6 #3
After cleaning his plate and emptying his mug, Vawn sets them both back on the tray and throws himself onto the bed.
His tall frame covers most of the mattress.
Worse than that, in his current state of near nudity, every curve and sinew of his magnificent body, from biceps to pectorals to thighs, is exposed to my view.
“Get under the covers,” I snap. “And don’t spread yourself so wide. You’re taking up the whole bed.”
He flutters his lashes at me in mock surprise. “Do you plan to share the bed with me?”
“I could nap on the floor in front of the door like a guard dog. Is that what your Highness prefers?”
“Fuck no. You deserve a comfortable rest.” He pushes back the covers and slides between them, then pats the sheets beside him. “Come here.”
The way he says it sends my entire system into high alert. “I’m not one of your conquests,” I warn him. “We will not be fucking, or petting, or even touching.”
“Hm.” He thumbs his plush lower lip. “In the pool you seemed comfortable with touching me. Or rather, throwing yourself at me.”
“I was—” I stop short and bite my lip.
Glee sparkles in his eyes. “Could it be? Was the bold and beautiful Syth frightened?”
“You’re an asshole.” I set my plate down. “You were scared first.”
“I still am. That’s why you’re going to sleep on that side, between me and the door.” He gives me a saucy grin.
The bath and the meal definitely restored his spirits. He seems to have forgotten that he was angry with me, judging by the way he settles his head on the pillow with a sigh of weary satisfaction. “It’s not luxury by any means, but I think I could sleep anywhere.”
“You did. You slept on Severin.”
“So I did. Believe it or not, that wasn’t the first time I’ve napped during a ride on a magic carpet.”
I cover the empty plates and fix the curtains so they block out most of the daylight. Then I ease myself into the bed and lie back on my pillow. I dislike going to sleep with damp hair, but neither of us has a choice in the matter. We need rest desperately.
But first, there’s something I need to express. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier, about you being responsible for the coup.”
He sighs and shuts his eyes. “You were tired. And it was a decent theory. I can see how you might get that idea.”
“I should have realized it wasn’t true. My weariness is no excuse.” I hesitate, then forge ahead. “It wasn’t the first cruel thing I’ve said to you, and I’m sorry. I should let you experience all this grief and upheaval in whatever way you need to, without judgment.”
Silence stretches beyond the words, until I think he has fallen asleep. But then he says, “You’re a terrible subject. As you said, I’ll be the next king if I survive, yet you speak to me as if I’m the most irritating lowlife bastard you’ve ever met, rather than your future ruler.”
“I beg your forgiveness.”
“No.” The sheets rustle as he sits up. “I don’t require your forgiveness—I demand your authentic self.
You are unique in that you are neither afraid of me nor enamored by me.
Keep being cruel and caustic whenever I deserve it.
Give me orders. Push me around. And in return, let me be myself.
Naughty at times, yes, but always in jest. Let me tease you and taunt you. It keeps the pain at bay.”
“Very well. Whatever you need. Asshole.”
He chuckles. “Perfect.”
Before today, the idea of being in bed with the youngest prince would have given me heart palpitations, more frantic than delighted.
But I’m too tired to feel anything of that nature, so exhausted that before I know it, I’m waking up again, resurfacing from a dead sleep, muzzily ignorant of where I am and what I’m doing.
At first, I’m only conscious of coarse sheets, gloom, and quiet, heavy sobs.
The daylight sifting through the cracks of curtains falls over the tray and the dishes, providing me with essential clues.
I’m at the inn. The prince and I had a meal and a bath. We went to bed. And now he’s weeping. The kind of devastated, rasping, bone-wrenching sobs that only come from a grown man with a destroyed heart.
I could pretend I don’t hear him. Lie still and wait until it’s over.
Or I could try to comfort him. Shit, I don’t even know him, certainly not well enough to guess how he’ll react to any comfort I might offer. To comfort him, I’d have to touch him. Will he interpret a touch as a sexual advance?
Men have misinterpreted my friendship and camaraderie as something else, many times.
Occasionally, I gave in and fucked them to avoid a confrontation or to avoid jeopardizing my position at the Academy.
I saw what happened to the women who reported the lewd behavior of peers or superiors.
They were always praised for coming forward, and then quietly pushed out of the preferred positions while misbehaving males advanced.
It’s those experiences that keep me still and silent while the prince muffles his grief with his pillow. I let him cry alone, but I do not rest until the sobs finally stop and his breathing eases.
Only when I’m sure he’s sleeping do I close my eyes again.