He sighs. “Miss Bridgerton is young. I believe her mood was already soured by Whistledown, and this… must have come as a shock to her, I am sure. And Voltur, you were not fair on her, either, with the way you spoke to her. It was not right to pressure her into admitting something so important about herself. I suggest you give her time.”

Ophel stills.

“And as for the… issue pertaining to the incident between us. My presence will complicate things no longer. I intend to leave town.”

She 'pressured' me first. It's a child's excuse, and not even fair, she knew not what she was doing. 

"Please don't," he says instead. He's surprised to hear himself speak. 

“What?”

"I want you to stay," he says simply. 

“Why?” He furrows his brow. “I have brought you nothing but problems. Your betrothed knows what we have done. Whistledown writes about us. Voltur, I cannot stay.”

He shrugs, suddenly self-conscious. "You can. Whistledown has already written, Eloise already knows. I can cope with problems, Lord Ophel."

“Then what am I to do?” His voice rises before he can control it. “Sit still, watch you get married, go home to an empty house? No, Voltur. What you ask of me is selfish.”

He has let go of him now.

He steps even closer. He can almost feel the elf's bounding heartbeat, almost taste the tears in his eyes, he's drunk and in pain and-

"No. It's not selfish. It's for you as well. You need to stop running away, Ophel. I do not ask that you sit still, I ask that you help me fight."

“Not everything is a fight to be won,” he retorts instantly. “That is what has gotten you into this position, Voltur. You keep striving, you keep making noise. In the ton, you must stay quiet to survive, and I intend to make a quiet exit. You cannot, in fact, control me.”

He grabs the elf's wrists again, bearing up with terrible strength, this time not twisting but driving him back against the wall, not hurt but pinned like a butterfly to a board.

"Can I not?" he whispers.

His chest rises shallowly, sharply. “No. No, you cannot do this again. Voltur– please, let me go.”

His lips twitch in a cruel smile. "No. You've taught me so much, my friend, let me teach you something in return. You think you can keep quiet, bite your tongue, back down, and that will save you? It has not. It will not. And so you run, again, and again, and again. It happens because you will never stand your ground. I will stand up to the ton and maybe I will lose, but you already have."

He presses even closer, almost too close to focus, it's getting hard for the elf to breathe. 

"The ton never had to lift a finger to take Wetherby from you. You did that yourself. And that is why they might have done something, because you clearly would not resist."

He's almost close enough to kiss. 

"So no, Ophel. No, I will not simply let you go."

He brings his lips to the elf's pointed ear. 

"Make me."

His breath hitches at the feeling, a gasp caught somewhere deep in his heart. He feels it – the sparks in his ear, so sensitive, being played with, provoked–

Ophel cannot hold back any longer. The last shred of his abnegation breaks. 

He kisses him, hard. He kisses him like he loves him.

He does not fight. He surrenders.

That works, too. 

He growls and releases the elf's wrists to grab his hair, winding it tightly through his fingers to pin Ophel's head there, forcing his chin up to sear a trail of kisses down his neck.

The sigh leaves his lips so sweetly. “No– no, not yet– please, please kiss me again,” he whispers, his tongue so loose, so loose.

Fine. 

He will tolerate this. 

For now. 

This kiss is bruising, fierce, leaving Ophel's lips swollen and his eyes crossed. 

The elf runs his hands all over Voltur’s bare skin; feeling him, taking him in. His fingers trace down the grooves of his muscles, feeling the bump of scar after scar, committing them to memory, each one angrier than the last – what did they do to you?

He lets go to tear off his own clothes – the neckpiece, the collar, the jacket the waistcoat the shirt, until their bodies are pressed together, skin against skin, because Ophel is so sick of anything keeping them apart.

And he cannot stop kissing him.

He's not going to stop at kissing him. 

He's waited for this for so long. 

This- hasn't been a major part of his life. He became a man in the army; he has had no civilian life. 

And the elf - has just been here, quiet, distant, teasing. 

He has very little patience left. 

He sweeps a table clear, bends Ophel roughly over it, strong fingers shredding any clothes left in the way, and takes him. 

The initial feeling is– gods, oh gods

A strong hand presses his head into the table-wood, and he cannot do anything but grasp helplessly at the edges, trying in vain to anchor himself.

The muscles on his back shine with sweat, his smooth skin like molten gold. He gasps and moans so prettily, pleads his name, just the way Voltur pictured it – and his eyes roll back in his head, and salty tears pool in his tongue, and the elf feels as he is taken, stretched out, changed and marked irrevocably. 

There comes a point where his mind whites out. 

When it's all over, he sits sprawled against the wall and holds the elf on his lap. He's so light. 

His thoughts are vague, airy. All this time in the city - it really hasn't been long at all. 

None of it has felt as real as this. 

Ophel curls into him. His limbs tremble, no longer his to command.

He hides his face away in Voltur’s neck, panting. His hair forms a blanket for them both.

He will not move. He is not certain that he even can.

He's in no hurry. 

He will hold Ophel gently, and stroke his silken hair, until he comes back to himself or falls asleep. 

In the end, it proves to be the latter. 

He is beautiful when he sleeps, especially when he holds onto Voltur like that; like the way one grasps at a sweet dream in the morning.