw straight through him. He had no desire to learn why they protected bonded pairs, just as Steve had no desire to learn why the North hated them.
“It has been perpetuated by old leaders,” his ma replied. “Perhaps our youth will be the key to peace.”
“I look forward to doing everything I can to find middle ground.” He flashed a charming smile, his teeth gleaming in the firelight. His skin all but glowed in it. Despite coming from the North, it was a healthy bronze. Unfair, really, given Steve’s skin couldn’t bear the sun for long without burning. And his hair. Gods. Steve hadn’t known it was in fashion to be worn long. He wondered what it would feel like between his fingers, if the curls would tangle.
“Stiofán?”
Steve coughed, hoping the glow of the fire masked the heat in his cheeks. “Ma.”
“Show him to his room and then come back. I want to speak with you.”
Steve nodded and headed toward the door. “Let’s go,” he said, jerking his head.
James huffed a laugh and got to his feet. “Again, thank you for your hospitality,” he said, bowing and kissing his ma’s hand. Steve clenched his fist.
“What was that?” Steve growled as soon as they were out in the corridor.
“You told me to be polite,” James replied with an infuriating smirk. “I was being polite. Unlike you.”
“I beg your—”
“Let’s go,” James mocked, hunching his shoulders and jerking his head in the direction they were walking. “Gods, is that all you can say? Is that how you lead your troops into battle? No wonder you’re losing this war.”
Steve slammed him into the wall again, his forearm against his throat. James’ smile only grew. His eyes gleamed, blue grey like a storm out at sea. Steve wondered how hard it would be to mix the color.
“At least my troops see me on the field with them,” Steve said. “I don’t cower and let them lose their lives for me.”
“That’s not how I’ve heard it. How many men have thrown themselves in front of you to take a fatal blow? How many men have died to keep you alive?”
Steve wanted to punch him. Wanted to wipe away that infuriating smile. He turned away and stormed down the hall, leaving James to follow if he wished. There was a chuckle, low and rich, and then the sound of footsteps as James matched his strides.
“Here,” Steve said, showing him to his chambers. “I hope you’ll find everything to be comfortable.”
James looked around, his smile shifting into something genuine. He walked in and touched the knitted blanket on the bed. His ma had made it years ago. There was something in James’ expression that Steve couldn’t place, something hesitant and uncertain and small.
“Thank you, Steve,” he murmured. “Goodnight.”
Steve left the room.
His ma waited for him on the settee, a book unopened in her lap. When he closed the door, she looked to him and patted the cushion next to her. Steve sat.
“The man that stood by that fireplace earlier wasn’t the boy I raised,” she told him, her gaze stern.
Steve sighed, letting his shoulders relax for the first time that day. “If we met him on the battlefield, he wouldn’t kiss your hand, Ma. He’d kill you without hesitation. You know who he is—what he’s done to our people.”
She acquiesced with a small nod, knowing the rumors as well as he. “Is that who he is or who he’s forced to be? I know you never wanted to be a solider, Stiofán, that you’d rather spend your days with your paintings, but we all do what we have to.”
“Ma—”
She quieted him with a hand to his cheek. “Just because he has different beliefs than us doesn’t mean he’s not deserving of our respect. He might be the Shadow of the North, but I believe that’s just a mask. Find the man beneath it, Stiofán. He’s the man who sat across from me earlier. He’s the one who can change the tide.”
Steve nodded and got up. He was halfway to the door when he walked back and sat on the ground in front of her, resting his head on her lap. Shadows on the wall danced with the firelight. His ma ran her fingers through his hair and he desperately wished he could be a kid again, when the war was far away and he could paint his days away.
“I’m scared, Ma,” he whispered. “How much longer can we expect our people to fight for those who don’t fight for themselves? How much longer before they fight us, too?”
His ma cupped both of his cheeks between her palms. “My brave, brave boy,” she murmured. “We’ll find a way. We always stand back up.”
***
It wasn’t often that James dreamed, but that night he did. He might’ve forgotten most of what had happened that night, but his mind never had difficulty filling in the gaps between his memories of rage-filled eyes and the gleam of a silver wrist.
This night, the bonded broke down the door and hovered over his bed, knife dripping blood. Five-years-old and terrified, James pulled the covers up to his eyes, hoping to disappear into the straw-filled mattress. The silver band on the bonded’s wrist gleamed in the moonlight as the knife moved towards James' chest. And then the bonded collapsed. Minutes crawled by. Nothing stirred. Heart in his throat and fear silencing him, James crawled out of his bed to peer at the floor. The man’s eyes were still open, but they were vacant. Lifeless. Dead. James crawled back under the covers and pulled them over his head, waiting for morning.
James' eyes flew open, his breath coming in gasping pants. No one hovered above him. No knife dripping blood. No rage-filled eyes. No gleam of a silver wrist. Moonlight stitched itself on the canopy about his bed. The mattress beneath him was plush down, not straw. The covers blanketing him were soft linen, not the scratchy comfort of homespun wool.
He didn’t dream when he hunted. Ghosts and shadows had no memories, no fears, no desires. Here, he wasn’t a shadow. Here, in the white stone walls of the Southern Castle, he was human. He was a scared little boy who was taken in by the King after learning of his plight.
James swung his legs over the edge of the bed, placing his feet on the cool floor. He waited for morning.
Steve leaned against the wall, looking bored, when James walked out of his room.
“Good, you’re awake,” he said. “Let’s go.” There was no gleam in his eyes as he said it, and he waited for James to join him before actually starting to walk. Steve glanced over at him. “What, no infuriating smile? No mocking?”
James was too tired to say anything.
“Look, I won’t say I’m sorry about how I acted yesterday because I’m not, but we both want this war to end, so I’m willing to try. We’ll spend these days together, try to figure out something we can both live with, and then we’ll never have to see each other again.”
