by S. U. Pacat
Aimeric turned his bruised, bloody face to the words, in disbelief that Jord was defending him. Laurent turned to face Jord at the same time, his golden brows arching. There was disbelief in Laurent’s expression too, but it was colder, more fundamental.
It took Damen a moment to understand why. Uneasiness swept over him as he looked from Laurent’s face to Aimeric’s, and realised suddenly and for the first time how close Laurent and Aimeric were in age. There was six months’ difference between them, at most.
‘I am going to wreck his family,’ said Laurent. ‘But it’s not his family he’s fighting for.’
‘Of course it is,’ said Jord. ‘Why else would he betray his friends?’
‘You can’t think of a reason?’
Laurent’s attention had returned to Aimeric, drawing close to him, so that they faced one another. Like a lover, Laurent smiled and touched a stray curl, tucking it behind Aimeric’s ear. Aimeric flinched, violently, then repressed the flinch, though he wasn’t able to control his breathing.
Tenderly, Laurent drew a fingertip through the blood that welled from Aimeric’s split lip.
‘Pretty face,’ said Laurent. Then his fingers dropped back to brush Aimeric’s jaw, tilting it up as though for a kiss. Aimeric made a choked sound in response to pain; the bruised flesh under Laurent’s fingers was white. ‘I bet you were a peach of a little boy. A pretty peach. How old were you when you fucked my uncle?’
Damen went still, everything in the tower went very still, as Laurent said, ‘Were you old enough to come?’
‘Shut up,’ said Aimeric.
‘Did he tell you you’d be together again, if you’d just do this one thing? Did he tell you how much he missed you?’
‘Shut up,’ said Aimeric.
‘He was lying. He wouldn’t take you back. You’re too old.’
‘You don’t know,’ said Aimeric.
‘Thick-voiced and rough-cheeked, you’d make him sick.’
‘You don’t know anything—’
‘With your ageing body, your overripe attentions, you’re nothing but—’
‘You’re wrong about us! He loves me!’
Aimeric flung the words out defiantly, they came out over-loud. Damen felt the bottom fall out of his stomach, a feeling of total wrongness passing over him. He found he had let go his grip on Jord, who, beside him, had taken two steps back.
Laurent was looking at Aimeric with curling contempt.
‘Loves you? You paltry little upstart. I doubt he even preferred you. How long did you hold his attention? A few fucks while he was bored in the country?’
‘You don’t know anything about us,’ said Aimeric.
‘I know he didn’t bring you to court. He left you in Fortaine. You never asked yourself why?’
‘He didn’t want to leave me. He told me,’ said Aimeric.
‘I bet you were easy. A few compliments, a little attention, and you gave him all the naive pleasures of a country virgin in his bed. He would have found it diverting. At first. What else is there to do in Fortaine? But the novelty wore off.’
‘No,’ said Aimeric.
‘You’re pretty enough, and you were obviously hot for it. But used goods are not appealing unless they are something worth using. And the cheap wine you drink in a backwater tavern is not the kind that you serve at your own table, given choice.’
‘No,’ said Aimeric.
‘My uncle is discriminating. Not like Jord,’ said Laurent, ‘who’ll take a middle-aged man’s sloppy seconds and treat it like it’s worth something.’
‘Stop it,’ said Aimeric.
‘Why do you think my uncle asked you to whore yourself out to a common armsman before he’d deign to touch you? That’s what he thought you were good for. Screwing my soldiers. And you couldn’t even do that right.’
Damen said, ‘That’s enough.’
Aimeric was crying. Ugly, wracking sobs that shook his whole body. Jord was ashen-faced. Before anyone else could act or speak, Damen said, ‘Get Aimeric out of here.’
‘You cold-blooded son of a bitch,’ Jord said to Laurent. His voice was shaky. Laurent rounded on him, deliberately.
‘And then of course,’ said Laurent, ‘there’s you.’
‘No,’ said Damen, stepping between them. His eyes were on Laurent. His voice was hard. ‘Get out,’ Damen said to Jord. It was a flat order. He didn’t turn around to look at Jord to see whether or not his order had been obeyed. To Laurent, in the same voice, he said, ‘Calm down.’
