Atticus watched him come closer, mesmerised by his words, his slow motion, his steady stare. He quivered with tension at the touch, his chest working as if he were still sparring in the gardens. The promise slide through his mind like a wash of ice water, refreshing and making his skin tingle. It wasn’t that Atticus believed, but it wasn’t that he didn’t, either.<br/><br/>The Master’s deep, dark eyes bored into him, holding Atticus still, and though he ached to move he couldn’t at all. As the tall man leaned in and his breath traced Atticus’ ear, he blinked and drew a deeper breath, trying to calm himself. It didn’t help, when he could smell Master Ryan’s scent, faint musk, sandalwood, his morning tea masking it but not completely. The command made him moan softly, frustration and pleasure clear.<br/><br/>He felt a distant twist of shame at being forced to expose his desire so blatantly, but he didn’t care, when he wanted it so much. “I want Master Ryan Valentine.” He didn’t even try to put a pleading, pleasing flex on his tone, not out of practice as such but far too distracted by the man’s closeness.<br/>