Silver flashed in the corner of his eye. James turned his head sharply and then breathed out. Sunlight against a serving platter. It vanished when the servant turned out of sight. He was always jumpy after dreaming. He needed to control himself. He needed to pull the mask back on. He couldn’t afford to slip in the middle of enemy territory.
“Are you okay?” Steve asked. His voice was soft. Almost like he cared.
James kept walking. He didn’t have to answer the man whose family was the reason his was dead.
“Look, I get that I was an ass yesterday,” Steve said. “If this is a way to get the point across, consider it done.”
“Do you ever shut up?” Steve’s eyes widened in surprise as James whirled around to face him. “Or do you love the sound of your voice that much? Just shut up!”
He kept walking.
The morning air was cool and the sun bright. Despite the early hour, the city was busy with the final preparations. James knew they officially began at noon, though that didn’t seem to stop people from beginning the festivities early. A group of children ran in front of them, yelling loudly and waving flags. Silver ran down their arms, as if they’d painted their wrists and then had been too impatient to let it dry.
The smell of baking bread wafted in the air, as well as the rich creaminess of fresh coffee. James breathed in deeply. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d indulged in either. When he was the Shadow, he ate what he could find or he didn’t eat at all. Against his will, his stomach growled.
Steve turned into the shop.
“Sire!” A tall, lanky man stood behind the counter, his apron covered in flour.
“Jarvis, how many times must I ask you to call me Steve?”
The man smiled. “At least once more, sire. Now, what can I get for you and your companion?” He looked at James and something flashed through his eyes, though his expression stayed pleasant.
“A loaf of your fast breaking bread and two coffees.” Steve placed a gold coin on the counter.
James caught a gleam of the silver on his wrist as he took the coin. He felt Steve’s gaze on him. Every instinct told him to find a way to kill the man or run. If he closed his eyes, he still saw the blood drip from the knife. James left the shop, leaning against the exterior until Steve joined him a minute later, the loaf under his arm and coffees in hand.
“You want to tell me what that was about?” he asked, handing James one of the drinks.
“Now you’re upset because I didn’t act like I wanted to kill someone?” He took a sip of the coffee, savoring the warmth. Across the street, a woman hung a flag from the upstairs window, her arm covered in silver paint.
He felt Steve’s gaze on him. James didn’t return it. Finally, Steve sighed. “Come on. There’s someone I want you to meet before the bell ringing.”
The sun burning away the last clinging vestiges of his dream, James pushed off the building and followed Steve as he set down the street. Steve ripped the loaf in half and handed it to James. He lifted it to his nose and inhaled deeply, memories flooding him. The feel of sticky dough on his fingers, the heat of the oven, the crackle of a perfect crust. It had been a delicacy.
Steve watched him with an amused glint in his eye. James ignored him in favor of taking a bite. Good bread flour was expensive. What they managed to grow was supplemented with imports, though those had slowed due to the war. If Steve wasn’t aware of how difficult it was to grow wheat in regions of the North, it wasn’t James’ job to educate him. James knew the South’s trading patterns like the back of his hand, he knew their imports and exports, he knew what they needed to trade for and who they traded with. Information was just as deadly a weapon as a knife.
Steve opened his mouth to say something, apparently thought better of it, and kept walking.
The someone Steve wanted James to meet was Natasha’s husband. A kind looking man, he ushered them in with a wide smile. His hands moved quickly as he led them to a table, the silver on his wrist gleaming. It almost appeared to breathe, moving like the reflection of water or the dapple of sunlight on wind blown grass. James looked away, sick fear rising in him.
Natasha was in the kitchen, tending to a kettle. She looked out of place in the domestic setting, her hair loose rather than in the tight braids it had been the previous night. From James' vantage, it was easy to see the small bump of her stomach. She caught him looking and put a protective hand on it.
Steve’s hands were moving now, calm and assured. Clint watched them, a smile growing on his face. He laughed.
“Clint lost his hearing on the battlefield,” he explained to James, keeping his face turned toward Clint. His hands fell still. “He keeps saying I need to work on my signing, even though I was the one to teach it to him.”
“You do need work.” Clint laughed, clearly delighting in James’ surprise. “I can read lips,” he said. “I’m also good at talking. Just ask my wife. She actually has to listen to me, but I don’t have to listen to her.”
Natasha abandoned her work in the kitchen and placed her hands on Clint’s cheeks, tilting her head back. “Read my lips. You’ll listen to me if you know what’s good for you.”
Clint smiled, reached his hands to cup the back of her head, and pulled her down for a kiss.
Natasha rolled her eyes, signed something, and headed back to the kitchen. James sipped at his coffee and watched the conversation, gleaning what information he could through signing. It was different than what they used in the North, though he suspected some of it was the same. Natasha kept an eye on him the entire time, her hand on her stomach and the silver on her wrist gleaming. There was something in her gaze, something knowing and all too familiar.
James wanted to leave. He was hot and freezing cold. He stared at the undulating silver on her wrist, and the more he watched it, the more he remembered how helpless he’d felt seeing the bloodied knife coming toward him, the more he wanted to find a weapon of his own and kill them if only to feel something other than the fear of a little boy.
The conversation went on.
***
Steve was halfway through telling Clint about his latest painting when the bells started ringing, and he felt the blood drain from his face.
“Shit.” He stood, not pushing his chair out far enough and banging into the table. “James, we need to go.” He looked at Natasha, who leaned against a beam, her hands on her swelling belly. “Why didn’t you tell me what time it was?”
She raised a perfect brow, a glimmer of amusement in her emerald eyes. “Because, as you once told me, you’re not a baby.”
“Because I’m not a baby,” Steve mimicked. “Fat load of good you are. Ma’s going to kill me.”
She merely shrugged. Steve shot her a glare, gathered his things, and hurried toward the door where James was already waiting.
The city center was crowded by the time they reached it. Music and laughter filtered through the crowd, lively and loud. Spiced apple cake and lemon butter shortbread sat cooling on windowsills, and the scent of warm spiced stews came from inns and taverns. Steve’s stomach growled, though he knew he’d have to wait several more hours before he would have a chance to eat.