Laurent said, ‘I wasn’t finished.’
‘Finished what? Reducing every man in the room? Jord isn’t any kind of match for you in this mood, and you know it. Calm down.’
Laurent gave him the kind of look a swordsman gives as he decides whether or not to slice his unarmed enemy in half.
‘Are you going to try it with me? Or do you only take pleasure in attacking those who cannot defend themselves?’ Damen heard the hardness in his own voice. He held his ground. Around them, the tower room was empty. He had sent everyone else out. ‘I remember the last time you were like this. You blundered so badly you gave your uncle the excuse he needed to have you stripped of your lands.’
He was almost killed, for that. He knew it and stayed where he was. The atmosphere rose, hot, thick and deadly.
Abruptly, Laurent turned away. He put the heels of his palms on the table, gripping its edge, standing with his head down, his arms stiffly braced, tension across his back. Damen watched his ribcage expand and deflate, several times.
Laurent was still for a moment, then, sharply, he swept his forearm across the table, a sudden, single movement that sent gilt plates and their contents crashing to the floor. An orange rolled. Water from the pitcher dripped from the table’s edge onto the floor. He could hear the sound of Laurent’s unsteady breathing.
Damen allowed the silence in the room to stretch out. He didn’t look at the wrecked table, with its spilled meats, its scattered plates and overturned, fat-bellied pitcher. He looked at the line of Laurent’s back. As he had known to send the others out, he knew not to speak. He didn’t know how much time passed. Not long enough for the tension in Laurent’s back to unwinch.
Laurent spoke without turning around. His voice was unpleasantly precise.
‘What you are saying is that when I lose control, I make mistakes. My uncle knows that, of course. It would have been an amusing pleasure for him to send Aimeric to work against me, you’re right. You, with your barbaric attitudes, your brutish, domineering arrogance, are always right.’
Laurent’s hands on the table were white.
‘I remember that trip to Fortaine. He left the capital for two weeks, then sent word he was extending it to three. He said it was his business with Guion that needed more time.’
Damen took a step forward, called by the tone in Laurent’s voice.
Laurent said, ‘If you want me to calm down, get out.’
CHAPTER 19
‘CAPTAIN.’
Damen was three steps out of the tower room when Guymar greeted him with a hail and the clear intention of making for the room himself.
‘Aimeric is back under guard and the men have settled. I can report to the Prince and—’
He found he had put himself bodily in Guymar’s way. ‘No. No one goes in.’
Anger, irrationally, blossomed. Behind him was the closed door to the tower rooms, a barrier to disaster. Guymar should know better than to barge in and make Laurent’s mood worse. Guymar should have known better than to cause Laurent’s mood in the first place.
‘Are there orders for what should be done with the prisoner?’
Throw Aimeric off the battlements. ‘Keep him confined in his rooms.’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘I want this whole section kept clear. And Guymar?’
‘Yes, Captain?’
‘This time, I want it actually kept clear. I don’t care who is about to get molested. No one is to come here. Is that und
erstood?’
‘Yes, Captain.’ Guymar bowed and retreated.
Damen found himself with his hands braced on the stone crenellation, in unconscious echoing of Laurent’s pose, the line of Laurent’s back the last thing he had seen before he had put the heel of his palm to the door.
His heart was pounding. He wanted to make a barrier that protected Laurent from anyone who would intrude on him. He’d keep that perimeter clear, if it meant stalking these battlements and patrolling it himself.
He knew this about Laurent. That once he gave himself time alone to think, the control returned, reason won out.
The part of him that didn’t want to drop Aimeric with a punch recognised that both Jord and Aimeric had just been put through the wringer. It was a mess that needn’t have happened. If they’d just—steered clear. Friends, Laurent had said, high on the battlements. Is that what we are? Damen’s hands drew into fists. Aimeric was an inveterate troublemaker with terrible timing.
He found himself at the base of the stairs, giving the same order to the soldiers there that he had given to Guymar, emptying out the section.
