Chapter 4
Grimes
Next morning, I’m outside Lord Florian’s bedroom, ringing the bell I bought especially for him. At five o’clock.
“What the hell is that?” His voice comes from inside the room, loud and panicked.
Now that I know he’s not indulging in anything unsavory, I open the door and walk in, lighting my way with an oil lamp.
He’s still in bed, under the covers, hands clamped over his ears, pretty hair looking like a bird’s nest. His confusion is comical.
He’s more used to ringing a bell for a servant to come and attend him.
“You slept in,” I inform him.
He takes his hands away from his ears, tentatively, afraid I might unleash another noise attack. He lights a candle and looks at the small carriage clock on the bedside table. It was gift from my best friend Jos, and one of the few ornaments in the plain little room. Florian groans.
“I really didn’t sleep in,” he says.
“From now on you will serve breakfast at five o’clock every morning.”
He literally reels. I’m not sure how, since he’s lying in bed, but he manages it.
“Five in the morning is crazy,” he pleads. “It’s still dark out.” He gestures to the window, as though I can’t see for myself.
“In case you haven’t noticed, it gets hot in the desert. We need to be up early to get a few good hours’ work in before the sun is too strong.”
“But Grimes, it’s practically the middle of the night—”
I step closer, folding my arms. “And another thing. You don’t call me Grimes.”
“What do I call you?”
“I’m your Boss. So, call me Boss.”
He looks up at me for a moment. His sky-blue eyes regard me with candid curiosity. Then he gives me a cheerful salute.
“No problem, Boss,” he says.
Huh. I expected more resistance to that.
Thought he might throw another little tantrum like the one last night.
Maybe manhandling him out of the club cured him of the idea he could feasibly take me on.
If so, he has more sense than I thought.
Or maybe he’s just punch-drunk, the change in his circumstances not sinking in yet.
It must be strange for an aristocrat to find himself suddenly a servant.
He stretches his elegant arms high over his head.
He wears a few simple beaded bracelets on his wrists.
No rubies or gold or emeralds. Last night’s clothes were expensive, but I’m only now noticing the unusual lack of jewelry for a man like him.
“What would you like for breakfast, Boss?” he says.
Now he’s gotten over his shock of being wakened so early, he sounds chirpy. Like he’s looking forward to the meal. I’m momentarily stumped. The whole point of all this is to humble him. But what if he just… refuses to be humbled? That hadn’t occurred to me. Until this moment.
“I don’t care,” I mutter.
I don’t even eat breakfast. I only ordered him to cook something because I can.
“I’ll think of something,” he says, still with that aggravating cheeriness in his voice. “Do you mind leaving me alone for a few moments? I’m dying for a piss.”
I back obediently out of the room and close the door on him, feeling confused.
How did he manage to get the last word like that?
I’m supposed to have the upper hand here.
The problem is, I’m not used to having someone else in the house.
I’m out of practice with conversation. I need to stop conversing with him and start giving orders, that’s all.
I go downstairs and sit at the kitchen table to wait for him. Noises drift down to me. Is he talking to himself? Then I realize that he’s singing. His voice is loud, confident, and extremely skilled. He sounds as though he belongs on the stage. So much for humbling him.
He closes a door somewhere upstairs. It’s loud and sudden as a gunshot.
I almost leap out of my chair. My heartbeat spikes in a provoking show of weakness.
My mind flies back to my cell, the guard slamming the door and locking it tight for the night.
The best thing about living here alone was that there was no one else here to close doors except me.
Now that Florian is here, is my heart going to race in fear every time he makes a noise elsewhere in the house?
Get a grip. I force a deep breath and look around.
I’m safe in my own kitchen, desert sunlight streaming through the window, sentinel cacti watching over me and bright red kive flowers on the window ledge.
I’m miles from Rhennes prison. A lifetime away.
And I can’t let Florian see a speck of weakness.
My panic subsides, but I’m still uncomfortable and restless, not quite sure why.
The house feels different now that I know someone else is here.
Even when he goes quiet up there, I still know the house isn’t all my own anymore.
My eyes are on the kitchen door, waiting for Florian to appear. Some company in the morning, for once.
What the fuck? Am I losing it? This isn’t about company. This is about justice.
He knocks on the kitchen door.
“Yes, come on,” I say, sounding as irritable as I feel.