His stomach sank when he saw Sam leaning against the maypole, his arms crossed and his expression sour. James’ eyebrow raised a fraction of an inch before his face became passive. A stone mask. (Steve wanted to find the man who’d mocked him last night, the man who could put away his preconceptions and show his true colors. He wanted to know the man he really was—the man he would be if he wasn’t the Shadow of the North.)
“I’m sure you have a good reason for missing the bell ringing?” Sam asked, pushing away from the pole when they got close.
“How much time do I have to come up with one?” Sam was usually easy to crack a smile, but his frown only deepened.
“Zola looked too happy you weren’t present.”
Steve closed his eyes and breathed out, panic fluttering in his chest. Zola making another dig at his capabilities was the last thing they needed. They had enough to deal with without him making a case for abdication. “I’ll deal with it later,” he said, opening his eyes. “We were with Clint and Natasha, and I lost track of time. Friendship isn’t something Zola can understand.”
“He wasn’t the only one who noticed you were missing.”
“Thankfully, friendship is something my ma understands.” She’d told him to find the heart of James, to see if he really believed Pierce’s rhetoric or if he followed because it was all he’d ever known. Steve hoped that Clint and Natasha would show him bondeds were the same as everyone else. Love and family and friendship. They were just people.
He’d seen the way James watched Natasha when she’d walked around the house, one hand on her belly. Wistful and longing and sad. It had only been there for a moment, but Steve would’ve placed his claim to the crown on it. James had seen Natasha as something other than the monster he’d been taught to believe.
It was so much easier for Steve to hate him before. He knew that made him just the same as James.
He wondered if that was the point in his ma agreeing to this.
Steve snuck a look at James, just a flicker of his eyes in the hopes Sam wouldn’t notice it. He’d turned away from their conversation, watching with narrowed eyes at the busyness around them. Merchants who usually hawked their wares handed flowers to everyone who passed by; musicians played in taverns, the open doors allowing their music to spill out into the streets; lovers, young and old, walked hand in hand. Steve watched as James' gaze followed two women who couldn’t stop smiling, the pale silver on their wrists showing the newness of their bond.
“What are you planning?” Sam asked, his arms still crossed. They’d known each other long enough that they couldn’t hide anything.
“Zola convinced Ma to invite him,” he murmured. “She’s convinced his persona is a mask, that somewhere beneath the cockiness and bravado and disdain, there’s someone sympathetic to our cause. It’s my job to figure him out in the hopes we can find a peaceful end to this war. That’s why I was late.”
Sam looked thoughtful. “Don’t let that pretty face lower your guard,” he finally said. “Sympathetic as your mother might think he is, he’s still the North’s ward.”
For once, Steve found that he didn’t know how to reply.
The bluffs had always been Steve’s favorite place. As a kid, he’d always convince his ma to climb them whenever the sun had been warm. It used to take hours, given he’d needed to take long breaks to allow his underdeveloped lungs to rest, but it hadn’t mattered. The air had been warm and the birds sang high above, and away from the castle, there wasn’t anyone to take away his ma’s attention. They would lay among the flowers for hours, talking and singing and braiding the blooms together to bring back.
Steve never imagined he would ever bring someone from the North to them. And yet, here they were, sitting among the flowers, staring out at the city and sea that stretched out below them. James hooked an elbow around a knee and watched, silent, as people painted silver around the city square. It was always Steve’s favorite tradition, and he ached with the longing of joining in, but there was a beauty to watching it unfold from above. Swirls and flowers and other intricate designs that melded together to create a cohesive piece.
James hooked a finger around a stem and pulled a flower out by the roots. “Help me to understand why you celebrate something that brings so much death.”
“It only brings death because your people slaughter them,” Steve retorted.
“If you knew why—” James cut himself off, looking furious. He mouth worked as he worked to figure out his words, until he eventually turned his back to Steve, his shoulders hunched. The posture made him look young. Steve doubted James was much older him.
“They care about no one but themselves,” James finally said quietly. The breeze carried the words over. Steve didn’t know if he was supposed to hear. “It doesn’t matter who dies so long as it’s not them.” There was grief in his voice, as well as anger.
“Did you lose someone to them?” Steve asked.
“What makes you think you get to ask me that?” James shot back, turning so Steve could see the anger contorting his features.
“I thought—” But James had already turned his back again. He’d cast the flower to the side.
Steve blew out a breath and shook his head, sourness settling in his stomach and darkening his mood. He didn’t know what his ma expected him to do. If there was something underneath James’ exterior, it was hidden deep, and Steve wasn’t willing to get bitten trying to find it.
What was the point of understanding the North’s argument when nothing Steve said would change it?
And yet, Steve couldn’t stop thinking about that look on James’ face when he saw the knitted blanket on the bed. There’d been something there, something Steve didn’t think he was meant to see. Something raw and young.
Looking at him now, knees against his chest and shoulders hunched, Steve saw it again. He wished he didn’t.
And yet.
James stared out at the city, anger and grief roiling in his stomach. It might be common knowledge that he was an orphan, but James had never shared why. It was his flame to guard. His anger to horde. Steve had no right to ask about it. They weren’t friends.
They would never be friends. They would never understand each other. Their upbringings had made sure of that. James was a ghost. He hunted and he killed and he was the protection he’d needed as a child. He wasn’t human. He was a tool. A weapon honed to kill monsters.
This was just another hunt. Steve was his prey.
And yet, Steve had laughed, bubbling and unexpected and rich, and the sound had cracked something open in James. Something he desperately tried to patch lest the cracks spread.
James knew Steve stared at him. He could feel the heat on his back. He knew that if he looked, they’d lock eyes and he’d find himself swimming in ocean blue. James didn’t know how to swim. He wasn’t willing to drown.