It was long past midnight. A feeling of fatigue, of heaviness came over him, and Damen was suddenly aware of how few hours there were before morning. The soldiers were clearing out, the space emptying around him. The idea of stopping, allowing himself a moment to think, was terrible. Outside, there was nothing, just the last hours of darkness, and the long ride in the dawn.
He caught one of the soldiers by the arm before he realised it, holding him back from following the others.
The man stopped, held in place.
‘Captain?’
‘Watch over the Prince,’ he heard himself say. ‘Anything he needs, make certain he has it. Take care of him.’ He was aware of the incongruity of the words, of his hard grip on the soldier’s arm. When he tried to stop, his grip only tightened. ‘He deserves your loyalty.’
‘Yes, Captain.’
A nod, followed by acquiescence. He watched the man go upstairs in his place.
It took a long time to finish his preparations, after which he found a servant to show him to his rooms. He had to pick his way across the ends of the revelry: discarded wine cups, a snoring Rochert, a few overturned chairs, thanks to a fight or some overly vigorous dancing.
His rooms were excessive because Veretians were always excessive: through doorway arches, he could see at least two other rooms, with tiled floors and low, lounging couches typical of Vere. He let his eyes pass over the vaulted windows, the table well supplied with wine and fruits, and the bed, overhung with rose-coloured silks that fell in folds so long they pooled out over the floor.
He dismissed the servant. The doors closed. He poured himself a cup of wine from a silver jug and drained it off. He placed the cup back on the table. He rested his hands on the table and his weight on his hands.
Then he lifted his hand to his shoulder, and unpinned his Captain’s badge.
The windows were open. It was the kind of sweet, warm night that came often in the south. Veretian decoration was everywhere, from the intricate grilles covering the windows to the helicoidal braiding that looped the bed silks, but these border forts had some hints of the south, in the shapes of the arches, and the flow of space, open and without screens.
He looked down at the badge in his hand. His time as Laurent’s Captain had been short-lived. An afternoon. An evening. In that time they’d won a battle and taken a fort. It seemed wild and improbable, a hard-edged golden piece of metal in his hand.
Guymar was a good choice, the right interim until Laurent gathered advisors to himself and found a new Captain. That would be the first order of business, to consolidate his power here in Ravenel. As a commander, Laurent was still green, but Laurent would grow into the role. Laurent would find his way, transforming himself from commander-prince to King.
He put the badge down on the table.
He moved away from it to the windows. He looked out. He could see the pinpricks of torchlight on the battlements, where the blue and gold had replaced the banners of Lord Touars.
Touars, who had wavered, but had been convinced into battle by Guion.
In his mind were images that would always be linked with tonight. Stars wheeling high over the battlements. Costumes, and Enguerran’s armour. A helm with its one long red feather. Churned earth and violence and Touars, who had fought, until a single moment of recognition that had changed everything.
Damianos. Prince killer.
Behind him, the doors closed; he turned, and saw Laurent.
His stomach dropped, a moment of confused shock—he’d never expected to see Laurent here. Then everything resolved, the size and the opulence of these chambers made sense: Laurent was not the interloper.
They faced each other. Laurent stood, four steps inside the room, vivid in the severe clothing, tight-laced, with only a single shoulder ornament to signify his rank. Damen felt his pulse beat with his surprise, his awareness of Laurent’s presence.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Your servants brought me to the wrong rooms.’
‘No, they didn’t,’ said Laurent.
There was a slight pause.
‘Aimeric is back in his rooms under guard,’ said Damen. He tried for a normal tone. ‘He’s not going to cause any more trouble.’
‘I don’t want to talk about Aimeric,’ said Laurent. ‘Or my uncle.’
Laurent began to come forward. Damen was aware of him as he was aware of the badge he had removed, like a piece of armour discarded too early.
Laurent said, ‘I know you’re planning to leave tomorrow. You’re going to cross the border, and you’re not going to come back. Say it.’
‘I—’
‘Say it.’
