Chapter 6 Public Masks
PUBLIC MASKS
SEBASTIAN
Iwoke up thinking about his hands.
Not in any way I wanted to examine too closely. Just the thought sliding in before I was conscious enough to stop it. The scars across his knuckles. The way he held himself so carefully, like his body was a weapon he'd learned not to use unless absolutely necessary.
Three days of watching him watch me. Three days of that controlled stillness following me through palace corridors. Three days of wanting him to look at me the way he looked at exits and sight lines.
Like I mattered. Like I was worth the attention.
I shoved the thought away and got dressed. Jeans. Old shirt. Clothes that belonged to the person I was before I put on the crown. The workshop was calling, and I had exactly two hours before my father's staff dragged me into a meeting about agricultural subsidies or whatever fresh hell awaited.
Two hours of freedom. Two hours of being Sebastian instead of Your Highness.
Two hours before Viktor found me.
He always did.
The workshop smelled like pine and stolen time.
Morning light filtered through the high windows, turning the sawdust golden, catching on the half-finished projects scattered across every surface.
A rocking horse. A puzzle box. A mobile with wooden birds.
Each one destined for a child who needed something beautiful in a world that had been cruel.
Apollo padded in behind me, nails clicking on the wooden floor. He circled twice and flopped down in his usual spot. Content. The only living thing in my life that didn't demand performance.
I moved to the workbench where my current project waited. A toy chest for the cancer ward. Carved animals dancing around the sides. A lion mid-roar. A bear on its hind legs. A rabbit with absurdly long ears that had taken me three hours to get right.
This was for Emma. Eight years old. Bald from chemo. Obsessed with rabbits.
I picked up the carving knife and lost myself in the details. The texture of fur. The curve of a paw. The way wood revealed its secrets if you were patient enough to listen.
The door opened.
I didn't look up. Knew who it was by the controlled quiet of his entry. By the way the air changed, got heavier.
“Morning, Viktor. Come to lecture me about breakfast protocols?”
Silence. Then his voice, tight with controlled irritation. “You missed your eight o'clock briefing.”
“Did I?” I kept carving. “Must've slipped my mind.”
“And your nine o'clock call with the Foreign Secretary.”
“He's tedious anyway.”
“And your ten o'clock meeting with the agricultural minister.”
“He talks about grain subsidies for forty-five minutes without taking a breath. Trust me, I'm doing everyone a favor.”
I heard him move closer. Still didn't look up. Just kept working on the rabbit's whiskers, each line deliberate and fine.
“You have missed three official engagements this morning,” Viktor said. Voice dangerously calm. “Your father is asking questions. Staff is scrambling to make excuses.”
“Let them scramble. Good exercise.”
“Sebastian.”
The use of my name instead of my title made me look up. He stood three feet away, dressed in a dark suit that fit him like sin. Jaw tight. Eyes cold. Hands flexed at his sides like he wanted to strangle me.
“You're angry,” I observed.
“I am beyond angry. I am wondering how you have survived this long when you treat official duties like they are optional.”
“They are optional. It's called delegation. Maybe you've heard of it.”
“You cannot delegate your own schedule. You cannot simply disappear for hours without informing anyone where you are.”
“I told you where I'd be.”
“You said you come here mornings. You did not say you would miss three meetings to play with wood.”
I set down the knife. Slowly. “Play with wood.”
“Yes.”
“That's what you think I'm doing? Playing?”
“What else would you call hiding in workshop when you have duties?”
I stood. Moved around the workbench toward him. Watched his body language shift, prepare for confrontation.
“Come here,” I said.
“We do not have time—”
“That wasn't a request.” I gestured to the projects covering the workspace. “Come here and I'll show you what I'm playing at.”
He hesitated, then moved closer. Wary. Like approaching a trap.
I picked up the toy chest. “See this? This is for Emma.
She's eight. Acute lymphoblastic leukemia. Third round of chemo. She collects rabbit figurines because her mother told her rabbits are lucky.” I traced the carved rabbit on the lid.
“She needs something beautiful to look at while poison drips into her veins. So I'm making her something beautiful.”
I set it down, picked up the rocking horse. “This is for Marcus. He's five. Born with cerebral palsy. Can't walk. Can't run. But he can rock. So I'm giving him a horse that moves when he wants it to. Agency in a life that's given him none.”
Viktor's expression had shifted. Still hard, but something else underneath now.
