Chapter 9
Grimes
Once, little Lord Florian asked me to teach him boxing.
The idea of pushing him around the ring, showing him just how helpless he can be, is appealing.
I had to say no. If he squared up to me with those pretty blue eyes all fierce and proud, actually thinking he could land a punch on me, I mightn’t be able to resist hitting him right in that aristocratic face.
Which would kill him. I’d be down one servant.
Not part of the plan. So we stick to digging the foundations.
He’s still working in those skintight little breeches that cling to every muscle of his ass and legs.
At least I know he isn’t concealing a knife to pull on me.
Those clothes leave nothing to the imagination.
Ignoring the inappropriate attire, he’s a better worker than I expected.
He can’t work as fast or as hard as me but he’s eager to please, pushing himself until his long hair is slick with sweat.
He’s trying to prove himself, for some unknown reason.
I didn’t expect a spoiled aristocrat to care about my opinion of him.
After a few weeks together, I have to admit that my prisoner isn’t a bad house guest, all things considered.
His cooking is out of this world. Though I could do without the smugness that comes with it.
He tried to seduce me, once, under the pretense of playing valet, but I put a stop to that nonsense fast. I know it was only a tactic, an attempt to disarm, a blatant plea for softer treatment.
I won’t fall for it. His body and his pretty face might be tempting, but they’re not irresistible.
He may never have learned that lesson before in his charmed life, but I intend to teach him.
He’s a lot more comfortable with me now, having lost most of his fear.
I’m still curt with him but he doesn’t give me any excuse to be actively threatening, following all my orders without argument.
Some part of me is vaguely disappointed he isn’t more of a brat, but never mind.
This is about taking what I’m owed from him.
Two years’ labor, two years of his life.
That’s fair. More than fair. He isn’t locked up in a stinking cell at night.
He eats with me at the kitchen table; his meals aren’t half-rotten before he gets them, shoved through a tiny window in a locked door like mine were for two years. He doesn’t know how lucky he is.
The most annoying thing about him is that he tries to be my friend.
He tells me stories about his ridiculously louche life back at home in Rhennes, his fancy friends and their lavish parties.
Not in a boastful way, more with an unworldly naivete, as though it doesn’t occur to him that I may not have run in quite the same circles.
Through all of our conversations, I haven’t heard a malicious or cruel word spill from his lips.
He seems happy with everything and everyone.
Sometimes it’s hard to believe this innocent, disarming boy could’ve ruined my life.
The second most annoying thing about him?
His constant pestering about visiting Galbrava.
He claims to be lonely out here in the desert with only the noise of the wind and silent cacti for company.
Since I made clear we wouldn’t be fooling around or sharing a bed, he’s turned his attention to getting company from other quarters.
He isn’t above begging me, with his big eyes fixed on mine, for trips into town.
I should say no: I never had the chance to leave prison for trips into town.
But listening to his pleas gets boring. So I agree to escort him to Galbrava for shopping, and to let him visit his friends, who are just as foolish as him.
Still, it’s not enough for him. He wants to hook up and sleep over.
He swears he’ll be back for work, that he won’t run away.
No chance. I don’t trust him. I won’t risk losing him to someone who takes pity on his plight and helps him to escape.
He’s mine, fair and square and legal. Once he’s paid me what he owes, he can sleep with half the city for all I care.
At some point, he started insisting on handling all the cooking. My taste buds overrode my pride, and I didn’t argue. To keep things fair, I handle the cleaning. But apparently I don’t keep house to his standards, because he keeps sweeping and dusting even though I told him it was my job.
“I don’t know why you bother. More dust is just going to seep in later,” I say one day. I’m watching in bemusement as he attacks the worn floorboards with a broom and a look of fierce determination on his plump lips.
“That’s no reason to just give up, Boss,” he says reproachfully.
I lapse into silence. Typical. His baseless optimism extends even to thankless household chores.
He packs away the broom and grabs a feather duster from the closet.
But the house is spotless now: even good enough to reach his fastidious standards.
Yet he takes the feather duster and starts flicking at imaginary dust with little flounces and sashays of his hips.
He keeps glancing over at me, his lips curling into a smile.
The smile suddenly makes me uncomfortable.
“What?” I demand.
“Maybe you could buy me a little maid’s uniform, and I could wear that while I work,” he says. He tilts his head to one side. “Would you like that, Boss?”
My face gets hot. What the fuck? Is he joking? He better be joking. If he’s actually flirting again after I warned him last time, I’ll throw him out the damn window.
“What the hell has gotten into you?” I say.
I fold my arms, a move designed to show off my strength.
It used to make him cower in fear. He’s unworried now, looking me up and down, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
Shit. The same look he gave me when we first met in the casino, when he thought I was an adventurer who wanted to get into his bed.
Are we back to that? I thought I had cured him of trying that kind of nonsense with me.
He moves over to the window and bends over the sill, displaying his ass in those damn breeches as he dusts.
