Kazia licks a flake of sugar from his finger. “Yes, I am.”
“Which part, Your Highness?” Lucien asks. “Is it that I’m Silaisan, or that I’m common-born?”
It’s that Lucien is a mage. Except Kazia isn’t enjoying this, not the way Lucien must think. Kazia’s too busy analyzing every angle of the situation. Appearances for Imrik’s sake—and Marek wasn’t wrong. Lucien is dangerous. As powerful as the obedience collar is, Kazia has to be careful.
“I don’t care what pigsty you were born in,” Kazia says lazily.
Lucien tenses. Briefly. “Better a pigsty than House Dire.”
The barb hits true. Kazia forces a smile. “I wouldn’t know, being unfamiliar with pigsties. Come here and get on your hands and knees. I need a footstool.”
A moment of revulsion—then glittering amusement. “Kinkier than I expected, Your Highness.”
It’s so appalling, Kazia nearly orders Lucien out of his sight. But that’s what Lucien wants. Instead, Kazia just watches as Lucien folds himself to the ground. Something about the proximity or soap-reddened hands or Lucien’s comment still heating the air makes Kazia all too aware of Lucien as a physicalperson. Lucien seems even broader this close, curving muscle clear through the rough shirt.
Kazia plants his boots in the center of Lucien’s back. “Don’t move until I tell you to,” Kazia says, probably unnecessarily.
“Yes, Your Highness,” Lucien replies.
The gallery falls silent. Kazia forces himself through the remains of his breakfast.
Lucien may be right that House Dire is worse than a pigsty, but he’s wrong about this. There’s nothing kinky or enjoyable about using Lucien here. It’s just deeply, uncomfortably awkward.
Kazia knows people who would enjoy this sort of thing. Ostomar’s courtiers are diverse, and talkative about it. But even if Kazia’s fantasies featured humiliation, they wouldn’t feature the dour supervision of his father’s drasgard.
All of Kazia’s fantasies are unrealistic, of course. Intimacy is for other people. Kazia would never trust anyone enough to get that close.
?
CHAPTER SIX
Lucien
Lucien’s humiliation settles into a dull ache. He barely notices it except when he prods at it. As the morning drags on, he’s far more distracted by the pain in his knees. Kazia eatsslowly. Lucien acted as a footstool for at least ten minutes before Kazia finished or got bored. Better than continuing to scrub his hands raw, maybe, but Lucien’s knees are still very unhappy with the situation. Especially when his bones already ached from the rock-hard mattress in his cell.
That’s nothing compared to the collar chafing Lucien’s throat. Lucien can handle pain just fine, but in his most helpless moments, he’s always been in control of himself. Now Lucien can’t even reach up to scratch the itch. Kazia’s orders—repeated earlier this morning—keep him from touching it.
Lucien spends the rest of the morning on a slow, showy tour of the royal wing. He keeps track of rooms and hallways as best he can, which isn’t very well. There aren’t many windows to orient himself, and all the gargoyles look the same.
And everywhere he turns, scalestone tugs Lucien’s senses. It’s embedded into statues, anchoring lantern systems. Local mages must be used to it, or this palace would be maddening.
He hadn’t expected to feel scalestone through the null-earring. Then again, it makes sense. The nullification stops his own magic from acting, not other magic from acting upon him. Otherwise, this damned collar wouldn’t work.
“Is something wrong?” Kazia asks with deceptive sweetness.
Lucien jerks away from a gargoyle with scalestone teeth. “No, Your Highness.”
Kazia keeps him busy. He clearly delights in ordering Lucien around for petty tasks. Fetching books off library shelves. Moving a chair closer to a lamp so Kazia can read comfortably. When Kaziadoesn’tneed him, he orders Lucien to stand in the corner, nose to the wall.
Those are the worst parts—turning his back to his captor. Yet the quiet stillness gives Lucien the chance to center himself. Strip away useless emotions like pride and humiliation. Remind himself of what matters.
Break out, kill Kazia, kill Imrik, fuck off back to Silaise.
After several hours, long enough for their drasgard escort to change shifts, Lucien follows Kazia into a large, private dining room. There are only two places set at the table—one at the head, and one three chairs down to the left.
“Sit down,” Kazia orders, pointing to the second seat. “Don’t use the utensils or dishes for anything besides eating. Don’t take them from the table. Don’t harm me, my people, or my property.”
The brat is smarter than Lucien appreciates. Discarding his grand plans of fighting his way out of Ostomar with a fork, Lucien pulls out his chair. “Not on the floor?”
