The cobblestone alley behind the Royal Theater was a sliver of shadow under the crescent moon, the air thick with the musk of damp stone and lingering perfume from the night’s performance. It was 1793, a year of blood and whispers in Paris, and the theater had just spilled its last patrons into the restless streets. Laughter still echoed faintly from within, a ghost of the evening’s revelry, as Christopher Duval fumbled his way through the aftermath of his latest performance.
He’d been a spectacle, as always—not for his acting, though the gaggle of children in the front row had squealed with delight at his exaggerated portrayal of a bumbling knight, but for the inevitable disaster that followed. Tripping over a prop sword mid-bow, he’d sent the wooden blade clattering across the stage, his lanky frame sprawling in a heap to the uproarious laughter of the crowd. “A hero indeed!” one boy had shouted, and Christopher had grinned through the humiliation, dusting off his tattered doublet with a dramatic flourish. Now, as the theater emptied, he lingered backstage, his mind far from the stage’s cheap thrills.
His thoughts, as they so often did, drifted to Kevin. Kevin, the king’s executioner, a man carved from danger and shadow, whose very presence seemed to cut through the fog of Christopher’s mundane existence. He could picture him now—those eyes, a piercing blend of khaki and green asparagus, sharper than the halberd he wielded with such chilling precision. And those braids, apple-and-olive strands woven tight, tempting as sin itself, dangling just long enough to brush the collar of his blood-flecked cloak. Christopher’s fingers twitched at the memory, a restless ache blooming in his chest.
He couldn’t stay still. The longing gnawed at him, a beast of its own, and before he could talk himself out of it, he slipped out the theater’s back door into the night. The alley welcomed him with a chill, the moonlight barely enough to guide his clumsy steps. He nearly toppled a barrel of rainwater, catching himself against the wall with a muttered curse. “Graceful as a three-legged mule, aren’t you, Duval?” he grumbled to himself, brushing a lock of sandy hair from his sweat-damp forehead. “If only he could see me now, he’d have a right laugh.”
The sound of heavy boots on cobblestone snapped him from his self-pity. His heart lurched, a wild thing caged in his ribs, as a figure emerged from the shadows at the alley’s far end. Kevin. The executioner’s silhouette was unmistakable—broad-shouldered, cloaked in darkness, his halberd slung casually over one shoulder. Under the sliver of moonlight, his crocodile-like grin glinted, freckles dancing across tanned skin like stars on a forbidden map.
“Well, well,” Kevin drawled, his voice a low rumble as he strode closer, each step deliberate, predatory. “What’s this? A lost puppy skulking in dark alleys? Or is it the great Christopher Duval, hero of the stage, come to trip over his own feet for my amusement?”
Christopher’s mouth went dry, his tongue a traitor as he fumbled for words. “I—I wasn’t skulking,” he managed, his voice cracking like a boy’s. “Just… taking the air. You know, after a performance. It’s, uh, refreshing.”
Kevin arched a brow, stopping just close enough that Christopher could smell the faint tang of iron on his cloak—blood, no doubt, from a grim day’s work at the palace. “Taking the air,” Kevin echoed, his grin widening to show a flash of sharp teeth. “In a filthy alley at midnight? You’re a terrible liar, actor.”
Heat crawled up Christopher’s neck, and before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out in a clumsy rush. “Your teeth—I mean, they’re sharp. Like a predator’s. It’s… charming. In a terrifying sort of way.”
A beat of silence, then Kevin’s laughter rolled through the alley, deep and rough, sending a shiver down Christopher’s spine. “Charming, eh?” he said, stepping closer, his halberd clinking as he propped it against the wall. “You’ve got a strange sense of flattery, Duval. Or are you just more hazard than hero, tripping over your tongue now instead of your sword?”
The air thickened, charged with something unspoken, as Christopher’s pulse hammered in his ears. Emboldened by a reckless surge of desire, he took a shaky step forward, his hands trembling as they reached out to brush the edge of Kevin’s blood-stained cloak. “This… this must be heavy,” he stammered, fingers grazing the rough fabric, inching toward the broad plane of Kevin’s shoulder. “I could—let me help. Take it off, I mean. For cleaning. Or… something.”
Kevin’s smirk faltered, a flicker of heat flashing in those sharp, piercing eyes, but he swatted Christopher’s hands away with a grunt. “I don’t need a clumsy fool to undress me, Duval,” he growled, though his voice lacked its usual bite. “Keep your paws to yourself before you hurt someone. Likely yourself.”
Undeterred, Christopher’s desperation flared into action. He surged forward, a mess of limbs and longing, wrapping his arms around Kevin’s solid frame. His lips sought the executioner’s in a frantic, messy kiss, tasting salt and iron and the raw edge of danger. Kevin stiffened, caught off guard, his breath hitching as Christopher’s hands roamed, tugging at fabric, brushing against warm skin beneath.
For a heartbeat, Kevin didn’t pull away, his body taut under Christopher’s clumsy assault. Then, with a half-laugh, half-growl, he shoved back, breaking the kiss but not the tension that crackled between them. “You reckless idiot,” Kevin snarled, his voice rough with something that wasn’t entirely anger. “Do you have any idea what you’re playing at? I could gut you right here and no one would blink.”
Christopher, panting, grinned despite himself, his hands still hovering near Kevin’s chest. “Maybe I’m counting on it. A quick death at your hands might be worth it.”
Kevin’s eyes narrowed, but the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying a reluctant amusement. “You’re a damn fool, Duval. And I don’t have time for fools.” Yet he didn’t step back, didn’t reclaim his halberd, and the heat in his gaze told Christopher everything his words didn’t.
The alley held its breath, the moonlight casting their tangled shadows against the stone. Whatever came next, Christopher knew one thing for certain—he’d already stumbled too far to turn back now.
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