Chapter Nine
While I soaked in my bath, closing my eyes and trying to push any thoughts of Fabian’s death out of my mind, the tower bells of the temple on the other side of the palace wall chimed the sixth hour past noon. Less than a full day since Fabian had been murdered and I’d climbed out of this same tub to find his body.
Only ten hours since Benedict had bent me over his bed and taken what he wanted.
And barely more than an hour since he’d spent in my mouth while I occupied my ducal throne.
That particular act did nothing to relieve a twilight mage’s curse. It had been entirely for his own enjoyment. Or perhaps to prove a point. Hadn’t he threatened to have me on my throne all those years ago?
The rough grip of his hands around my wrists, around the back of my neck. Come on and give it a lick, Lucian . The pressure in my throat, the tight, desperate need between my legs, the overwhelming pleasure as I’d spilled with his cock in my mouth, his laugh as Gerfred commented on my disarray…
My face burned hotter than the steam rising from my bath, and I squirmed, desperate to escape my own thoughts, wishing I could sink down into the water and disappear.
At least the bath hid my half-hard cock. And I’d have the chance to restore myself to calm before I had to face him.
Gerfred had been dispatched to send supper, both mine and Benedict’s, to the private family parlor. Surely I could ignore him while I ate, and the feral growls of my stomach would drown out whatever irritating remarks he might inflict on me. I could endure anything for a joint of beef and a goblet of non-lethal wine.
At last the bath water cooled enough that I couldn’t stall any longer, and I climbed out, shrugged on my dressing gown, and stepped out into my bedchamber, resolved to keep my equanimity. My cock had almost gone soft again. It’d stay that way, dammit. I’d grow inured to his coarse, vulgar appeal soon enough, and then I’d be able to stoically take his cock without giving him the satisfaction of my body’s response.
And anyway, this wouldn’t last forever. Once I’d ferreted out the assassin I could end the arrangement with Benedict, and possibly also send him on a long, dangerous mission a thousand miles away. Something that would cover him (posthumously, if the gods smiled on me) in glory.
Lost in a fantasy where I forced out one, or possibly two, tears while delivering Benedict’s eulogy, I wandered to the fireplace and turned around to warm my backside.
And nearly leapt out of my skin as my eyes focused on my bed.
Stripped of his sword belt, cloak, boots, and tunic, his linen shirt hanging unlaced and open, lounging on a heap of my pillows, Benedict had clearly made himself entirely at home.
On my bed .
“Gods,” I gasped, heart settling slightly from the frantic race it’d begun when he startled me. He wouldn’t be able to see the outline of my cock through my dressing gown, luckily, but that had jumped too. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? I have a sitting room right through that door!”
“Making myself comfortable while we wait for supper,” he said, and I gaped at him in speechless indignation. “The sofa in there doesn’t have enough pillows.”
“You claim to be a soldier,” I snapped. “Don’t you sleep on the ground when you’re campaigning? Or do you make your men carry a hundred pillows for you as they march through the mountains?”
“Sleeping on the ground when I’m campaigning is all the more reason to sleep on a heap of feather pillows when I’m not.” He slid down, his white grin and ruby earring and wicked gray eyes glinting at me in the candlelight, his long hair getting rumpled as he rubbed all six-feet-muscled-plus of himself all over… my pillows. Mine . They’d smell like him now. “Or doing other things on a heap of feather pillows. You should join me. You’re already mostly naked. And this bed is—”
“Mine!” I cried, goaded past any pretense at patience. So much for my equanimity. I took a moment to watch as it skittered off into the distance, giggling at me maliciously. “The bed’s mine , which means I know exactly what it is. And I know exactly what this isn’t, Benedict, which is more than you seem to! I’m not your whore. I’m not your—lover,” and I choked, coughed, and cleared my throat, that word sticking strangely as I spat it out. “Using me to satisfy your curse while you act as my bodyguard for now does not include—”
I waved my hand vaguely at his disgustingly handsome face with its mock-innocent expression that wouldn’t have fooled a brain-damaged drunkard, the loose sprawl of his long legs all over my previously pristine bed, and the way he’d mussed and befouled my lovely pillows.
“Doesn’t include what?” he asked, and folded his arms behind his head.
