Now that he has permission to enter, Lucien hesitates. He struggles to remember the orders that are supposed to bind him—his horror is too visceral. Even when Kazia edges from the mirror’s merciless gaze, Lucien still sees the stripes marring his thin back.
But Lucien can’t indulge his horror now. Kazia is so tightly wound and fragile, he can’t possibly bear the weight of it.
Lucien crosses the threshold only to hesitate again, hand on the door. “Should I leave this open?”
Does Kazia want privacy, or an escape route?
The question straightens Kazia’s sharp shoulders. “Close it.” The words break loose the ritual orders. “Don’t tell anyone about this. Don’t touch your collar. Don’t touch your earring. Don’t escape. Don’t harm me, my people, or my property.”
Kazia doesn’t know his words aren’t chains anymore. The collar is broken. The earring is fake. Alone together, nothing could stop Lucien from harming him.
Lucien closes the door. As he approaches, Kazia retreats, circling, ever facing Lucien.
“I’m going to pull the chair out,” Lucien says before doing so.
The cushioned chair isn’t heavy, but its clawed feet drag against the rug. He moves it out of the mirror’s sight, but still near the vanity. Slowly, never suddenly, Lucien stoops for the fallen jar.
Lucien’s Draskoran is limited, but he knows the word hallabark. “Do you have anything stronger?”
“No.”
Better than nothing. Lucien sets the jar beside a hairbrush with a cat embossed on its silver back. The cat is curled up, sleeping, while Kazia hovers in his own skin, poised to flee.
Lucien wants to strangle the vicious brat who used him as a footstool. Not the hurt, wary young man before him now. But even Lucien’s foolish urge to fix things may do more harm than good.
And this won’t work if Kazia fights every step of the way.
“If you truly don’t want me here, I’ll go,” Lucien says. “You don’t even have to make it an order.”
Kazia folds his arms around his shirt, exposing more of himself in the defensive posture. “I want you to go back to the parlor.”
Lucien exhales, nods, and turns around. Considerate of the brat not order him, but Lucien regrets the offer. He doubts he’ll sleep tonight, knowing—
“No,” Kazia says before Lucien gets two steps. His eyes lower. “I want you to stay.”
The admission seems more painful than his injuries. Lucien wants to ask if Kazia changed his mind, or if that was a test.Likely a test, given what Lucien’s learned of Kazia these past few weeks. Kazia is careful, defensive. He doesn’t trust anyone.
Instead of asking, Lucien gives an order of his own. “Sit down, then. Facing the wall.”
The shirt slips from Kazia’s fingers like a silken shadow. He perches backwards in the chair with quick, brave movements. His forearms fold over the padded back. A pin holds his hair up, leaving him exposed from nape to hip.
Clear lash marks crisscross Kazia’s skin. One stray welt curves along his right arm, the only mistake in the methodical pattern. This isn’t an accident or training injury. The harm is deliberate.
Tension stiffens Kazia’s spine beneath the injuries. Lucien fears losing his hand if he approaches like this. Wounded animals bite.
He grabs the hallabark and twists it open. “Maybe you should stand on a table instead. You’re too short.”
“Fuck you,” Kazia snaps—but his shoulders soften as Lucien warms the ointment between his fingers. No magic, just the heat of his furious pulse.
Closer up, Kazia’s injuries aren’t as bad as Lucien thought at first. Those near his shoulders are better healed than those below his waist, but none of them are fresh. The discovery isn’t reassuring. Lucien doesn’t have much experience with lash marks—his parents didn’t go for that, and flogging isn’t a common punishment in the Silaisan army. He’s familiar with injuries in general, though, and these are several days old.
But Lucien would have noticed the injuries earlier today. With how painfully Kazia moved through the parlor, he can’t have hidden the marks when they were fresh.
The ointment is warm enough. Lucien pauses, thinking through past orders. They’re harder to remember when the collar doesn’t enforce them. When the task at hand pulls so desperately at his conscience.
“I can’t touch you unless you let me. You ordered me not to.”
Kazia presses his forehead to his arms. Soft stray hairs shift against his neck. “You can touch my back. That’s it.”
