13. A Drink He Was Sharing
DESDEMONA
The Eunoia hold a gentle nature, the Nepenthe a vicious one. It is for that reason that neither is allowed in War Strategy.
— CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE FORMING OF VISNATUS BY REPRESENTATIVE LUTHENIA
Night has fallen, and I sneak up the steps in the dark.
When I get to the room, Lucian is leaning against the old table wearing the most ornate suit I’ve ever seen. Dark blue and beaded with silvers and moonstones. The kind of thing that could save a family like Damien’s from starving and freezing in the colder seasons.
A reminder of who he is.
I clear my throat. “A little much for this, don’t you think?” My eyes run down his suit, and I gesture around the dusty room.
“You should see what I have for you,” he says with a smirk. Then I notice a long piece of fabric next to him, the same kind that Aralia and my dresses came in. A bottle of red wine with glasses sits next to it.
Wine. That stuff is borderline mythical in the septic. There’s no way I could not drink it. There may not be another time the opportunity presents itself. I also like the idea of bragging to Damien.
“What’s this about?” I ask.
Lucian pushes away from the table and brings me the dress covered in a black slip. “Dancing in a dress isn’t the same as dancing in…” he eyes me up and down. The heat that floods my face is entirely irrational.
I grab the dress from him and mutter “Ever the prince” under my breath.
He only chuckles.
I walk to the next room over and am surprised when I pull out a green dress. Pieces of shimmering gold outline the bust and cover the sleeves. There are slits down the length of each side, leaving my skin mostly bare except for gold lace.
Gold—something I didn’t know of a month ago and can’t escape now. It’s quite heavy too.
I have a hard time believing he picked this out, let alone brought it up here for me. But I guess he thinks I’m a lady of Utul.
I struggle with the laces of the corset in the back for far too long before I have to admit to myself that I need help. When I walk back into the room holding up the bodice around my chest, he has two glasses full of red wine.
This feels very romantic. I wonder if it’s a joke. Maybe Leiholan told him I’d been watching him and they set this whole thing up to get a good laugh.
But it still feels like a kind of pinch me situation, even though I’d never admit it. A prince, a fancy dress, and this mythical red wine that no one had ever been able to even fathom having back home. It seems like the kind of dream I would’ve had as a child if I wasn’t preoccupied with the notion of surviving.
“I can’t tie the corset,” I say without meeting his eyes.
“I, myself, am much more adept at untying them.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “But I’ll give it a shot.”
Lucian walks around the room and behind me. His fingers lightly graze my skin, and I hate to say that my breath catches in my throat. I hope that he can’t tell, but the goosebumps on my arm are probably a dead giveaway.
“There,” he whispers close to my ear, and I spin around, fast, despite his hands still being on me. “You look…”
“Every bit the lady I was raised to be,” I say quickly and grab his hand. “Let’s dance.”
With the weight of the gown, every step feels like more of a workout than the last. Not to mention it’s hard to keep my focus on anything but his hand that more than burns through the barely-covering-my-skin lace around my waist.
After one dance I say “Wine break,” desperately needing to get some space. I don’t know why either, considering I’m dancing with the epitome of these spoiled kids. The picture-perfect prince.
“A fine idea,” he says, turning on his heel and picking up the glasses.
From the first sip, I feel like I’m drinking something warm and intoxicating with the way it feels moving through my body. I try to act like this is something I’ve done many times.
But Lucian asks, “Is this your first time?” I give him a look and he holds up his glass, “The wine?”
“Oh,” I shake my head, “no.”
He downs the rest of his glass in one sip. “It’ll help with your nerves.”
I take another sip too. “I don’t have nerves.”
“No?” he teases, stepping closer. He puts his hand on mine and guides my glass down, then brings his hand to my waist. He pulls me closer than he ever has before, leaning his head down so that his lips are brushing the top of my ear. Beginning the waltz, he whispers, “Then what are you feeling right now?”
“Definitely not nervous,” I whisper, but my voice is low and breathy and, worst of all, shaky.
He laughs a little against my hair. “Your voice betrays you.”
I back away, grab my glass, and drink the rest of it in two gulps. The tingles in my stomach that were already there from his touch multiply.
Fast.
“Am I to believe that wasn’t for your nerves?”
“Absolutely,” I say, raising a brow and pouring myself another glass. The only other time I’ve ever gotten really droozed was with Damien, the day I left. I push the memory from my mind. I’m going to get back. It’s just gonna take some time. And that’s okay—I’m biding it well. Learning to do magic and fight and drinking fancy alcohols.
I’m gonna go home a new woman.
But with that, I have to wonder, what is the point of this? I can’t tell anyone fundamental parts of me, and even if I could I’m leaving anyway.
