Sweet Hatred
Chapter 125: memories vi (happy days)

Chapter 125: memories vi (happy days)

Ivan and I had countless wonderful memories together.

One started with the rain.

One night, caught out during an exercise, the sky cracked open and drowned us like it had something to prove. Our tent collapsed in a mess of soaked nylon, and Ivan laughed—actually laughed—as we scrambled under a tree, teeth chattering, clothes drenched through. I hated him for finding it funny. Hated how beautiful he looked, even shivering like that.

"Come here," I snapped, pulling him under my coat. He blinked at me, confused.

"What?"

"I said come here, dumbass."

His body pressed against mine, awkward at first. Our knees bumped, shoulders slid, breath misted between us. I could feel how cold he was. How his bones trembled against mine. We sat like that, hunched beneath my coat, wind screaming through the trees.

"This is... nice," he whispered.

And God help me, I wanted to kiss him. Right then. Right there. I didn’t.

But the moment never left me.

Then came another night in the storage shed. We weren’t supposed to be there, but rules never mattered much with him around. He reached past me for something—who knows what—and his fingers brushed mine. That was all it took. I turned, grabbed his face like I was possessed, and kissed him.

Hard.

He gasped. His hands found my jaw, his smile stupid and soft and real against my mouth.

"Kael," he breathed.

"Don’t say my name like that," I warned him.

"Why?" he whispered, lips brushing mine. "You’ll kiss me again?"

I did. Like he belonged to me. Like I had no choice.

Later that week, he climbed into my bunk like it was nothing. No words. No warning. Just his stupid, brave heart sliding beneath the sheets, close but not touching. I could hear him breathing. I could feel the tension humming between our bodies.

And then his fingers found mine.

He held my hand like it meant something. Like I meant something.

We didn’t kiss. We didn’t speak. But that moment felt louder than war.

There was a lake too—hidden, perfect. After a grueling march, we snuck off, stripping down to our briefs, diving into the water like kids. He splashed me, laughing so hard I forgot to be angry. Forgot to be afraid.

I grabbed him from behind, arms tight around his chest.

"I like this side of you," he whispered, breathless.

"You’re not supposed to see it," I muttered against his skin. "It’s classified."

He turned, kissed me anyway. It tasted like sun and water and something dangerously close to hope.

But it was the alley behind the barracks that undid me. We’d just returned from patrol, the others gone, lights out. I found him there, eyes wide, breath caught.

"Someone could see," he said.

"Let them," I growled, slamming him into the wall. "Let them fucking try."

I kissed him like I needed him to survive. Bit his lip, swallowed his gasp, marked him like I could brand his soul. His fingers fisted in my shirt, dragging me closer, like he’d burn alive if I let him go.

And maybe... maybe I would’ve.

Because every time I touched him, I swore I’d never survive losing him.

But I kept doing it anyway.

Because even if no one knew... even if it was all shadows and silence... loving Ivan felt like the only real thing I’d ever done.

But I didn’t know then—how could I?—that those moments were the last good ones we’d get. The last stolen nights, the last reckless touches, the last time I’d see him laugh without something broken underneath it.

We were happy. I was happy. For once. And then the shadows crept in. And my father—like he always did—turned everything I loved into a weapon.

One afternoon, I had Ivan pinned against the wall, his wrists locked above his head with one hand, the other buried inside his cargo pants, teasing him slow, cruel, the way I knew drove him out of his fucking mind.

He was biting his lip, trying not to moan—eyes wild, face flushed, his legs trembling just slightly from the effort of keeping still. God, he was beautiful like this. Undone, quiet, burning up just for me.

"You like being quiet now?" I murmured, my lips brushing his jaw. "Where’s all that smart mouth, hmm?"

"Kael—" he gasped, his voice cracked and needy, his hips twitching helplessly.

I kissed him, swallowed the sound, and I could feel him almost falling apart in my hand when—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

My head jerked toward the door. Ivan stiffened under me.