And yet, Steve had laughed.
***
Steve didn’t know which was worse, the disappointment on his ma’s face for missing the bell ringing, or sitting next to James at dinner.
Zola watched him carefully, a sly smirk flickering across his lips. Steve clenched his fist, trying to keep his attention on Maria as she spoke about troop morale. Knowing who sat beside him, every word she chose was calculated, designed to be fed back to the North.
No matter how he tried, his mind kept wandering. Zola’s smile. The way James’ hand had curled around the flower. The glint of Zola’s glasses. James’ courteous response to something his ma said. Zola’s murmured words to the man on his right. The dark circles beneath James’ eyes. The reply of the man on Zola’s right. The grief that undercut the anger of James’ words. The glint of teeth as the man on Zola’s right smiled.
The lights above them glittered. People laughed. Words overlapped until they were incomprehensible. Maria’s mouth moved. There were no words. Steve didn’t know what he ate anymore. His hand moved of its own accord, bringing the fork to his mouth. He chewed automatically. Zola’s smile grew wider. His mouth formed the words weak and unprepared and unworthy . The man on his right laughed. Their eyes flickered back over to him.
Steve didn’t know how to breathe.
If the war continued, everyone in this room could die. It was Steve’s duty to stop it. It was what was expected of him. His entire body was hot. His collar was too tight around the neck.
The metal of Zola’s glasses gleamed. He laughed.
Steve couldn’t breathe. He didn’t know how to breathe. It was like he was little again and his lungs stopped working. His body was too hot. Everything was too loud. Too much.
Steve didn’t remember standing up. Conversation stilled. The silence was worse than the overlapping conversations. Zola smiled. Steve turned and all but ran out of the room.
His legs gave out when a cool rush of night air washed over his overheating skin. He sank onto a stone bench and put his head between his knees, lacing his fingers behind his ears. He couldn’t breathe.
Everyone could die, and it would be his fault.
There was a hand on his back. “Exhale,” James said. “Just let yourself exhale.”
Steve couldn’t. He couldn’t bring in enough air to exhale. His vision went fuzzy. His heart was going to give out.
James started to hum, low and soft. He took one of Steve’s hands and placed his fingers on his throat, letting him feel the vibrations.
Steve quieted. His inhales grew longer and an exhale finally shuddered through him. His vision sharpened. Steve felt the grass beneath his feet. He heard the distant wind chimes and the trickle of the fountain. He smelled the lightness of the peonies.
He felt the soft, vulnerable skin of James' throat and the rumble of his humming.
Steve sat up. James watched him, gaze steady.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Steve murmured. James’ eyes were an incredible blue. His hand was still on James' throat, his fingers over his pulse point. “Thank you.”
James swallowed. He stared at Steve for a moment longer, and then he got up and left.
James hadn’t meant for it to go as far as it had. He’d been expected to go after Steve. Arnim Zola had stared at him, intent clear in his beady eyes until James had excused himself.
He hadn’t expected his entire body to grow restless as he followed. He hadn’t expected the rush of panic upon seeing Steve bent over on the bench, struggling to breathe. He hadn’t thought when he started humming a lullaby from his mama and set Steve’s hand against his throat.
At his touch, James' entire body had gone quiet.
He’d been on a mountain during a blizzard, he’d had knives pressed to his throat and bones broken, he’d watched an enraged bonded lean over his bed. Nothing had terrified James more than that silence.
His entire life, his mind had been a cacophony of noise. Thoughts and memories and orders. He didn’t know who he was without it. That moment of absence had made him want to. And that terrified him.
***
The square was packed. Children ran with wild joy, waving silver flags and darting around legs. Some sat on their parents’ shoulders, towering high above like a two-headed creature of the old mountains. Fiddles and pipes filled the air with joyous music. The air was thick with heady excitement.
Almost everyone James saw had a silver band around their waist. A long line wound around the square as people waited for their turn to be painted. A young woman sat on one of the stools as a painter worked, pulling silver up her arm, extending the band on her wrist into swirls and flowers and birds. The more James looked at it, the more alive it looked, the more the painted birds seemed ready to take flight from her skin and join those swooping overhead.
It wasn’t just bondeds in line. A boy, no older than five, sat on his mother’s lap, grinning wide as a painter worked silver up his arms. James would never understand. Armistice or not, he knew many who would risk consequences for the honor of killing a bonded.
Sam hovered on the edge of his vision. The man had trailed them since they’d left the palace. James had only caught part of his conversation with Steve yesterday, but he wouldn’t have needed to hear anything to know the man didn’t trust him. James hadn’t given him a reason, and even if he could, he was sure Sam would see right through it.
Ahead of them was a makeshift stage and the maypole. People of all ages wove between each other with colorful ribbons while the musicians on the stage played. Natasha was one of them. Her red hair was down and woven with white flowers. The silver on her wrist all but glowed. When Clint passed by her, he caught her hand and kissed her knuckles.
James stared at them.
Laughter echoed around him, pure and free. Something restless started inside him. It itched beneath his skin.
The ribbon dance ended, the colorful fabric pulling away. Some children took theirs and ran through the square, the ribbon flowing behind them like a stream. Others used it to pull their lover close.
Natasha walked over, her gaze locked on James. “You’re going to dance with me,” she said. Before James could object, she’d taken his hand and pulled him forward.
The music paused for a moment while the performers took a drink. The wind blew, tugging at Natasha’s hair. She put a hand on his shoulder and waist. After a moment of hesitation, James did the same.
“Do we need to start with small talk, or can we skip that step?” she asked. Her smile would indicate she’d asked about the weather, light and easy.
“I’ve always found small talk dull.”
The musicians started again, a lively jig James didn’t know. Natasha ignored the other couples and steered him into a sophisticated waltz. “I heard an interesting story the other day,” she said. “Would you like to hear it?”
“Something tells me I don’t have a choice.”
“It wasn’t chance that led that bonded to your house the night your parents were killed. They were guided there by your king.”