“Florian, cut that out right now.” I raise my voice. “What’s wrong with you?”
He straightens up and pouts at me. “I can’t help it. I’m feeling a little… frisky.”
Frisky? What is he, a colt?
“Well, stop it,” I say.
“It’s all your fault. You won’t let me go into town and… you know.”
Shameless. His ridiculous behavior is my fault because I won’t let him bed a stranger? He comes closer, the duster falling to his side, his eyes becoming wide and imploring.
“Please, Boss,” he says. “Just give me one night. That’s all I’m asking.”
My mouth drops open. Is he asking what I think he’s asking?
“Just let me go into Galbrava for one night,” he says. “I just need to get fucked once, properly, then I’ll be good for a while.”
I let out my breath. He didn’t mean me. He wants some stranger, anyone, to give him a good railing. Good. Excellent. If he’d meant me, if he’d had the nerve to actually proposition me in my own house… Again…
He drops to his knees, hands clasped in front of him, his eyes laughing up at me. “Please, Boss. One night in town. I’ll do anything.”
A shard of fire comes from somewhere and slices me right to my core. He looks so pretty on his knees. Nerves I forgot I had wake up. I swallow some saliva the wrong way and then I’m choking like an idiot as he stares up at me, head on one side in concern.
“Get up right now,” I snarl.
I can barely talk, gasping for breath and voice raspy, but that doesn’t stop me from dragging him roughly to his feet. My body’s reaction shouldn’t have happened. This is Florian we’re talking about. I hate his guts.
He twists out of my grip, looking reproachful. “I was only joking. You don’t have to manhandle me.”
He rubs his arm. Did I hurt him? I don’t know how to ask.
I turn away before he notices my expression, pulling my hood low.
My body’s response is a shock. I locked away any sensual part of myself while I was inside.
Sure, lots of men stole moments of pleasure in each other’s arms, but never me.
I’m not capable of that. I’m not like Florian.
I can’t separate physical sensations from feelings.
If I was forced to leave my lover inside when I walked outside those gates, it would’ve killed me.
I have no intention of becoming like Florian, either, seeking meaningless pleasure in the arms of someone I can’t like or respect.
I could never like or respect Florian. So why am I looking at him so much?
His pink lips, the cute little sashay of his hips, his broad shoulders dipping to his narrow waist, and that flowing shiny hair for fuck’s sake?
Desperation. It’s the only explanation. It’s just because there’s no one else here but Florian.
I’ve been alone for too long. When did I last take a man to my bed?
Maybe I’m the one who needs to go into Galbrava and find someone to fuck.
Anyone. The main criterion being that they’re not Lord Florian Southland.
“Boss, are you okay?” His voice is soft. It sounds like real concern. I close my eyes for a moment, forcing myself to center, before I turn to him.
“I hope I didn’t hurt your arm,” I say roughly.
“No harm done.”
His eyes search mine, looking for some explanation for my weird behavior. I have none. None that I’ll share with him, anyway.
“Enough cleaning,” I say. “Time to dig.”
He follows me outside obediently. I feel like a gauche teenager again. Did he notice my desire as he knelt for me? That would be intolerable.
Outside, I attempt to chase my confusing thoughts with exertion, forcing the spade into the earth over and over and over again until my muscles snarl in protest. I get hotter, out of breath, sweat pouring down my forehead from under my hood, but I keep going, forcing away the memory of Florian on his knees before me.
Florian asking if I’m okay. Florian seeming to care about the answer.
I drive the spade deeper, barely pausing for breath, throwing the heavy dirt into a pile beside the trench. On and on, breath getting shorter, body hotter. The world swims in front of my eyes. I stumble.
“Whoa, Boss, are you okay?” Florian’s hand appears on my arm, strong and reassuring. “Come and sit down.”
I feel too disoriented to protest. I let him lead me into the meager shade of a few spindly trees. Wiping sweat from my brow, I look at him. His features stay in focus. The moment of faintness has passed. You can take your hand off my arm now, I think but don’t say.
”I’m fine,” I say. “Just overheated.”
“No wonder, always wearing that hood and cloak even in this heat,” he says.
Before I know what’s happening, his hands are going up to push down my hood. Panicking, I grab his wrists and push him back, much harder than I meant. He overbalances and falls onto his back and I land on top, pinning his wrists to the ground.
“Never do that again,” I say.
His eyes are wide as he looks up at me. He doesn’t struggle against my grip. “I just thought—”
“Well, stop just thinking.”
“I was worried about you. You’re working too hard.”
“I’m fine,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Okay,” he says. “Sorry.”
I should get up now. He gets it. He won’t try to mess with my hood in future. But I stay where I am, looking down at his blue eyes, those pink lips. The heat seems to intensify even though we’re in the shade. The silence gets heavy, metallic.
“Boss?” he says.
“What?”
He looks at me for a moment. Then he shakes his head. “Nothing.”