‘I’m going to leave tomorrow,’ said Damen, as steadily as he could. ‘I’m not going to come back.’ He drew in a breath that hurt his chest. ‘Laurent—’
‘No, I don’t care. Tomorrow you leave. But you’re mine now. You’re still my slave tonight.’
Damen felt the words hit, but that was subsumed in the shock of Laurent’s hand on him, a push backwards. His legs hit the bed. The world tilted, bed silks and roseate light. He felt Laurent’s knee alongside his thigh, Laurent’s hand on his chest.
‘I—don’t—’
‘I think you do,’ said Laurent.
His jacket began to divide under Laurent’s fingers: Laurent was unerring, and a distant part of Damen’s mind registered that: a prince with a servant’s proficiency, better than Damen had been, as though taught.
‘What are you doing?’ Damen’s breath was shaky.
‘What am I doing? You are not very observant.’
‘You’re not yourself,’ said Damen. ‘And even if you were, you don’t do anything without a dozen motives.’
Laurent went very still, the soft words half bitter. ‘Don’t I? I must want something.’
‘Laurent,’ he said.
‘You take liberties,’ said Laurent. ‘I never gave you permission to call me by my name.’
‘Your Highness,’ said Damen, and the words twisted, wrong in his mouth. He needed to say, Don’t do this. But he couldn’t think past Laurent, improbably close. He felt each shifting inch that divided their bodies with a fluttering, illicit sensation at Laurent’s proximity. He closed his eyes against it, felt his body’s painful yearning. ‘I don’t think you want me. I think you just want me to feel this.’
‘Then, feel it,’ said Laurent.
And slid his hand inside Damen’s open jacket, past his shirt, to his stomach.
It was not possible, in that moment, to do anything but experience Laurent’s hand against his skin. His breath shuddered out of him, Laurent’s touch hot across his navel and sliding lower. He was half aware of the silk bedding, rumpled and disturbed around him, Laurent’s knees and other hand like pins in the silk, holding him down. His jacket was discarded, his shirt half off him. The laces between his legs parted, obedient to Laurent�
�s fingers, and then he was all undone.
It was Laurent’s face he looked at. He saw as if for the first time the look in Laurent’s eyes, his slightly altered breathing. He was aware of the taut line of Laurent’s back; of the conscious way he held his body. He recalled the line of Laurent’s back in the tower, bent over the table. He heard the tone in Laurent’s voice.
‘I see you are everywhere in proportion.’
Damen said, ‘You’ve seen me roused before.’
‘And I remember what you like.’
Laurent closed a fist around the head, and slid his thumb over the slit, pushing down into it a little.
Damen’s whole body curved. The grip felt more like ownership than a caress. Laurent leaned in, let his thumb delineate a small, wet circle.
‘You liked this too, with Ancel.’
‘That wasn’t Ancel,’ said Damen, the words coming out, raw and honest. ‘That was all you, and you know it.’
He didn’t want to think about Ancel. His body strained, like a strap pulled too tight. He did what was natural to him, but Laurent said, ‘No,’ and he couldn’t touch.
‘You know, Ancel used his mouth,’ he said, almost nonsensically, desperately trying to distract Laurent, to distract himself, fighting to hold himself in place against the sheets.
‘I don’t think I need to,’ said Laurent.
The rise and fall of Laurent’s hand was like the slide of Laurent’s words, like every frustrating argument that they’d ever had, stymied, tangled up in Laurent’s voice. He could feel the tension in Laurent, sharp like the feel of his own heartbeats. Laurent held his former mood within him, constrained, and converted into something else.
He fought it, as it rose inside him, striking out for resistant purchase in the silks above his head. But Laurent’s free hand curtailed his movement, pushing down on him in hot, insistent command. He was caught unexpectedly in Laurent’s eyes, and it hit, in a tangled burst, Laurent fully clothed above him, a prince in full panoply, his shiny boots alongside Damen’s thighs. Even as Damen felt the first tremor rolling up his body, the moment was transforming, too much communicated between them. He felt suddenly that he should look away, that he should stop or turn back. He couldn’t. Laurent’s eyes were dark, wide, and for a moment looked nowhere but at him.