Though, I suppose I lived my entire life not telling anyone fundamental parts of me. In a way, what I’m doing isn’t much different than what I’ve always done.
I drink the next glass with three sips and spiral into another. Maybe I should stop, I think, but Lucian just matches me in all my glasses.
The next time we try to dance, I almost fall on my face.
Lucian catches me, and the stupid grin he gives me sets me off into a fit of laughter, which he joins me in.
It’s a sound I wish I hadn’t heard. Rich and deep, like nectar on my tongue. Unlike every other time the sound has escaped from his throat. It bounces through the room, filling my ears and forcing me to wrack my brain. I haven’t heard a laugh like this in a long time.
But I can’t get over how silly he looked! His mouth was all lopsided and his eyes were wide with emotion I’ve never seen from him before. Even the simple thought of it makes me laugh harder.
So now the two of us are just looking into one another’s eyes and laughing like idiots, and I don’t want it any other way. I love this! I feel like I can do anything. So I take his hand and lift it over my head, spinning in circles until the room spins with us.
When I’m done, I fall into him, laughing and laughing and laughing.
“I’ve never seen you laugh like this,” he whispers and I’m sure I misheard him.
Still, I stop everything while trying to figure out if he really spoke or not.
“What?” I ask. I can hear the smile in my own voice and it’s so nice! So different from the way I’m used to living.
I really should just laugh more! This giddy feeling in my chest still hasn’t dissipated and I hope it never does.
“Your laugh,” he says. “It’s bewitching.”
Now he’s looking at me in a way that scares me and I feel suddenly sober.
I’ve never been called bewitching. My laugh or otherwise. And the way he continues to look at me tells me he meant it. Staring as if there’s something worthy of awe somewhere in my face. Maybe right now there is, with all of Aralia’s glamour.
But while I look at him, I suddenly wish he was looking at me.
So I skip away, my hands shaking with nervousness I’d rather shake away—or drink away. I grab my glass of wine and run right into him. Red soaks his suit and he laughs.
But I’m petrified. Shocked! Stunned! Mortified! Feeling a little goofy too, because I’ve just ruined what must be the most expensive piece of clothing I’ve seen in my life, but he just looks at me.
His face is nothing but a picture of insouciance. It’s infectious, the way he is looking and acting. His usually perfect hair is messed up, dark inky waves moving in every direction and into his eyes. I like the thought that I am the one who rumpled the perfect prince.
That I have the power and position to do such a thing.
I push him into one of the dusty chairs, a little too harshly I think. He looks at me with recognizable amusement filling his eyes. “What are we doing now?”
I grab the school’s uniform coat I’d been wearing before I put on the ridiculously beautiful green-and-gold dress. Then I start unbuttoning his—soft—royal blue coat. Gods, what material is this? I want to wear it to sleep.
“Darling if you wanted to undress me there are far easier ways to go about it than spilling wine.” He leans back in the chair.
I hit his chest with the back of my hand, a sloppy, droozen gesture. Something that I hope distracts from the blood rushing to my cheeks. “I’m cleaning you.”
“Ah. You didn’t have to spill wine to do that either,” he says with a lazy shrug.
“What?” I ask, laughing again. He laughs too, and my head falls on his shoulder from the force of it! Have I said how much I love laughing?
“There are far more satisfying ways to get dirty, but if they all end with you cleaning me like this…” Lucian looks at my hands, both of them on him, neither of them cleaning. Not when half of me has fallen over on him laughing! Not that I care that much either. “Then I could get used to the wine.”
“You talk like someone who’s touch-deprived,” I say.
“Well I don’t think I could ever get enough of you.”
“You mean my…” I push my hands up his chest. “Glorious, glorious hands?”
Lucian smiles and a laugh fills the room once again. “Yes, Marquees, I could never get enough of your glorious, glorious hands.”
I push myself back up and look at my glorious hands, feigning adoration.
When I look at him, I find him smiling at me. The room is still spinning, but a little less so that I can see… “Hold still,” I say, reaching out my hand. “You have wine on your chin.”
Lucian’s head falls back with laughter before my thumb can make contact.
“What?” I ask breathlessly.
He straightens his head and looks at me, his lips pursed. Then he takes the back of his hand and smears across his chin and lips.
“Better?” he asks.
“Perfect,” I laugh.
“I know.” He shrugs, leaning back in his chair. But his eyes don’t leave mine for even a second.
“It’s still there,” I find myself whispering so quietly I doubt he heard me. “It looks like blood on your lips.”
“And why are you looking at my lips?” he asks with his eyes on my lips.
“Because it messes them up.”
“Are you telling me you like my lips?”
“No,” I say, and damn me for smiling! “It messes up your whole face.”