How did anyone have arms like that? Even in those loose linen sleeves his muscles showed, all firm and thick.
Firm. Thick. Like other parts of him.
What the hell had he done to me? I needed to eat. That would cure this lightheaded inability to act like a rational man.
“This,” I finished, too tired and annoyed to sum up my outrage in any more eloquent way. I drew a deep breath. “Get out of my bed!”
“All right,” he said, to my complete shock, and rolled off the bed in one smooth motion. “But only because those footsteps in the hall must be the servants laying the table.” Ah. He’d been obeying the dictates of his stomach, not his liege lord. That made much more sense. He looked me up and down. “Are you dressing for supper? Or do you plan to tease me with all that lovely skin while we eat?”
“Tease you?” I couldn’t help glancing down too, taking in my pale bare feet and ankles, the black fabric swathing the rest of me. A bit of my throat and chest showed at the top, and maybe my legs would be visible under the table when I sat (if Benedict decided to lean down under and leer at me), but “all that lovely skin”? Had he lost his mind? “This is hardly seductive. And you ought to know better than to think I’d want to be. Not for you, anyway. Besides, you’ve already debased me twice today. That’s enough even for someone with your animal appetites.”
“Well, then,” he said, a corner of his mouth twitching as if he’d barely managed to suppress a laugh, “I suppose we’ll go in to supper en dishabille.”
What? He’d found that funny ? When had I lost the ability to insult him into sparking anger? Earlier today he’d told me that he’d nearly laughed at my insult about the cheap wine, and now this? What the hell had changed, and how did I change it back?
But amused or not, he prowled like he always had, taking one slow step forward and then another, his eyes never leaving mine. The room went hushed around us, the crackle of the fire and the voices of the servants down the hall receding into the pound of my heart and the rush of my breath.
Benedict held out a hand, his forearm at the precise, perfect angle of a gentleman offering to escort a dining or dance partner.
And he bowed. Gods help me, he bowed, eyes still fixed on my face, and I went momentarily dizzy as our first meeting flashed through my mind. This gesture didn’t show any more genuine respect than before, but it did hold the same challenge.
When we’d met I’d had the option of dodging that challenge, avoiding him as much as possible and ignoring the way he smirked and stared until I blushed when I couldn’t help being in his presence. Come to think of it, much of my skill at keeping my blushes in check stemmed from the practice he’d given me.
But this time Benedict wasn’t constrained by a public setting, or by my father’s authority as the duke, or by anything at all.
I could set my hand on his arm, rough hair and hard muscle and the heat of him under my fingers where he’d rolled up his sleeve, and walk with him to supper—both of us barefoot, half dressed and disheveled, looking for all the world like the duke and his lover taking an intimate meal together after spending an hour in the duke’s bed.
Or I could refuse. And then he could carry me there if he wished. Or throw me on the bed and have his way with me again. Or tug the cord of my dressing gown and bare me to his gaze, and I knew I’d be unable to control the color and heat that’d flood across my chest and up into my neck and cheeks if he did that.
When the servants saw us like this, there’d be no way to hide it. They’d know Benedict and I had…
Unless I played it off another way? Family intimacy could be very similar to the intimacy of love from the outside looking in. If Benedict were truly my brother, of course we’d dine together casually dressed. There would be no reason not to. I could address him that way in front of the servants. Treat him like a member of my family.
My gut clenched with sudden nausea. A brother? Benedict had never been my brother, and he never would be. The very idea revolted me.
No, that would never work.
But…gods, why hadn’t it occurred to me before? Clearly my shock over Fabian’s murder and Benedict’s demands had crippled my brain.
I’d been afraid that I’d be mocked for being Benedict’s newest plaything, the object for his curse and his lust.
But as the Crown Duke of Calatria, wasn’t it my prerogative to take a plaything of my own? Someone to pleasure me. Serve my whims.
…Even join me in court and announce that he served and supported me, sitting at my feet and showing that he knew I was the rightful duke.
My spine straightened as new strength flowed through me.
Benedict didn’t seem to care if anyone found out he’d started using me to relieve his curse. His recklessness earlier in the throne room had proven that. But he couldn’t flaunt his power over me if I seized the high ground of public opinion first, making myself appear to be the one in control of our arrangement.
