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The castle had gone still. That late-night kind of stillness where every sound carried farther than it should, where silence made even the scrape of a boot heel sound like a drum. Henry slipped through the door into Lord Hans Capon’s candlelit chambers with his pulse hammering, sweat beading at his hairline even though the air was cool.
He moved quickly, heart in his throat, fingers tugging open desk drawers, and rifling through their contents. Parchments covered in a scrawl of ink, a feather quill stained at the nib, scraps of verse abandoned half-finished. A small purse jingled faintly when he lifted it, but it wasn’t what he needed. He set it back down with care, teeth grinding at the wasted time.
The room smelled lived-in, like wine soured at the rim of a goblet, leather oil from riding boots, sweat and musk clinging to fabric. Boots lay tipped on their sides near the hearth, a tunic draped over the back of a chair. The Lord's hunting gear was piled in a careless heap against the wall, bowstring tangled in its own quiver straps. The whole chamber bore the mark of a man who expected others to clean in his wake.
Henry crouched by the trunk near the bed, hands going to the clasp, when a sound startled him.
Footsteps heavy and uneven, stumbling down the corridor.
A voice followed, loud and pitched high with annoyance, words slurring yet still sharp enough to cut through the stone walls.
Henry’s stomach dropped.
He moved without thinking, slipping behind the velvet curtain that hung across the wall by the window. It fell heavy around him, the fabric thick with dust and a faint perfume that clung to his nose, choking him. He pressed himself flat to the cold wall, heart slamming in his chest, breath locked tight in his throat.
The door banged open.
Sir Hans entered in a storm, muttering curses as he slammed it shut behind him. Something metal clattered against the floor and the young lord swore again. Boots hit the wall with a dull thump. Cloth rustled, layers of it cast aside one after another with no care for where they landed. Hans grumbled as he stripped, the slur of too much drink in every word.
Henry pressed himself harder against the cold stone, as if the wall itself might swallow him whole. He prayed Sir Hans would topple into the bed and be gone to snoring before his luck ran out. His chest ached from holding his breath, lungs burning with the need to release it.
The mattress sagged under the Lord’s weight with a drawn-out groan of wood. A long exhale followed, as though even breathing were a complaint. Cloth rasped against linen as he shifted, restless. The bed frame creaked with the roll of his body. Followed by deep, even breaths. The kind Henry had heard often enough from drunken men sleeping off their cups.
Relief nearly loosened him. He let out a tiny breath against the curtain as he shifted his stance.
Then the breaths shortened. Quickened. Drew sharp and shallow through his teeth. A low guttural sound caught halfway in the throat rose and broke in the dim light.
Henry’s body went taut as a bowstring. Every muscle braced, as his own pulse thundered so loudly he feared it would give him away.
The sound came again. Softer this time, almost stifled, curling low and private in the dim room.
Henry’s throat closed. Heat prickled at the back of his neck.
Against every scrap of sense, he tilted his head, just enough to glimpse through the narrow seam in the curtain.
The Lord was sprawled across the mattress of the nearest bed, tunic racked up beneath his ribs, exposing his pale stomach slick with sweat.
His cock jutted hard from his fist, flushed red at the head, slick with wetness that caught the candlelight each time he stroked down. Thick, heavy, every vein stood out beneath the pale skin of his grip. Henry stared, transfixed, throat tightening.
He’d caught a glimpse of it once before, that night shortly after he’d rescued Sir Hans from the Cumans. Its shape half-hidden beneath the cling of wet braies when they’d shared a bath. The outline blurred through damp fabric had been enough to lodge itself in Henry’s memory. But this was the first time he was seeing it bare, nothing between his eyes and the full, unashamed display of his Lord's body. He found himself staring, unable to look away.
The motion was sloppy, desperate, uneven. Too fast one moment, dragging the next, like he couldn’t choose whether to torment himself or finish quickly. His fist slid wetly up and down, thumb circling the exposed head until it shone. A groan rumbled low in his chest, rough enough to claw straight through Henry where he hid.
From the dark, Henry felt every moment.
The wet sound of his palm on his cock. The creak of the bedframe under each shift of weight. The rasp of fabric sliding up his stomach as his tunic bunched higher, baring more skin. The shallow gasp when his grip tightened. Even the faint scrape of teeth over his lip as he bit down to keep from groaning too loud.
Each noise landed sharp as an arrow in Henry’s chest.
His lungs seized. His body burned under his clothes, heat prickling down his spine. Sweat gathered at his hairline, rolled beneath his tunic until the linen clung damp to his back. His cock strained against his hose, thick and leaking, the wet spot spreading across the front of his braies. He pressed the back of his head against the stone until it hurt, gripping the curtain so tight the fabric cut into his fingers.
Hans shoved his Tunic higher, exposing pale flesh slicked with sweat. His free hand dragged clumsily across his chest, fingers grazing until they pinched a nipple hard enough to make him arch off the bed with a broken gasp. His throat stretched long and white in the candlelight, his head tipped back, damp hair spilling across the pillow. His mouth fell open, wet and slack, a sheen of spit catching on his lower lip.
Henry’s own breath rattled. He ground his teeth together until his jaw ached. Every ragged exhale Sir Hans made dragged into Henry’s lungs, filling him, leaving no air of his own. Every slick stroke thundered in his ears like a drum. His pulse hammered so loud he thought for sure his Lord would hear it.
“Fuck, Hal-”
The sound gutted him. Henry's knees buckled. His hand dug hard into his thigh, nails biting deep through cloth. Anything to stop himself from moving. His body screamed for it, to step forward, to climb onto that bed and taste him. His cock pulsed against the soaked front of his hose, hot and aching, slick with his own desire.
Hans’ pace faltered, then broke apart. His fist snapped faster, wet and hard, wrist flexing, forearm taut with strain. Muscles in his stomach clenched, the skin twitching under every pass. His hips bucked off the bed in short, frantic thrusts, the frame groaning under his weight.
Henry’s vision blurred at the edges. Everything narrowed to Hans, writhing, flushed, sweat slicking down his chest. His face red from wine and exertion, lips parted, eyes shut tight. Henry’s own chest heaved, dragging ragged breath like he’d run a mile. Heat raged through him, leaving no space for thought.
Hans arched high and spilled with a sharp gasp, thick streaks striping his stomach and chest, dripping down his hand. His body shuddered through it, muscles jerking, breath tearing ragged from his throat. His lips parted wider, voice breaking and Henry swore his name fell from them again.
Henry sagged back against the wall, trembling.He dragged in breath after breath, but each lungful carried the sharp musk of sex, the heady reek of wine, choking him. His whole body screamed to rut into his own fist until he finished.
But he forced himself to stay still. Fists clenched at his sides. Teeth grinding. Watching as Hans slumped boneless, hand wiped lazily against the linen, eyes fluttering shut in sated exhaustion.
The sight seared itself into his memory.
Henry didn’t move until silence closed heavy over the chamber again. Only then did he slip from behind the curtain, each step a fight against the fire in his blood.
Out in the corridor, the air was colder, but not enough to cool him. His fists stayed tight at his sides. He should have felt nothing but disgust. Instead he carried with him the sight of Hans’ flushed face washed in candlelight and the sound of his own name falling from his lips.