I Married the 'Mad' Heir

Ch 34: The Permission

For a long while, they stayed together like that on the rug. Orion held him, one hand stroking slow, steady circles on Abel’s broad back. He could feel the frantic hammer of Abel’s heart gradually slowing, the tremors in his big frame subsiding into the occasional soft shudder. The fire crackled, casting warm, dancing light over the strange little fortress of pillows and toy soldiers.

Orion’s own mind was reeling. The sheer scale of Abel’s misunderstanding, the guilt he’d been carrying, the bizarre but heartbreakingly logical conclusion he’d drawn... it was a testament to how fragile and isolated Abel’s world was. He lived in a place where adults spoke in riddles and threats, where children were his only reliable council, and where love and biology were a confused fairy tale.

Slowly, Abel’s tight grip on Orion’s shirt loosened. He didn’t pull away, but he shifted just enough to lift his head from Orion’s shoulder. He peeked up, his face tear-streaked and blotchy, his golden eyes wide and unsure. He looked younger than ever in that moment, a child caught after a tantrum, hoping not to be scolded.

He studied Orion’s face, searching for any trace of anger or sickness. Seeing only tired affection and a faint, sad smile, he took a cautious breath.

His voice, when it came, was small and hushed, filled with a shy, desperate hope.

”So... I can kiss you?”

The question was so simple, so utterly earnest, it stole the air from Orion’s lungs. It wasn’t a demand. It was a plea for permission. For the return of a fundamental truth Abel thought he’d lost—that his affection was safe, that it was welcome, that it wasn’t a poison.

Orion’s heart clenched. He cupped Abel’s damp cheek in his palm, his thumb brushing away a last, stray tear. ”Yes, Abel,” he said, his voice soft but unwavering. ”You can always kiss me. You never needed to stop.”

Abel’s eyes welled up again, but this time it was with relief so profound it shimmered. A wobbly, tentative smile touched his lips. He leaned in slowly, hesitantly, as if approaching something precious he’d almost shattered. His lips brushed against Orion’s—just the ghost of a touch, feather-light and questioning.

It was the shyest, most careful kiss they had ever shared.

When Orion didn’t pull away, when he instead tilted his head slightly to meet him, Abel let out a tiny, shaky sigh against his mouth. He kissed him again, a little less hesitant, a little more solid. It was a kiss of rediscovery. A kiss that said *you’re really here, and I didn’t ruin you.*

When they finally parted, Abel rested his forehead against Orion’s, their noses touching. He kept his eyes closed, just breathing him in.

”I missed it,” Abel confessed in a whisper. ”My chest felt all empty and wrong when I thought I couldn’t.”

”I know,” Orion murmured. ”Mine too.”

They sat in the quiet for another minute. Then Abel’s practical nature, ever-present even in his distress, surfaced. He pulled back and gestured vaguely at his stomach, then Orion’s. His brow was furrowed with the lingering confusion of a complex problem only half-solved.

”But... if kisses don’t make babies,” he began, working it through aloud, ”then how *do* babies get inside? Mother said you have to have one. She was angry. She said it’s your duty.” He said the word ’duty’ like it was a bitter, unfamiliar taste.

Orion felt a chill that had nothing to do with the room. The Duchess’s cold ultimatum had been the root of this whole mess. Her pressure, her clinical demand, had somehow filtered into Abel’s awareness and twisted into this terrifying fantasy.

He had to be careful. He couldn’t explain the mechanics—not now, maybe not ever in any detail Abel could fully grasp. But he could plant a flag. He could set a boundary Abel would understand.

He took Abel’s large hands in his own, holding them firmly. He looked directly into his eyes.

”What your mother wants... what she calls ’duty’... is a different thing, Abel. A grown-up thing. A private thing between husbands. It’s not about kisses.”

Abel listened intently, his head cocked.

”And here is the most important part,” Orion continued, choosing his words with immense care. ”That private thing... it only happens if *both* people want it. Very, very much. Not because someone else is angry. Not because it’s a duty. Only if both people choose it, together, because they love each other and they both want a baby.”

He emphasized the words. *Both. Choose. Together.*

Abel’s frown deepened as he processed this. The concept of mutual, enthusiastic consent was a radical one in his experience. Most things in his life were done *to* him—for his own good, for the family’s sake, for duty.

