17 #3
As the evening progresses, I start to see the pattern of Vawn’s strategies for beguiling the guests.
He often moves close to them, lowering his voice, prompting them to lean in.
He’ll breathe on their cheek while he’s speaking softly near their ear.
He touches their hands, kisses their knuckles, and praises something about their appearance—their style, their height, their hair, their voice, their features.
He lures them in with flattery, with the smooth timbre of his voice, and with the unspoken promise of intimacy.
Once he and the Kaenans have greeted everyone and circulated through the guests for a while, Vawn retires to the Pomegranate Parlor and removes his mask.
He sits on a short, plush sofa, while I stand behind him, occasionally walking to one side of the room or the other so I have a full view of everything that’s going on.
Thus begins a series of longer, more private sessions with various dignitaries and influential guests at the party.
My position gives me a front row seat to a new variation on his seductive technique.
With men older than him, Vawn either feigns more knowledge than he has, or he plays the submissive youth eager to learn from a wise father figure.
Those men leave his presence hopeful for a chance to earn more power and better placement from the new king once he takes the throne.
To their wives, Vawn is respectfully flattering on the surface, but I notice the little things he does solely for the women’s benefit—naughty things that their husbands don’t notice.
Like stroking his fingers along his thigh, stretching or leaning to show off his taut muscles, or sharing a heated glance and then tugging at his crotch quickly and subtly, as if his pants have become too tight.
He makes devastating eye contact with each woman and poses simple questions in a voice so rich and low that the blandest inquiry sounds filthy.
With the younger, unattached guests, he is unabashedly flirtatious.
As the night goes on, he invites some of them to stay in the parlor for smoking and drinks, assembling a posse not unlike the group he partied with on the night of the coup.
General Centune joins the gathering, and even though she’s a good fifteen years older than everyone else, she ends up on Vawn’s lap, laughing while he feeds her cubes of glowing blue gelatin.
Like that first night at the Lyre & Vice, I have to stand silently and watch it unfold…
only this time, I know him better than any of them do.
I’ve had those strong arms wrapped around me while we rode on the magic carpet.
The fingertips that he’s grazing along a girl’s smooth throat—they held mine carefully as he painted my glyph set.
The cock that’s bulging so obviously against the laces of his tight pants, the one that the general keeps rubbing her thigh against—I’ve had that cock inside me.
And I hate that I know how good he feels.
I hate that I know what he sounds like when he comes.
Vawn tosses his head back and laughs, with those pink strands shining among the dark waves of his hair, and I hate him with all the fervor of poisoned lust. It’s not just his beauty that hurts me, it’s everything about him.
That laugh—I crave it. That sexy masculine throat, those collarbones, that perfectly cut chest—I need them.
I want his dark eyebrows, his straight nose, his plush mouth.
His wrists, clasped in bracelets, should be mine.
His fingers are mine. The knees on which he knelt beside the bounty hunters’ fire—they belong to me.
Not to some Grey Province bitch who wants to perch there, soothing her own insecurities with his flattery.
I’m grateful for the mask, because it helps to conceal what I’m feeling.
I’m grateful for my knives, whose shape centers me and reminds me of my role.
Somehow, I remain quiet and professional, watching the group carefully for signs of any threat to the prince.
So far, the only threats I can see are the bulge between his legs and the drinks he continues to swallow.
Near midnight, Lady Kaenan pushes open the parlor door at the exact moment that Vawn exchanges a quick, saucy kiss with a young lord, while General Centune tugs at the prince’s earring with her teeth.
Lady Kaenan surveys the scene, then locks eyes with me through my mask.
“Your Highness, some of the guests are departing,” she says. “If you would come and bid them farewell, I would be grateful.”
“Must I, mother?” Vawn pouts, and the young people around him titter in response.
Lady Kaenan does not look amused. “You must, I’m afraid. Perhaps another time we can continue the fun.”
“Very well. Off you hop, darling,” Vawn says to the general. When she rises from his lap, he smacks her ass lightly, then shoots a sharp glance at Lady Kaenan.
That look clarifies a suspicion for me.
He isn’t drunk. He’s fully aware of everything he’s doing.
He is punishing Lady Kaenan for the portraits.
It’s careless and cruel of him. He knows that the Lord, the Lady, and the artist arranged that gallery as a tribute, an attempt to help him mourn and heal.
Maybe it was misguided, but it was well-intentioned.
And he is spitting on their kindness. They woke up the sleeping monster of his grief, and as it rips his heart to shreds, he is clawing bloody gashes in the one healthy bond he has left.
I won’t let him destroy it any further.