“And this,” I grabbed the puzzle box, “is for Aiden. He's eleven. Autism. Non-verbal. But he solves puzzles like a demon. So I make him boxes with secrets inside because he deserves to know that solving hard things has rewards.”
I set them down. Looked at Viktor. “That's what I'm playing at. That's what's more important than listening to men in suits talk about grain subsidies and trade agreements for three hours.”
“Your father does not know you do this.”
“No. Because if he knew, he'd make it official.
Photo ops at the children's hospital. Press releases about the caring prince. Ruin the one genuine thing I have left.” I leaned against the workbench.
“So I miss meetings. I skip briefings. I carve toys in secret and deliver them myself when security isn't paying attention.”
Viktor's jaw worked. “You could have told me.”
“Could I? You've spent days treating me like I'm a flight risk. Like every decision I make is wrong. Why would I tell you about this when you'd probably report it as a security concern?”
“Because I would have helped you coordinate it properly. Made it safe.”
“I don't want it safe. I want it real.” I picked up the carving knife again. Needed something to do with my hands. “My mother used to bring me here. Taught me that working with wood was honest. That you couldn't lie to it or manipulate it. You either respected the grain or you ruined the piece.”
“She taught you well.”
“She taught me a lot of things. Like how to see people instead of problems. How to make time for things that matter even when the schedule says they don't.” I looked at him. “Skills you might want to learn.”
His eyes flashed. “I see people. I see you risking your life by disappearing without backup. I see you treating protocol like it is joke.”
“Then maybe you're in the wrong job.”
“Maybe I am.” He stepped closer. “But I am here anyway. Trying to keep alive prince who acts like death is inconvenience instead of probability.”
“And I'm here trying to be something more than a target.” I moved toward him. “Trying to prove I'm worth protecting for reasons that have nothing to do with my bloodline.”
“I know you are worth protecting.”
“Do you? Because you look at me and I see calculation. Threat assessment. Variable management. I don't see recognition that I'm a person who might actually know what he's doing.”
“You do not know what you are doing. You know how to carve toys and charm children and skip meetings. You do not know how to stay alive when people want you dead.”
“And you do? You've been here for days. Days. You don't know this palace. Don't know the people in it. Don't know which threats are real and which are theater.” I stepped closer, backing him toward the wall. “You're so busy trying to control everything that you can't see what actually matters.”
“What matters is keeping you breathing.”
“What matters is having a life worth living.” Another step. “What good is breathing if I'm locked in a cage? If every moment is calculated and controlled and safe?”
His back hit the wall. He didn't flinch. Just watched me with those cold eyes that were starting to heat.
“You want to know what I see when I look at you?” I asked.
“No.”
“Too bad. I see someone who's more afraid of failing than I am of dying. Someone who thinks control is the same as safety. Someone who's so busy building walls that he can't see he's suffocating behind them.”
“You do not know anything about me.”
“I know you're hard right now.”
The words landed like a bomb. His eyes widened. Just a fraction. Just enough to confirm it.
I glanced down deliberately. His cock was obvious against his tailored pants. Straining. Unmistakable.
“Interesting,” I said. “Wouldn't have pegged you for someone who gets off on arguments.”
“This is not—” He cut himself off. Jaw clenched so hard I heard his teeth grind. “You are being inappropriate.”
“I'm being honest.” I braced my hand against the wall beside his head. Caging him. “Something you might try sometime.”
“Step back.”
“No.” I leaned in. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. “Not until you admit I'm right. That you're so focused on keeping me in line that you haven't stopped to wonder why I keep pushing back.”
“Because you are reckless. Stubborn. Impossible.”
“Because I want you to see me.” The admission came out raw. Unplanned. “Not the prince. Not the assignment. Me.”
His breathing had gone shallow. Fast. “I see you.”
“Then prove it.” My other hand came up. Pressed against his chest. Felt his heart hammering beneath expensive fabric. “Tell me what you see.”
“I see man who is trying to manipulate me into letting him do whatever he wants.”
“Wrong.” My hand slid down. Slowly. Over his abdomen. Felt the muscles tense beneath my palm. “Try again.”
“Sebastian.” Warning. Threat. Plea.
“Tell me.” My hand reached his belt. Stopped there. Resting against the buckle. “What do you see?”
His hands came up. Grabbed my wrists. Hard. “I see prince who does not understand what he is risking.”