He comes in, fresh-faced as a flower. No sign of a hangover.
I guess his constitution can handle a lot more alcohol than he had last night.
His hair is neatly combed now but not tied back, falling over his shoulders in dark rippling waves.
He must’ve had a comb in his jacket pocket, because he certainly didn’t find one in this house.
He’s still wearing last night’s clothes, obviously, since that’s all he has.
Probably the first time he’s woken up in last night’s clothes without having had a debauched night of pleasure.
But he doesn’t look like a man who’s just sold himself into servitude, either.
There’s no invisible weight crushing him into the floor.
His chin is up and his eyes bright and curious as he looks around my shabby kitchen.
It’s a dramatic transformation from his broken mood last night.
He was so scared and small-looking in the moonlight, huddled inside his fancy jacket outside the casino.
He looked like someone truly conquered. He’s bounced back already.
Or, at least, he’s putting on a decent show of having bounced back. He must be one of nature’s optimists.
Stars. I hate nature’s optimists.
“Any ideas for breakfast yet?” he says.
“I usually just have coffee.”
He gives me a funny look. Probably wondering why I got him up to cook.
“You work all morning on an empty stomach?” he says. “That’s really bad, Boss.”
I glower at him. “I’m not going to take health advice from someone like you.”
His pale skin flushes. I’m talking about his drinking, but he obviously thinks I mean his dalliances.
His legendary desire to get railed thoroughly and often.
The desire to get railed by me is what led him into this mess.
I’ve managed not to think about that too much since I brought him home.
Neither of us has mentioned it. There’s an awkward silence.
“Cook whatever you want,” I say.
He takes that as an open invitation to rummage through each and every cupboard in the kitchen.
Possibly to cover the silence, he starts humming that ridiculous tune from upstairs again.
I recognize it as a love song from a popular musical play.
Of course he’d be a theater fan. He emerges from a cupboard holding up a bowl of eggs I gathered yesterday from my own hens.
His smile is wide, his attitude like a referee holding up a triumphant boxer’s wrist.
“I’ll make Eggs Paradise with these,” he says.
That’s a complicated recipe.
“You know how to cook that?” I demand. “A spoiled rich boy like you?”
“I’m a decent cook,” he says, looking hurt.
I snort, doubtful. “Show me.”
“Of course.” He sashays—why is he sashaying?—over to the table. “The trick is not to skimp on the cheese. I assume you have cheese?”
He’s perky again already. Annoyingly perky.
“Yes, but I keep it outside,” I say. “Underground.”
“Underground?”
“It gets hot here in Galbrava, in case you hadn’t noticed. Stays much cooler out there.”
I lead the way outside to the underground store on the shadiest side of the house, and open up the small wooden door that leads down to my haul of perishable food.
“Pretty smart,” Florian says approvingly.
He ducks down to grab the cheese, his ass in those tight breeches wriggling too close to my face. The ass is as perky as his attitude. I step back.
“Are you always this cheerful in the mornings?” I growl.
“I have no idea. I’m never usually awake. Maybe it’s some kind of dream state.”
I’m treated to a disarming smile before he turns and leads the way back inside the house. Once inside, he starts cracking eggs into the pan.
“Are these eggs from your own hens?” he asks.
“Yep.”
“You have a nice life here.”
I have absolutely no idea whether he’s being sarcastic.
His tone is innocent, but considering the pitiful state of my house, and the fine life he was used to back in Rhennes…
I have to assume he isn’t being one hundred per cent sincere in his compliment.
I glare angrily at his back. Maybe he senses my stare, because he turns to look at me.
“Boss?” he says softly.
“What?”
“We’re going to be spending a lot of time together. Don’t you think maybe it makes sense for us to get along? You know, instead of you grunting and glaring at me all the time.”
He’s a spoiled pain in the ass, but his phrasing can be amusing. I’m objective enough to admit that. I don’t allow myself to laugh. The last time I did, he looked a little alarmed.
“We’re not friends, Florian,” I say. “I’m in charge.”
“Oh, I know.” He doesn’t look as pissed off about that as I’d like. “I just meant we might as well be on friendly terms.”
“Being friendly with everyone means a lot to you?”
He blinks, blue eyes questioning. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you want to be liked.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“Not everyone,” I say.