Chapter 3 #6
His hands faltered on the bolt assembly.
Stupid. He was being stupid, letting his mind drift back to the firing range.
To the way the prince had felt, solid and warm against his chest, trying so hard to excel at something that clearly terrified him.
The way his breath had hitched when Jakob adjusted his stance—
The rifle's bolt clattered against the wooden workbench.
Jakob swore under his breath, grateful for the armory's empty shadows.
He was supposed to be being punished, not...
whatever this was. Remembering how His Highness— Harald, his mind whispered—had smelled of wool and leather and early morning frost.
He'd been so careful in the library. Professional. Distant. And then this morning he'd gone and put his hands on a prince. What had he been thinking?
Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Jakob's heart leapt before he could stop it. But the tread was too heavy. Sergeant Nilsson appeared in the doorway, his shadow stretching across the floor.
"Making progress, Eliasberg?"
"Yes, sir." Jakob gestured to the row of gleaming rifles, their barrels catching what little light filtered through the high windows. Proper military precision in every movement. As if being a model cadet could make up for the way his pulse had quickened at those footsteps, hoping...
The sergeant grunted approval and moved on, leaving Jakob alone with the rifles. And his thoughts. Always dangerous, that combination.
He rolled up his sleeves, trying to focus on the next weapon. The metal was cold under his fingers, like the morning frost had been. Like the prince's gloved hands, trembling slightly when Jakob had adjusted his grip on the rifle—
No. Your Highness. He had to remember that. Had to hold onto the formal distance, even in his own mind. The library had been... a moment of madness. Poetry and shadows and Harald's voice gone soft. But that wasn't real. Couldn't be real.
This was real: the weight of the rifle in his hands, the smell of gun oil, the ache in his shoulders from hours of detailed work. Simple. Practical. Safe.
Let the rifle become part of you, he'd told the prince.
As if he hadn't felt the words catch in his throat, rough with something that had nothing to do with proper shooting technique.
As if his hands hadn't lingered a heartbeat too long, memorizing the solid warmth of Harald's— His Highness's—shoulders under the wool uniform.
Another rifle. Another careful disassembly.
If he focused hard enough on each tiny component, maybe he could forget how His Highness had looked at him in the library, all earnest interest and shy smiles.
How different from this morning's rigid formality, both of them playing their proper roles. Which was the real—
Footsteps again, but different this time.
Lighter. Almost tentative. Jakob's hands stilled on the rifle barrel as a shadow passed across the high window.
He knew that walk—had spent all morning watching it, the way His High— Harald moved, careful and contained, like he was trying to take up as little space as possible.
Don't look up. Don't look up. Don't look up.
He looked up.
Just a glimpse through the dusty glass: golden hair catching the afternoon sun, the glint of light on the buttons of a uniform jacket. Then gone, leaving Jakob staring at his own reflection in the window, sleeves rolled up, gun oil on his hands, cheeks flushed with... what? Anger? Embarrassment?
Something else he couldn't quite name?
The rifle in his hands was a poor distraction from the memory of that glimpse, from the way his heart had jumped at those quiet footsteps.
He forced himself through the familiar motions: check the barrel, clean the bolt, oil the action.
His fingers moved automatically while his mind betrayed him with questions.
Had Harald—His Highness, damn it—had he meant to be seen? Was he checking on Jakob, or just passing by? Did he feel guilty about this morning, about Christian's petty punishment?
Did he remember how they'd stood, pressed together in the frost-sharp air, Jakob's hands steady on his waist even as his heart hammered against his ribs?
The last rifle came back together under Jakob's hands with a satisfying 'click'.
Everything in its proper place, just as it should be.
Just as he should be—the charity case who shot rabbits in his mother's garden.
He had no business wanting... whatever this was.
The prince's focus and attention on him, and more of whatever sparked between them in the library's shadows or in those breathless moments on the range.
He began returning the weapons to their racks, each one set precisely in place.
The work had taken hours, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it.
Not when it had given him those few seconds of Harald warm against his chest, those quiet words meant only for each other's ears. Worth it, for that alone.
And that thought, more than anything else Christian could devise as punishment, terrified him.