Weeks had passed since Anagan had joined Ogron's coven, and while their relationship remained unspoken, the tension between them had only grown. The king's flirtations had become more frequent, more obvious, and Anagan found himself increasingly caught up in the warmth of the attention.
It was in the small moments that Anagan noticed the changes. Ogron would rest his hand on Anagan's lower back as he moved past him, the touch lingering just long enough to send a shiver down Anagan's spine. There were times when the king would brush a strand of hair off Anagan's face, his fingers grazing the skin ever so lightly, leaving behind a trail of warmth that Anagan couldn't help but crave. The once unsettling pet names—"darling," "my dear," "sweetheart"—had become a part of Anagan's daily life, and he found himself leaning into the affection, his nervousness slowly being replaced by a sense of comfort.
Anagan was no longer unsettled by Ogron's attention; he had begun to enjoy it. He reveled in the feeling of being special, of being the focus of the king's charm and warmth. The butterflies in his stomach that had once signaled alarm now fluttered with anticipation, and he found himself seeking out Ogron's presence more often than not.
One afternoon, as they walked together in the garden, Ogron's hand once again found its place on Anagan's lower back. The touch was light, almost casual, but it sent a wave of warmth through Anagan's body. They strolled in comfortable silence, the air filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the soft rustle of leaves.
"You've been spending a lot of time in the gardens, Ana," Ogron remarked, his voice rich with that familiar sweetness. "You seem so at peace here."
Anagan smiled, glancing up at the king. "I find it calming. The flowers, the plants… They're unlike anything I've ever seen."
Ogron nodded, his hand slipping from Anagan's back, only to brush a few stray hairs away from his face. "You belong here, in a place where beauty thrives. It suits you."
The compliment made Anagan's heart flutter. He searched the king's eyes, hoping to find reassurance and warmth, and Ogron's gaze met his with nothing but warmth.
As they continued their walk, Ogron's tone grew softer, more intimate. "You're quite special, Ana. Not everyone can appreciate the beauty of this place the way you do. It takes a certain… refinement, a certain class. Not everyone is capable of that."
Anagan felt a swell of pride at the king's words. It felt good to be praised, to be seen in such a favorable light. There was a nagging sensation at the back of his mind, an unease he couldn't quite place, but he quickly pushed it aside. After all, why would Ogron, a king, lavish such attention on him if it wasn't genuine?
They stopped by a particularly vibrant cluster of flowers, and Ogron plucked a bloom, holding it up for Anagan to see. "This one, for example, is quite rare. It requires just the right conditions to thrive—too much sunlight, and it wilts; too little, and it never blooms."Ogron twirled the flower between his fingers, a thoughtful expression on his face. "It reminds me of you, Ana. Delicate, rare, and deserving of only the best care." His words were laced with a sweetness that made Anagan's heart skip a beat. "You're like this flower—so beautiful, yet so easily crushed if not handled with care. Not just anyone would know how to appreciate you."
Anagan smiled, his chest swelling with pride at the comparison. He didn't notice the subtle undercurrent in Ogron's words, the way they simultaneously lifted him up while planting a seed of doubt in his own abilities to navigate the world without the king's guidance. Delicate? Was he delicate?
As they continued their walk, Ogron suddenly paused, turning to face Anagan fully. "I have something for you, Ana," he said, his voice soft and intimate. From within his robes, Ogron pulled out a small box, intricately carved with symbols that seemed to pulse with a faint magical energy.
Anagan watched with wide eyes as Ogron opened the box to reveal a necklace—a choker-style chain, finely crafted and adorned with a pendant in the shape of the red flower Anagan had admired in the garden. The chain itself was elegant yet sturdy, and in the center, where the pendant hung, there was a small lock. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the kind of gift one would only receive from someone of great importance.
Ogron's fingers brushed Anagan's neck as he fastened the necklace around him, the touch sending a shiver down Anagan's spine. The pendant rested perfectly at the hollow of his throat, the cool metal contrasting with the warmth of his skin.
"There," Ogron murmured, stepping back to admire his work. "Now you carry a piece of the garden with you, a piece of me." His eyes twinkled with something that made Anagan's heart race. "It suits you, don't you think?"
Anagan touched the pendant, his fingers tracing the delicate petals. "It's very nice… Thank you, Ogron." The warmth of the king's gift spread through him, filling him with a sense of belonging that he hadn't felt in years.
"I'm glad you like it, darling," Ogron said, his voice dripping with that addictive honey. "It's a symbol of how important you are to me, how much I value you. But remember," his tone shifted slightly, still sweet but with an edge, "not everyone will see you the way I do. Not everyone will appreciate your worth."
Anagan looked up, meeting Ogron's gaze. There was a flicker of something unsettling in the king's eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. He dismissed the feeling, attributing it to his own nerves. After all, how could he question someone who made him feel so cherished?
"Thank you," Anagan repeated, the words heavy with emotion. He felt a mix of gratitude and something else, something he couldn't quite place—a sense of dependency, perhaps? But he quickly dismissed the thought. Ogron had been nothing but kind to him, making him feel special in ways no one else ever had.
As they continued their walk, the chain around Anagan's neck seemed to grow heavier, the pendant a constant reminder of the king's words. He felt a surge of warmth, comforted by the thought that he had someone who saw him, who valued him so deeply. The unease that had plagued him earlier faded into the background, overshadowed by the thrill of being loved, of being wanted.
Yet, unbeknownst to Anagan, the chain was more than just a gift. It was a symbol of a subtle claim that Ogron had laid upon him—a claim that Anagan, in his innocence, was all too eager to accept.
The king's presence was intoxicating, and Anagan found himself drawn deeper and deeper into the web of affection, unaware that each sweet word, each delicate touch, was binding him tighter to the king's will.
And all the while, Ogron watched with a knowing smile, the key to Anagan—both literally and figuratively—safely in his possession.