James froze. Another dancing pair came close, their faces growing red from their exuberance. Natasha steered them away.
“Keep smiling,” she said.
James felt his face obey, even as ice encased his veins. He’d never shared how he’d become an orphan. Never spoke about the bonded who’d slipped through the door like a shadow possessed. How he’d walked past his bed without stopping. How he’d allowed his mama to scream before cutting her down.
“Who told you this?” he whispered.
“Yours isn’t the only Kingdom to employ spies.” Natasha let her mask fall away for a split second, allowing him to see the blazing fire in her eyes. It was gone before he had a chance to blink. “You’re being used, James. If you want to know the real reason you’re fighting this war, come see me past sundown.”
Natasha let go of him. James found himself back where they’d started. Steve spoke with Clint and Sam, who’d finally stopped skulking behind them. Natasha joined them.
James continued standing there, dancers whirling around him, his thoughts racing faster than the lively tempo.
Natasha shouldn’t have known.
The tempo increased, the dancers clapping and twirling and laughing. James stood in the middle of it all, the terror of a young boy mounting. He was restless. He couldn’t move. There was something missing. Something he needed. He didn’t know what it was or why it felt like he couldn’t breathe properly.
Steve laughed somewhere behind him, recognizable even through the crowd.
The dance ended.
***
Fireworks exploded in the sky when Steve saw the figure slip between the long shadows of the gardens below his rooms. A door opened below, spilling light and laughter from the ongoing celebrations onto the dark grass, illuminating his face for the moment it was ajar. James.
Steve didn’t think. He needed to know where he was going. Steve stepped onto the railing of his balcony and climbed down the vines. It was the fastest way out of the castle. His ma had almost had them removed when he was a kid, he’d used them so often to see Natasha and Sam. He landed with a soft oof on the cold grass.
James stayed in the shadows, freezing when fireworks illuminated the sky. Steve stayed far enough behind to keep undetected. He frowned when his path led towards town. It deepened when he turned toward Clint and Natasha’s. A hard knot forming in his stomach, Steve watched James knock on their door. Natasha opened it, allowing him in after looking around. Steve shrank into the shadows when her sharp gaze passed over him.
When the door shut, Steve snuck forward, keeping as low to the ground as he could. With most people still at the palace or in the city square, the street was empty.
“I’m here,” James said. “Tell me what you know.”
“I want you to promise me something first,” Natasha replied. “Whatever it is you’re planning? Leave Steve out of it.”
Steve scooted as close to the window as he dared. Another firework exploded, drowning out James' reply.
“And you expect me to believe that?” Natasha asked.
“How did you know a bonded killed them?” James' voice was tight and restrained. “That was never public knowledge. Answer that and I’ll make your promise.”
Steve knew Natasha well enough to imagine her shrug. “Ghosts aren’t as invisible as they think they are.”
His foot slipped and a rock went skittering. Steve froze. This was one place he didn’t want to get caught. There was a long silence. Steve’s heart beat hard and fast beneath his ribs.
“You have my word that I won’t touch your prince,” James said.
There was a scraping of wood against the floor and a sigh as Natasha sat. Steve imagined her sitting with one hand on her belly. “Alexander Pierce had a daughter once,” she said.
Steve frowned, his mind whirring. She’d died when he was a young boy. Steve remembered traveling North with his ma to pay their respects. It was before the war had started.
“Your King has always hated us,” Natasha continued. “He’s always feared us. But he knew his people wouldn’t support our persecution without justification. He knew that to create loyalty and devotion, they needed a martyr. So, he staged her death. And death by a bonded’s rage is identifiable by one thing.”
“A missing heart,” James said, his voice hard. “My country’s history is all well and good, but I’m still waiting for the one thing you promised me.”
Natasha continued as if James hadn’t spoken. “After her funeral, he started seeking out a child to raise as his new heir, one that would perpetrate his own agenda of eliminating bonded pairs. He found you. You were outside, playing with your mother.”
“How do you know this?”
“You weren’t the first child he took,” Natasha murmured. “You weren’t the first family he tore apart.”
Something uncomfortable settled itself on Steve’s heart. Jealousy. Close as he and Natasha were, she’d never spoken about her childhood and what had driven her to seek asylum in the South. He’d asked about it, of course, and she’d always changed the subject. When she’d proven her loyalty time and time again, he’d had no reason to keep pressing. Natasha’s friendship was quiet and fierce, and her past had never really mattered.
Only apparently it did.
“As much as he fears us, he knows we have our uses. He knows that if our partner is gone, we lose reason. Evidence means nothing. Action is the only thing that makes sense. He knew that if he killed one half, he could direct the remainder anywhere he desired. He knew that if he told them that the boy was innocent, but the parents weren’t, there would be an orphan he could take in. He knew his hands would be clean.”
Steve moved enough to see a slice of James' face. A tear worked its way down his cheek. For a second, Steve saw the man who’d touched the knitted blanket.
“He raised me,” he said, anger and grief battling for control over his voice. “He cared for me when I had no one else. He gave me the ability to protect myself and everyone I care about from the scourge of your kind.”
“He made you into a weapon,” Natasha replied. “He didn’t care.”
“I’m just supposed to believe you? You think I can put away twenty years of anger and hatred in an instant because you told me a story?”
“You know I’m right. He used your love to make you blind.”
Something shattered. Steve jumped up to see that James had broken a mug and was pressing a shard to Natasha’s throat. Her eyes flickered to Steve. She flexed her hand. There was no fear in her eyes.
“You won’t kill me,” she said, gaze back on James.
“How do you know?” His hand shook. Steve barely dared to breathe. Any movement could cause the death of three people he cared deeply for.
“You’ve already started to wonder if you’re on the right side of this war. Killing me won’t change that.”
Time seemed to stop. The two of them stared at each other. Steve stared at them, his heart seeming too loud in the oppressive quiet. James dropped the shard to the floor. He stumbled out the door and ran.