His smile turns smug. “Are you telling me you like my face?”
I shrug. “It’s a nice face.”
He leans back, looking up towards the ceiling. “I knew you thought so, Marquees.”
I waste the last sip of my wine to splash it on the shirt I just briefly bothered cleaning. The room is spinning, but I’m going to blame it on him, quickly moving to face me again, that the wine hits his face.
He licks his lips and smiles. I can’t help but laugh, mortified or mollified, I don’t know. “Now you really have wine on your chin.”
“And my lips,” he notes.
“Yes,” I breathe.
“Would you like it back?” he asks, leaning in.
I don’t back away.
Messy hair, parted lips, droozen doings. I want it all. The power and the position to be able to bring this out of him.
Does he?
I’m noticing all kinds of things I hadn’t before. Like the way his nose actually slants a little to the left or that his right eyebrow is a little higher or that one eye has a speck more of the lighter blue that encapsulates his pupils.
All of it only makes him more endearing. Less the annoyingly perfect prince, more the man who takes time out of his day to teach me magic or dancing while he teases me.
Which, speaking of, I tease him right back, and he doesn’t mind! I’d expect such a sheltered, spoiled person to have a bigger ego and thinner skin.
But he’s… what am I even thinking? He’s still the prince of Soma. He’s still a part of the family who delights in the hardships of people like me.
He’s still the kind of person I loathe.
I turn away and he clears his throat. Wow. The room’s really spinning.
“Perhaps we should retire for the night?” he offers after a lapse of silence.
“No,” I say before I can think. “I mean,” I blink and blink and blink. What do I mean? I’m unsure as I say, “This was nice.”
He smiles at me. “Nice? I’m not a pet, darling.”
“Desdemona,” I say.
“Lucian,” he says absentmindedly.
“No, I mean my name is Desdemona.”
He laughs. “I know your name.”
“Right.” I drop to the ground, tired of carrying the weight of this dress.
Lucian slips down and out of his chair, sitting across from me on the floor. “Do you know mine?”
“Of course I know your name,” I say.
“You’re welcome to use it.”
I lean into him with an idea. “How about when you stop calling me darling, I stop calling you prince?”
He leans in too, our noses an inch from brushing. A smile paints his face and his eyebrows pull down when he casually says, “That’s no fair deal.”
“Yes it is!” I say almost gleefully.
“Isn’t darling much more endearing than prince?”
“Do you mean to be endearing?”
“I do now, yes.”
“So you don’t call anyone else darling?” I tease.
“Only you,” he whispers back.
“And why’s that?”
“I suppose you inspire something within me,” he says with a sly smile.
I lean in without meaning to. “And no one else inspires such arrogance?”
“Oh, darling, I thought we’d covered that it isn’t arrogance!” He taps my nose. “It’s endearment.”
“Did you just boop my nose?” I say with a loud and intoxicating laugh that takes over my whole chest.
“Why yes, I did.”
“So is that another thing I inspire in you?”
“Truly, it might be, because I can’t imagine another time I’d ever,” he mimics my tone, “boop someone’s nose.” I can’t help but laugh at his horrible impression of me. “But yes,” he says a minute later, leaning in and singing, “only you inspire such endearment.”
I don’t know what to say. I inspire endearment in a prince? A perfect, pampered, pompous asshole. I wish I thought he was an asshole.
“Lucian,” I faintly whisper, just to see how it feels on my tongue.
Just to hate it.
I like it.
Lucian smiles a little. “My sister calls me Lucy.”
“Lucy?” I can’t help but laugh. And laugh. “No, no, that’s sweet. I’m sorry.” I say with a nod, “I like it.”
“It’s grown on me too.” His messy hair falls into his eyes, and I long to ruffle it more. “Do you have siblings?”
My smile drops, but I don’t mean it to. “Why?”
He shrugs. “I don’t…” his back falls against the chair behind him with laughs. “I suppose I’d like to know more about you.”
That’s not good. Not good at all. Very loud sirens begin to go off in my head, telling me to back up, retreat, stumble out of the room and into the surely spinning hallway, and just get back to the suite before I make any more stupid decisions.
“No siblings,” I say. My eyes shy down. His hands are in his pocket, moving something around. “What’s in your pocket?”
Lucian looks down and then pulls out something silver. It looks like a corenth, but it’s back in his pocket quickly.
I extend my legs outward, trying to get comfortable, because for some reason I don’t think I’m gonna be leaving. Lucian scoots back and extends his legs out in front of him too, putting the bottom of his shoes against mine.
“What are you?—”
“Push.” He smiles. “Whoever gets the other’s knees to bend first, wins.”
So here we are, two droozen idiots, one from the septic and one from a palace, each pushing the other’s feet all night trying to get their knees to bend.