So I reached out and set my hand on his forearm, accepting his escort. Benedict’s arm tensed almost imperceptibly under my touch.
I ducked my head to hide my smile. Benedict would suspect something if he saw it; he knew better than to think I’d smile at him simply for offering me his arm to go to supper. Or for any reason.
“Lead the way,” I said, and we proceeded to the dining room.
He walked close to me, hardly keeping a courteous distance. Could he feel the vibration of my hammering heart? If he did, he’d probably ascribe it to my being flustered by his nearness, the arrogant ass.
But for the first time since I’d heard Fabian fall to the floor—perhaps even for the first time since Fabian himself, pale and terrified and furious, had come to tell me that he’d found my father dead—I had that swooping, soaring sensation that came from taking control of events rather than having them happen to me in inevitable, unstoppable succession.
Benedict led me through the door to the dining room with all the courtly grace of a lord at a royal ball, and the two footmen who’d laid the table bowed low, one of them moving to pull out my chair and the other to pour the wine.
As Benedict handed me into the chair, I glanced up at him from under my lashes exactly the way I’d seen that idiot Clothurn do when Benedict had been seducing him in the courtyard, and I allowed my hand to slide off of his arm, my fingers tracing along and between his, feeling the length of them, their strength. All the hair rose on my own arm, a frisson that traveled up and then down again, lodging in the base of my spine.
It took no effort at all to lower my voice to a sultry purr as I said, “So gallant, Lord Benedict. I can’t believe I overlooked you for so long.”
Benedict stared down at me for a startled instant, and I knew the footmen were pricking up their ears and holding their breath, eager to catch every word. While we’d both done a fair job of pretending to cordiality and respect in public, everyone at court knew there was no love lost. And whispers would already be spreading after Benedict’s uncharacteristic appearance by my throne today.
These two footmen would be able to trade their story for drinks from the palace kitchens to the servants’ quarters of every lord’s and lady’s residence in the city. By morning, they’d be drunker than even Benedict usually managed.
Benedict pulled his arm away and dropped into his own chair across from me, brows drawn together, eyes fixed on me intently.
“You can go,” he said to the footmen, and I had to smother a laugh at a quickly suppressed sound of disappointment from one of them. But I couldn’t look at them; I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Benedict’s smoldering gaze. “I’ll pour and carve.”
“Yes, my lord,” and “Very good, my lord,” and they were leaving, the doorknob rattling—which gave me only a moment to really drive it home.
“If you would be so kind, Lord Benedict,” I said, “serve me generously.” I leaned back in my chair, settling myself luxuriously, imagining that I was one of those sybarites Benedict consorted with in Calatria’s most expensive dens of sin. Perhaps they all regularly wore silk dressing gowns to supper. They’d probably know how to make the stupid garment look alluring rather than simply wrinkled. “I spend too much of my time attending to matters of state. I think tonight I’d like to…indulge my more pleasurable appetites.”
The furrow between Benedict’s brows deepened, and his eyes held a dangerous gleam. “As you wish, Your Grace,” he said, and the low timbre of his voice promised more danger still. I shivered, clenching my hand in a fold of my dressing gown to hide it. “You know I serve at your pleasure at all times.”
The door swung shut behind the departing footmen with a light thud and a click. They were gone. No more audience. I blew out a long, shaky breath, slumping down further into my chair.
Benedict cocked his head, his brow smoothing out at last. But when he spoke, his voice had a cold, hard tone to it that seemed to cut right through me. “Ah. So that little farce wasn’t for my benefit. For a moment I thought you’d really—you’d lost your mind.”
“Then why did you play along?” I demanded.
Benedict reached for the carving knife and fork, his knuckles white where he gripped them. “What else was I supposed to do? Explain to the servants that you’re selling yourself to me for protection from your enemies? Tell them what I did to you this afternoon, and this morning?” He stabbed the fork into the joint, juices spurting, and I couldn’t help flinching. Benedict smiled sourly, with no humor at all, and began to cut with jerky motions. “Very clever, Lucian. I applaud you.” He didn’t sound the slightest bit appreciative. “When the court gossips realize we’re sharing a bed, as they’re bound to do sooner or later, they won’t guess the truth. They’ll probably think you’re manipulating me, keeping me sex-addled so that I won’t plot against you.”