James didn’t remember leaving Natasha’s. His blood still boiled. What did she know of his life? The King had taken him in when he’d had nothing. He’d found a boy sitting by the bodies of his parents and given him a future. The King had provided him with a way to protect himself.
You’ve already started to wonder if you’re on the right side of this war.
Of course, he was on the right side of this war.
In two days, the armistice would be over. With the information he’d already provided, they would act, and the war would end. Steve had given them everything. James just needed to last another day.
A hand landed on his shoulder. James whirled around, pushing the man against the building to his right. Anger flashed through him when he saw Steve. James kept his arm against his throat for another moment.
“I hope you enjoyed what you heard,” he growled, letting his arm fall back to his side.
“Is what she said true?” Steve asked, not trying to hide the fact he’d been listening. “Were your parents murdered?”
“I don’t see why it’s any of your business,” James said, starting up the road. The faster he went to sleep, the faster this nightmare would be over. He missed the North.
Steve grabbed his arm and forced him around. “Because I need to know if this entire thing is a waste of my time,” he said. “Because I know if someone murdered my ma, I would stop at nothing to rain blood.”
“This is all a waste of time,” James replied. “You and I both know that. There will always be war so long as there are bondeds. I will hunt them to my last breath.”
There was something wrong about the disgust and anger on Steve’s face. It was too different from the vulnerability James had seen last night. “My ma thought she saw something more under that mask you wear, but she was wrong. What she saw was the mask. The cold exterior is just you.”
“We become who raised us,” James said. “Maybe I would’ve been different had my parents not been killed by those you protect.”
“And if what Natasha said was true?” Steve asked. “If that bonded was directed to kill them? That your King gave the order?”
“He didn’t. A bonded needs no command to kill,” James snarled, pushing the doubt down.
How much of his anger and grief was carefully crafted to mold him into a weapon? How much of what he believed about the bondeds was true? He saw the rage in the eyes of the man who’d bent over him. He saw the gleam of silver, tainted by the rust of blood.
“Why are you so sure?”
He saw Natasha walking around with a hand on her unborn child. He saw Clint kissing her knuckles, open adoration in his eyes. He saw their joy.
“Because if she’s right, I have nothing.”
The fireworks continued, the explosions sending color raining from the sky. It colored the shifting emotions on Steve’s face in shades of yellow and gave light to a moving shadow. James barely saw the knife as it sailed through the air, directly in line with Steve. James didn’t think. A knife embedded itself in the wooden post Steve had stood in front of a heartbeat before.
Darkness returned for a second before another firework exploded. Pain seared through his shoulder as he pulled Steve to the ground, shielding his body with his. Another knife whistled above them.
There was another explosion. In the echoing silence, James heard the fading slap of feet against cobblestone. Beneath him, Steve breathed. James could feel the heavy beating of his heart. After using it to count to twenty, James got up, white hot pain searing through his shoulder.
Steve stared at the dagger, his eyes wide. “You saved my life,” he murmured. “Why?”
“I don’t know.”
It was a lie, but James didn’t know what else to say.
***
Steve was too restless to sleep. The fireworks had ended, but small celebrations continued on in the city. He watched the lights as they flickered like a living, breathing beast. As a kid, that’s what Steve thought it was. He’d told his ma that the city was alive. After all, how did you know if something lived? You checked to see if it breathed.
Something itched beneath his skin, restless and wanting.
He could feel James' body over his, the ghost of his breath warming his skin as the knives sailed above their heads. Steve had been too focused on James to know they’d been there. He could’ve been dead. He should’ve been dead.
The itch beneath his skin grew. He needed to move. He needed—
There was no answer when he knocked on the door to James’ room. When he opened the door, he found it empty.
Steve didn’t know how to breathe. His lungs expanded and contracted and yet Steve didn’t know if he took in air. His skin itched.
Steve ran, not knowing where he was going. All he knew was that he needed—
The night air was a blessing on his overheated face. The scent of peonies filled his nose. James sat on one of the benches, his hand pressed against his shoulder. Something in Steve stilled. He could breathe again.
James didn’t look up when Steve sat beside him. He kept his hand pressed against his shoulder.
“I thought you’d left.” Steve didn’t know why he was admitting it like it would’ve affected him. It would be better if James left. He wanted James to leave.
He didn’t know how to decipher the look James gave him. He didn’t know if he wanted James to speak. He didn’t know what he wanted James to admit.
“Let me see your shoulder,” he said instead.
He almost expected James to say no. To realize he was vulnerable and walk away. His hand slowly moved. In the flickering torchlight, Steve could see the blood.
Neither of them said anything as Steve gently pulled James' shirt away from his shoulder to better assess the damage. The silence continued as he ripped a strip from his clean nightshirt and used the hand pump to wet it. James shivered when the water dripped down his chest. The gash was long, but not deep. No new blood appeared.
James stared at Steve, his expression unreadable, but there was something there. Steve wanted to know what it was. He wanted to know what it would be like to have James’ skin brush against his again. Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, James turned over his hand, revealing a long cut across his palm. Without a word, Steve took his hand in his and washed away the blood.
“Why did you save my life?” Steve’s murmur seemed too loud in the quiet night.
James turned his hand, his long fingers wrapping gently around Steve’s wrist. Steve’s pulse beat traitorously.
“I don’t know,” James replied. There was something wild behind his eyes. He released Steve’s wrist and walked toward the hedges, where the shadows were long and dark. A thorn from one of his ma’s roses scratched Steve’s palm as he followed him.
“You could’ve let me die,” Steve said. “Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know.”
The scratch on Steve’s palm stung. Against his better judgment, he let his fingers circle around James' wrist.
“I think you do.”
“Can’t we go back to when we first met?” James asked. “Before you showed me your life and I bled for you?”