”So... if you don’t want a baby...” Abel started slowly.

”Then we don’t do the private thing,” Orion finished firmly. ”And there is no baby. And that is okay.”

”And if I don’t want a baby?”

”Then we also don’t do it. And that is also okay.”

Abel considered this. The idea that his own want—or lack of want—mattered in such a big decision was startling. ”But Mother said...”

”I know what she said,” Orion interrupted gently but firmly. ”But she is not one of the husbands in this marriage. We are. You and me. So we are the only two people who get to decide about private things. And about babies.”

He saw the flicker of understanding in Abel’s eyes, followed by a spark of something that looked strangely like defiance. Abel had spent a lifetime being told what to do, where to go, how to behave. The idea that there was one area, with Orion, where *he* had a say... it was a new and powerful notion.

”Okay,” Abel said, nodding once. It was a decisive nod. ”Our private thing. Our choice.”

”Yes,” Orion said, relief washing through him. He hadn’t solved the larger political problem. The Duchess’s threat still loomed. But he had secured Abel’s understanding on the most crucial point. He had built a wall around them, however flimsy, that was made of mutual agreement.

Abel looked down at their joined hands, then back at the nest of pillows. A new thought seemed to occur to him, one free from the earlier panic. ”If we did... choose. Someday. Would the baby be... like you? Or like me?”

The question was so innocent, so hopeful, it made Orion’s throat tight. He allowed himself, for just a second, to imagine it. A child with Abel’s gentle heart and his own stubbornness. A little life to protect in this cold, scheming house.

”Maybe a bit of both,” Orion said softly. ”Maybe they’d have your eyes. And my terrible habit of worrying too much.”

Abel smiled, a real, bright smile for the first time that evening. ”I would teach them to ride Angel. And you could teach them big words from books.”

”And we’d keep them safe,” Orion added, the words a quiet vow.

Abel’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a more serious expression. He squeezed Orion’s hands. ”Safe from Ashford. And from... from difficult lives.”

”Yes,” Orion whispered. ”Safe from all of that.”

The mood shifted again, settling into something calmer, more weary. The emotional storm had passed, leaving exhaustion in its wake.

Abel yawned, a huge, jaw-cracking yawn that reminded Orion just how late it was. The adrenaline of his guilt and fear had drained away completely.

”Come on,” Orion said, giving his hands a final squeeze before letting go. ”Let’s get ready for bed. For real this time.”

They tidied up the strange pillow fort together, Abel carefully putting his knights back in their box. The ordinary routine of washing faces and changing into nightclothes felt grounding, normal.

When they finally slid under the covers, Abel immediately turned onto his side, facing Orion. He looked at him for a long moment in the dim light from the dying fire. Then, with a sigh of pure contentment, he shuffled forward and wrapped himself around Orion, pulling him close until Orion’s back was snug against his chest. He buried his nose in Orion’s hair, inhaling deeply.

”No babies,” Abel murmured, the words a sleepy, satisfied mantra against Orion’s scalp. ”Just Myorion.”

Orion relaxed into the familiar, warm hold, feeling the steady beat of Abel’s heart against his back. The fear, the confusion, the absurd investigation—it was over.

”Just us,” he agreed quietly, closing his eyes.

Within minutes, Abel’s breathing deepened into the even rhythm of sleep, his arms still locked securely around Orion.

Orion lay awake a while longer, staring at the patterns of firelight on the wall. The problem wasn’t truly solved. The Duchess would return. The pressure for an heir would only grow. Ashford was still a menace, lightly punished and undoubtedly fuming.

But for tonight, a different crisis had been averted. The fragile bridge of trust between them, which Orion had feared might be broken by outside forces, had not only held—it had been strengthened by Abel’s own clumsy, terrified, and utterly loving attempt to protect him.

He reached back and found Abel’s hand, lacing their fingers together in the dark. Abel, even in sleep, gave a soft grunt and squeezed back.

They had no baby. They had no power. They had a house full of enemies and a future shrouded in threat.

But they had this. This bed. This embrace. This ridiculous, unwavering love that thought kisses could create a litter of children and that the solution was to build a pillow fortress and stand guard.

It wasn’t much. But as Orion finally felt sleep pull him under, he thought that maybe, against everything in this cruel, calculating world, it might just be enough.