He dropped a slice of beef onto my plate and began cutting another for himself. He’d said he’d pour the wine, but gods, I needed to be drunk—and quickly. Without anyone here to observe, I didn’t need to stand on my rank and wait to be served. I sloshed a large measure into my goblet, took a petty pleasure in setting the decanter down with a thump without pouring any for him, and picked up the glass.
Only for Benedict to drop the knife with a clatter and lean over and snatch the glass out of my hand before I could get it to my mouth.
“Have you forgotten why I’m here?” His voice snapped like a whip. “What you really want me for? You don’t eat or drink before I make sure it’s safe.”
I could only nod, throat tight, as he inspected everything in turn: the meat, the wine, the bread, the butter, the vegetables. He took his gods-damned time, cocking his head and gently touching every dish and every implement. My father hadn’t had a court mage for years before he died, too paranoid to trust anyone whose power he couldn’t control. Of course, if he’d had one, maybe he wouldn’t have died at all—but I’d come to realize people like my father usually ended up hoist with their own petard.
His blind spot regarding Benedict had extended to tolerating the potential threat of his less mundane abilities, but Benedict had still, probably out of self-protective tact, refrained from using them very much at court. And so I hadn’t witnessed a lot of magic in my life, much less than usual for a man of my rank.
Perhaps that was why this small display of power held me spellbound. Even my impatience and my twisting, growling stomach didn’t overwhelm my wonder. Magic , a godly attribute bestowed on the humans Dromos found worthy of it at their birth—and even tainted by Ennolu’s anger, as in Benedict’s case, such an extraordinary gift.
Beautiful, even at second hand. A lightening of the air, a glimmer in the edges of my soul. How did it look and feel to him? As he touched the slightest tip of his finger to the wine’s surface, his eyes half-closed, glossy black hair falling around his face as he tipped his chin down in thought?
Benedict was beautiful like this: poised for action, a thrumming tension singing through every muscle of his powerful body, as if using his magic was the same to him as taking up his sword and facing the enemy. It struck me all at once, as if everything in the world had shifted very slightly to another angle and left me reeling from the new perspective.
Beautiful, and irresistible, and how the ever-loving fuck had I overlooked him for so long? I’d been so intent on despising him, on fearing him, on being jealous of the effortless way he inspired admiration and loyalty in soldiers and lovers and the common people of Calatria alike, that I hadn’t even truly sat down and thought about why they felt that way.
At last he sat back in his chair, shook his hair out of his face, and blinked twice slowly, as if he had to transition back to the world around us from whatever he’d been experiencing.
“No poison,” he said, and frowned.
I cleared my throat, shook my head to try to rid myself of the haze that had fallen over me. But it didn’t work. Benedict was still beautiful. Even if he sounded disappointed that no one had tried to kill me tonight.
Oh, this was very very bad. A cold, hard lump had formed in my chest, sitting so heavily I didn’t know if I’d be able to force down my longed-for supper after all.
“So give me back my wine,” I managed, voice husky and betraying.
He handed it back, our fingers brushing, the sparking heat of his touch nearly making me drop the goblet. Wine splashed onto my plate and down over my fingers.
Fuck it. I didn’t even bother trying to dry my hand, simply taking a long, long drink, knowing I’d be intoxicated absurdly quickly given my empty stomach.
When I set the half-empty glass down with a clumsy thump, my head already spinning, I found Benedict regarding me with one eyebrow raised.
“I see it’s going to be that kind of night,” he said. “All right. I don’t need to tell you that I’m as happy to drink too much as the next man.” He filled his own glass, raised it in a mock salute, and drained it in one draught.
Yes. Apparently it would be that kind of night. I finished my own wine before I picked up my fork and knife, and nodded at Benedict as he refilled my glass to the brim.
It had been that kind of year, that kind of reign, that kind of life. Perhaps I’d pass out in my plate and find blessed, temporary oblivion before I could think any more about what it meant that Benedict had fucked me, that he’d forced his cock down my throat while I sat on my throne, that I’d spent like his whore while he used me, that I found him—
No. Wine. And both my half-formed revelations and the court knowing he and I were lovers would be a problem for future, hung over Lucian.
Wine. Much, much more wine. And if I did pass out, Benedict could fucking well carry me to bed and pour me into it.