Essek speaks his name, gives his soft but utterly unyielding commands, and Verin can do nothing but do as he's told. He pushes himself up more so that Essek has room to move; when his brother presses a hand to his shoulder it's as effective as changing gravity. Verin lays back, utterly captivated by Essek as he leans over him and holds his jaw. Essek's hands are beautiful, elegant, and he is capable of a firm grip that makes Verin's cock throb. He feels utterly powerless in the face of Essek's will, and he's relieved as his brother offers that reassurance, the twist of anxiety and tension fading.

For a moment it's difficult to think, let alone answer, especially when Essek's hand squeezes and strokes his cock through the thin fabric of his sleep pants. Verin tries to hold back a sound, more practiced now in being quiet. He wants to trust up into his brother's touch, but he's held in place by the way Essek looks at him and holds his gaze.

It's only when Essek stops talking that Verin dares to reach for him. The hand closest to Essek slides over the impossibly soft skin of his thigh, pushing the peignoir's silk out of the way. If he gets chided, then it will be worth it.

"I love you," he answers, heavy and soft because it's true, and it has always been true. No one in this den has cared for him the way Essek has, no one has calmed his fears and anxieties or celebrated his victories in the same way. Essek has never been disappointed that he's simply Verin. Maybe his jealousy is unfounded, but the thought of it touches an anxiety he didn't really know he had.

"No one could ever be what you are to me, Essek."