"Sir?" came a young, hesitant voice from the other side. "You’re needed outside."

"I’m busy," I barked, eyes shifting back to Ivan’s, breathing hard.

"Yes, sir, but..." A pause. Then, quietly, like the name itself held weight. "It’s Mr. Ewan Roman. He’s asking for you, sir."

Everything in me stopped.

Like a blade had slid between my ribs and twisted.

Ivan saw it—felt it. The way I froze. The way the heat drained from my face. His breathing slowed, eyes searching mine, concerned now. I hadn’t told him much about my father. Just enough. Just enough for him to understand that the man didn’t ask for me unless something was already broken.

I stepped back. Slowly. Pulled my hand from his trousers, ashamed of the way it trembled. Ivan didn’t say anything, just fixed his pants with shaky fingers, his chest still rising and falling fast.

"Go," he said gently, even though I could see the flicker of fear in his eyes. "I’ll be right behind you."

I swallowed, my jaw locked so tight it ached. I didn’t want him near this. I didn’t want him anywhere close to what my father might be planning.

But I nodded. And as I opened the door and stepped out into the hall, I didn’t dare look back.

Because I knew.

Somehow, I already knew... that whatever came next would be the beginning of the end.

He was waiting for me just outside the officer’s wing, hands clasped behind his back like he owned the place, like this was his empire to inspect. And maybe it was. Maybe everything he touched rotted into something obedient and bloody and bowed.

Our eyes met.

The smirk on his face was almost fatherly, if you didn’t know better. If you couldn’t feel the venom underneath.

"Why are you here?" I asked, my voice like frost, low and tight in my throat.

Ewan Roman smiled wider, stepping closer with the kind of ease that made my skin crawl. "Is that any way to greet your father? I came to check on the son who got away." His eyes gleamed. "Or thinks he got away."

My fists curled at my sides.

"What do you want, old man? Why this place? Why won’t you just crawl back into whatever pit you slithered out of?" I growled. "You have another son, don’t you? Go bother him."

He didn’t answer right away. He just... looked at me. Like he was sizing me up. Like I was something he made once, and wanted to know if the workmanship had held.

Then he finally spoke. Soft. Cold.

"No matter how far you run, Kael... you can’t escape the blood you were made of. You can’t outrun what you are."

"I am not one of you."

He laughed. Loud and sharp, like something cracking in half.

"Tell that to the bodies you’ve burned without blinking," he said darkly. "Tell that to the men who died screaming your name in their ears. You think the army makes you clean? It just gave you a prettier excuse to do what you already love, didn’t it?"

I felt the heat rise in my chest, my vision narrowing. My teeth clenched.

"You shouldn’t be playing soldier, Kael," he spat, sneering now. "You’re wasting your time pretending you’re one of them. You’re a Roman. A fucking leader in pressed uniform. I didn’t raise a little army lapdog—I raised a king. You belong at my side, not wasting your talent chasing fake honor."

I snapped—stepped forward, my voice like thunder.

"Get. Out."

But he didn’t move.

He just tilted his head and said, "You’ve had your fun. I’ve given you enough time to fuck around in the dirt with these dogs. Now it’s time to come home."

"I am home," I hissed. "And I’m not yours."

He didn’t flinch.

No, instead he stepped past me, as if the conversation was over. As if he’d already won something I hadn’t noticed.

Then... he stopped. Right beside me.

And without turning around, he said, "Ah. It seems you have another visitor."

I turned sharply.

Ivan.

Standing there in the hallway. Still a little flushed from what we’d been doing earlier, though he was trying to compose himself now. But I could tell from the stiffness in his stance, the slight part of his lips, that he’d heard at least some of that conversation.

And then Ewan turned to him with a smile so deceptively polite it made my skin crawl.

"You’re Ivan, right?"

Both Ivan and I froze. Because he wasn’t supposed to know that. Not his name. Not him. And in that moment... something cold slithered down my spine.

His voice was casual. Almost amused. But I knew better.

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