Steve put a gentle hand on James' back, drawing him closer. There was something intoxicating about him. Stars gleamed above them, silent watchers. Despite the blanketing darkness, Steve could see every line of James’ face. The blue of his eyes.
Warm breath ghosted over his face. Steve couldn’t tear his gaze away from his lips. He wanted to draw them. He wanted to memorize the shape of them. He wanted— Steve wanted— Steve needed—
“I should leave,” James murmured.
“Why should I let you go?” Steve replied. James’ pulse beat under his fingers. Steve felt every tick of his heart. “I should arrest you for the threat you made against my friend and for your intended crimes against my people.”
“We both know you won’t.” James’ eyes blazed with the challenge. Steve’s gaze flickered back to his lips. He let his hand fall back to his side.
James walked away.
Steve’s wrist burned.
Image: "Hold Me.” || Art by: bergamotene
***
The sun slid toward the horizon, sending streaks of red across the sky. Steve sat on the bluff, rolling the stem of a flower between his fingers. The last of the celebrations carried out below him. Steve hadn’t partaken. Hadn’t known how to partake. He’d been up here the entire day.
The dying light glinted off the silver on his wrist. At first, he’d felt it more than he’d been able to see it. Now that he could, Steve couldn’t stop looking. It wasn’t like Natasha’s yet. It was small and unsure, like this hint of a promise. The silver was intertwined with red.
There was no science on what created the mark. Everyone believed what they wanted. Something in Steve’s bones knew it was being branded by the blood that had saved his life.
James paced his room, refusing to look at his wrist, knowing the poison that spread across his skin. He couldn’t be one of them. He couldn’t be bonded to—
Zola had visited him. James had given him the information he’d needed.
Tomorrow morning, the war would end. He would be the protection that little boy needed. He would take the trust Steve had given him and wound him. He would see him bleed. He would—
Steve moved his wrist, watching the silver shift. His skin itched. His legs were restless. Everything in his body told him he needed to be beside the man his soul was tied to. For the first time, Steve started to understand the North’s view. He would do unspeakable things to keep James safe. He would move mountains, he would kill kings. Nothing was more important.
There was nothing more dangerous than a secondary loyalty to your country.
James could feel the silver. Warm, almost like it was a living thing. Almost like it breathed and bled. Almost like it was a part of—
Steve closed his eyes and saw James’ face. He felt the warmth of his breath on his skin. He felt the thrum of his pulse beneath his fingers. His skin itched.
Steve got up. He ran.
James remembered the gleam of Zola’s smile as he left. He remembered the whispered promise, allowing him the honor of finishing it. He imagined Steve’s horror. His anger. His betrayal. He remembered the whispered promise of what would happen if he refused.
The longest James had seen a bonded last without their partner was two days. Most withered away in hours.
His breathing hitched. Panic flooded him, settling in his stomach, hot and heavy. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t— He needed—Arms wrapped around him. James struggled against them. He couldn’t breathe. He needed— He needed—
Hair windswept, cheeks red, and pupils overlarge, there was something feral in the way Steve looked at him. James stopped struggling. He allowed Steve to take his hand and lead him to his room. And then the door was shut behind them. The darkness was shocking compared to the light of the hall. Even so, he could see every inch of Steve’s face as if it were lit from within.
“I need,” James whispered.
“I know,” Steve whispered. This close, James could feel his barely controlled breathing. The erratic beat of his heart.
Steve’s lips pressed against his and everything in James both went silent and caught on fire. He was alive for the first time in his life. He couldn’t breathe, but it didn’t matter because Steve was his air, his life, his soul. There was no other reason for him to be alive than to be here, now.
The kiss was desperate yet soft, angry but gentle. Tongue and teeth and not enough. James found the hem of Steve’s shirt and pulled it up, his fingers brushing along the plane of his stomach as he did. It was warm and sticky with cooling sweat. Their lips were apart for only the length of time it took to get it over his head. And then James’ hands were on him, tracing the lines of his stomach and his back, pulling him closer. Needing him closer. He’d never needed anything more than he’d needed Steve. He burned with it. Steve pulled off his shirt and pushed him onto the bed, covering him with his large frame.
James had kissed dozens of people before. Men and women, it didn’t matter to him. Pleasure was a simple need to extinguish. Steve kissed down his neck, his teeth scraping the sensitive skin. Everything with Steve was different. Every kiss, every caress, only served to make his need grow. He hovered over James, his eyes nearly black, lacing their fingers together.
“Take me apart,” James whispered. Tomorrow would come when it did. Until then, he was Steve’s. “Make me forget.”
And Steve did.
***
Steve was woken by a hand over his mouth and a sword to his throat. The bed beside him was empty. Cold, as if James hadn’t warmed it only hours before.
Alexander Pierce sat on the throne that used to belong to Steve’s father. He smiled when Steve was led in, his hands roughly tied behind his back, but it was for show only. His eyes glinted coldly. They were silver, the same shade that wrapped around Steve’s wrist.
“Ah, I was wondering when you’d join us.”
The timing of the armistice suddenly clicked into place. It wasn’t because of kindness. It wasn’t to allow their celebrations. It was because the day after their completion was a day of rest for everyone. The castle was empty. No one to sound the alarm. No one to fight.
“What do you want?”
Pierce’s brows went up. “I would think that would be obvious,” he said. “The armistice is over. I’ve come to negotiate terms.”
Steve struggled against his bindings, but the soldier behind him held tight. “I have no control over negotiations.”
“Oh, I think you’ll find you have more say than you believe,” Pierce said. “Your mother may be the voice of your country, but we all know who really makes the decisions.”
Steve froze, his eyes darting around, his heart racing. “Where is my mother?”
“Quite safe,” Pierce said. “Why would I hurt her? It’s you I want to speak with.”
“We have nothing to speak about,” Steve spit.
The King shook his head, disappointment on his face. “That’s where you’re wrong, Steve. We have so much to discuss.”
