“Fine,” Kazia snaps, and moves to latch the door. He tries not to think about what any servants or guards will think if they try to open it.
Stripping his shirt off is both easier and more difficult than it was last night. Kazia’s shoulders move better, and he’s done this before. But he’s not shocked and off balance this morning. He’s far more aware of the cool air against his bare skin. The way Lucien carefully finds the hallabark jar instead of looking at him.
Maybe Lucien isn’t being careful. Maybe Kazia’s just self-absorbed, and Lucien has no interest in his exposure. Kazia is scrawny, sharp, far from impressive.
Lucien makes lewd jokes to annoy him. His reaction in the linen closet was simply that, a reaction. He’s only being nice to Kazia now because…
Kazia still isn’t sure. None of the rest matters, though, because it’s not like Kazia likes Lucien either. He braces his hands against the vanity’s wooden surface and says, “I haven’t got all day.”
Lucien meets Kazia’s eyes in the mirror. Easy when he’s so fucking tall. His soldier’s muscles haven’t diminished in captivity, and Kazia feels even smaller than before.
“I’m going to move your hair,” Lucien says.
The warning is polite but insufficient. Kazia isn’t prepared for the tender brush against his nape. He bites back instinctive orders and allows Lucien to push his loose hair in front of his shoulder. The ends tickle his bare chest.
Lucien doesn’t say anything before beginning.
At least the null-ring blocks Lucien’s magic like it’s supposed to. Last night, every time Lucien hurt him, Kazia’s magic awakened. But no other magic sought his out, leaving Kazia’s power to dissipate in a painless wisp of smoke.
There was a moment Kazia imagined the null-ring had failed. A phantom touch of heat. But it was gone the next instant, an artifact of Kazia’s own fear.
Kazia isn’t safe. He’s never safe, and Lucien knows far more about him than he should. But at least Lucien doesn’t know what Kazia is.
There’s no pain this morning. Either Lucien’s gentler, or Kazia is better healed. Kazia ducks his head, hiding from his own reflection rather than facing the tenderness. Careful hands soothe each twisted nerve. The hallabark eases the inflammation and lessens the lingering pain.
Perhaps fear would be better than the heat building with every touch. Lucien was right, damn him—he’s good with his hands. Kazia likes it so much it sickens him.
Lucien is a prisoner. He would be disgusted if he knew his captor enjoyed this.
Too soon, Lucien twists the jar closed. He sets it down with hardly a sound. “I won’t tell anyone. Even without the collar, I wouldn’t.”
Kazia glares up at Lucien’s reflection. It’s easier than looking at him directly. “I hate when you pretend to be nice to me.”
Lucien’s mouth twitches. “I’m not pretending, brat.”
“That, there!” Kazia accuses. “Fuck. Marek warned me you were dangerous, but he had no idea how right he was.”
“Probably.” Lucien’s mouth twitches again, like he’s trying not to smile. “I’ve been underestimated before. So have you, I’d wager.”
True. Nobody knows the scope of Kazia’s mistakes and failures. Kazia leans back against the vanity to face Lucien. The collar is stark against his throat, a jarring reminder of Lucien’s purpose here.
Kindness and comfort and promises don’t matter. All that matters is whether Kazia can wield Lucien as a tool to break free of the prison he was born in.
“We’re returning to Aliza’s chambers soon,” Kazia says. “I need your help to find the—the thing.”
Lucien twists a finger in his ear. “Sorry, could you repeat that? It sounded like you said you needed help.”
“You’re insufferable,” Kazia retorts, then freezes at a noise in the parlor outside. Then another—the gentle clatter of dishware.
The breakfast Lucien ordered, with extras of Kazia’s favorite pastries. Which must be a coincidence, because Kazia has certainly never mentioned that in front of Lucien. Except Lucien has proven to notice far too much already.
Kazia can’t have breakfast with Lucien this morning. Not when he still feels the brush of fingers beneath his hair. The servants will talk too much. Kazia will think too much. “We’ll discuss it later. Don’t speak of anything that happened in this room. Go back to your cell. Don’t touch the runes, don’t escape, and don’t harm me, my people, or my property.”
Lucien straightens up, smile gone. But he looks less angry than concerned, the bastard. “Yes, Your Highness.” He grabs his jacket from the sofa on his way out. Over his shoulder, he says, “You should put your shirt back on.”
Kazia swears and scrambles back into his shirt before Lucien unlatches the door. The linen doesn’t sting against his back this time, his nerves soothed by the hallabark and Lucien’s touch.
***
