Chapter 14
Grimes
Iwake up with my head slipping off my hand and nearly hitting the kitchen table.
I look around wildly at my oil lamp, the half-empty bottle of agram in front of me, then up at the clock.
It’s over an hour since I left Florian in the corner.
I run into the living room on shaky, agram-affected legs, and sure enough he’s still in exactly the same position I left him, on his knees facing the wall, his back ramrod-straight.
The stupid little fool. He must be in agony.
I stumble over, the room spinning drunkenly.
The oil lamp is burning low, casting a dim light.
“Florian, get up for fuck’s sake,” I yell.
He starts at my angry voice, then tries to move, but stumbles. He’s literally trembling with the stress of being immobile for so long. I grab his shoulder and he looks up at me, his gaze strangely intense. Fear makes me angry. I only meant to leave him here for a few minutes until I calmed down.
“Florian, for fuck’s sake, why didn’t you move?” I demand.
“You told me not to,” he says.
“I fell asleep. You should’ve used your common sense. I swear, you aristocrats have no more sense than you’re born with.”
I’m still yelling at him, but in a hushed kind of voice because he seems so vulnerable now.
There’s no trace of debauchery in his eyes.
I pull him to his feet and he lets out a groan of pain as his legs and spine make their unhappiness felt.
I scoop him gently into my arms, sensing his surprise as his arms wrap around my neck, and carry him over to the sofa.
“Is it really bad?” I ask.
“I’ll be okay.” There’s sweat on his perfect, unlined brow. Tiredness etched deep into his youthful face.
“Florian…” I say, at a loss.
“Are you angry?” he says.
“No, I’m just…” I don’t even know what I am. “Did you stay there because you were afraid of what I’d do if you disobeyed me?” I ask softly.
He shakes his head. “I wasn’t afraid to disobey you. I just… didn’t want to.”
There’s still that strangely intent look in his eyes. Coupled with the amount of agram I just drank, it makes me feel overwhelmed. I retreat into practicalities.
“Get that dirty shirt off,” I say.
I go into the kitchen and pour some water from the big jug into a bowl. I bring the water to him, along with a bar of soap and a towel.
“You can get washed,” I say awkwardly.
I run upstairs for a nightshirt for him, thinking ironically that now I’m the one acting like a servant.
When I get downstairs he’s all cleaned up.
I avoid looking at him as he changes. I also try not to think about his cries of ecstasy as my palm connected with his ass cheek. Is my handprint there right now?
“You need to get some rest,” I say. “Can you manage the stairs?”
He tries to stand, but shakes his head. “Legs are asleep.”
I go to the chest in the corner of the room and grab a blanket, then pull his feet up on the sofa.
He lies back with a little sigh, eyes closing.
Exhausted. I throw the blanket over him.
And now I’m trying not to think about the fact that I’m tucking him in for the night like. .. like I care about him.
He blinks at me sleepily. “Night, Boss,” he says. His voice is soft. The affection in it fucking terrifies me.
“Night, Florian,” I say.
I go into the kitchen and throw up the agram on the floor.