He nodded, and the doors to the throne room opened. A soldier walked in, leading a struggling Natasha. A heartbeat later, James followed, dragging a barely conscious Clint. Natasha was thrown at the foot of the throne. She fought to reach her husband and was kicked aside. Steve couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t tear his gaze from James.
His entire being longed to be with him. Needed to be with him. Only hours ago, James had been beneath him, his cheeks flushed, eyes glazed, lips parted in pleasure. He looked nothing like that now. Dressed in his formal wear, the blue coat pressed and perfect, his wrist covered, he looked like the King he would be.
James’ eyes flickered to his briefly. There was no emotion in them, nothing to indicate the bond that stretched between them, nothing to hint at the pleasure they’d shared. If anything, they were cold. Detached. Uncaring. Painful doubt sliced through him. He’d been a fool to think James had been driven by anything other than basic, primal need.
Pierce stood, glancing at Clint and Natasha as he did. James supported most of Clint’s weight.
“You know, because of my views, people often assume I don’t understand the intricacies of a bond,” he said. “In reality, it’s quite the opposite. And I wonder, how might views change if their Prince’s loyal friend suddenly lost control and killed him? I wonder, would your people still be willing to give their lives to protect them?”
Steve couldn’t breathe. James took a dagger from his belt and placed it on Clint’s neck. Natasha struggled against her bindings.
“What do you want?” Steve asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
“Simple,” Pierce said. “An end to this war. I wonder, would you let your friend kill you, or would you end her suffering yourself?”
The tip of the dagger cut into Clint’s skin, sending a tiny bead of blood trickling down his neck. Natasha screamed through her gag.
“James,” Steve whispered. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand.
“To build a better world sometimes means having to tear the old one down,” Pierce said. “That means sacrifice. You can be lauded as the King who ended the war. You can be lauded as the King who brought peace, who ended the fear of a bonded’s rage.”
“James,” he whispered again. “Please. You’re more than this. Take off the mask."
“There is no mask,” James said. “This is who I am. That’s what you said, remember?”
“No,” Steve said. He pulled against his bonds again. In the edge of his vision, he saw Pierce nod. The ropes around his wrists were untied. Movements slow, Steve closed the gap between them. What Steve had mistaken for detachment in James' eyes was complete terror.
“No,” Steve repeated. “This is what he created. This is what he wants. It’s not who you are.” Very slowly, he touched his wrist, where beneath the layers of cloth was the silver that bonded them. “This is who you are.”
A myriad of emotions crossed James' face. Fear and grief and longing. Steve’s heart stuttered. He forced himself to take a breath. Ignoring Natasha’s pleading gaze, he turned his back on her to face Pierce.
“You asked how my people’s views might change if my friend killed me, you asked if they would still be willing to give their lives. I wonder, how would your people react if they knew you planned your daughter’s death? What would happen if they knew you were the one to kill her? I wonder if your people would still give their lives if they knew how you molded their fear, if they knew how many children you orphaned in your desire to raise someone like you.”
Pierce bared his teeth in a crude imitation of a smile. “I would say, where’s the proof?”
“Is it true?” James asked, the tremor unmistakable in his voice.
“I did you a favor, boy,” the King said. “They had no money, no means of providing for you. It was only a matter of time before something killed them. I gave you a life of wealth. I gave you the means to protect yourself against the scourge.”
“Protection I wouldn’t have needed if it wasn’t for you!”
Pierce’s lip curled in a sneer. “I didn’t raise you to be soft.”
“No,” James said. “You taught me what needed to be done.”
James dropped Clint and turned. The man behind Natasha yelled and collapsed to the ground, the dagger protruding from between his ribs. James grabbed another from his coat. Natasha threw herself forward to protect Clint’s body with her own.
“Stop.” Pierce’s voice was soft, but James heard it as if it had been yelled. Rumlow held Steve, his arm wrapped around his neck. Steve’s face slowly grew red.
James froze.
“I’m disappointed in you, son,” Pierce said. “I gave you everything and all I asked for in return was loyalty.”
Steve’s fingers scrabbled for purchase against Rumlow’s skin. The man didn’t flinch. Steve’s face grew redder. James couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. He—
Steve fell to the floor, his eyes closed.
“You can end the war,” Pierce said. “You can end the suffering. All the children who’ve lost their parents, everyone who lives in fear—you can be their savior, James. You can shape this world.”
James couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. He—
“All you have to do is kill one man.”
James took a step forward, and then another. Steve still breathed. He still lived. The silver on his wrist gleamed. The silver on James’ wrist burned. Clarity seared through the fear and anger in his mind.
He walked forward until he stood over Steve. He unbuttoned his wrist cuff to reveal the band that wrapped around his skin. The silver that bonded him to the man he now protected. “If you kill him, you kill me.”
Pierce shrugged. “There are always more orphans.”
James’ vision narrowed until all he could see was the man who’d raised him. The man who’d taken him from the bloodstained floor of his home, the man who’d held him through sleepless nights of horrifying nightmares. The man who’d taught him to protect himself. The man who’d pulled his strings like he was a puppet.
But not anymore.
James took his dagger. He let it fly.
James knelt at Steve’s side, his head in his lap, running his fingers through his hair. The lifeless body of Alexander Pierce slowly bled out on the stone behind them. There would be time to deal with it later. There would be time for everything later.
The door to the throne room opened. Sarah walked in, shaken yet unharmed. She put a hand out to steady herself when she saw the mess, but hurried forward when James met her gaze. She knelt beside them.
“I suppose we should discuss the end of the war,” James said. “Seeing as I’m King, now.” The ring gleamed on his finger.
Sarah put a hand on his cheek. “Later,” she murmured. “For now, there are more important things.” She touched the silver on his wrist.
It took a while, but Steve’s eyes finally fluttered open. He smiled when he saw James.
“You saved my life,” he murmured. “Why?”
James pulled the Southern Prince close and kissed him.
There was nothing more dangerous than having a soulmate.