Captive Prince: Volume Two

by S. U. Pacat

  He felt every pair of eyes in the silent courtyard watching him as he made his descent, step after step. It wasn’t the way things were done. Veretians stood atop their daises and made guests come to them. None of that mattered to him. He kept his own eyes on the man, who was watching him approach in turn.

  Damen was wearing Veretian clothes. He felt them on himself, the high collar, the fabric tight-laced to follow the lines of his body, the long sleeves, the shine of his long boots. Even his hair had been cut in Veretian style.

  He saw the man see all of that first, and then he saw the man see him.

  ‘The last time we spoke, the apricots were in season,’ said Damen, in Akielon. ‘We walked in the night garden, and you took my arm and gave me counsel, and I did not listen.’

  And Nikandros of Delpha stared back at him, and in a shocked voice, speaking the words half to himself, said, ‘It’s not possible.’

  ‘Old friend, you have come to a place where nothing is as any of us thought.’

  Nikandros didn’t speak again. He just stared in silence, white as one who had been struck a blow. Then, as though one leg gave out, and then the other, he dropped slowly to his knees, an Akielon commander kneeling on the rough trampled stones of a Veretian fort.

  He said, ‘Damianos.’

  Before Damen could tell him to rise, he heard it again, echoed in another voice, and then another. It was passing over the gathered men in the courtyard, his name in tones of shock and of awe. The steward beside Nikandros was kneeling. And then four of the men in the front ranks. And then more, dozens of men, rank after rank of soldiers.

  And as Damen looked out, the army was dropping to its knees, until the courtyard was a sea of bowed heads, and silence replaced the murmur of voices, the words spoken over and over again.

  ‘He lives. The King’s son lives. Damianos.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This book was born in a series of Monday night phone conversations with Kate Ramsay, who said, at one point, ‘I think this story is going to be bigger than you realise.’ Thank you Kate, for being a great friend when I needed it most. I will always remember the sound of the wonky old phone ringing in my tiny Tokyo apartment.

  I owe an enormous debt of thanks to Kirstie Innes-Will, my incredible friend and editor, who read countless drafts and spent tireless hours making the story better. I can’t put into words how much that help has meant to me.

  Anna Cowan is not only one of my favourite writers, she helped me so much on this story with her amazing brainstorming sessions and insightful feedback. Thank you so much, Anna, this story wouldn’t be what it is without you.

  All my thanks to my writing group Isilya, Kaneko and Tevere, for all your ideas, feedback, suggestions and support. I feel so lucky to have wonderful writer-friends like you in my life.

  Finally, to everyone who has been part of the Captive Prince online experience, thank you all for your generosity and your enthusiasm, and for giving me the chance to make a book like this.

  CHAPTER 19 1/2

  DAMEN WAS HAPPY. It was radiating from him, the weight of his body heavy and replete. He was aware of Laurent, slipping out of the bed. His sense of drowsy closeness lingered.

  When he heard Laurent moving across the room, Damen shifted, naked, to enjoy an interval of watching, but Laurent had disappeared through the archway and into one of the rooms that flowed out of this one.

  He was content to wait, his bare limbs on the sheets heavy, the gold slave cuffs and collar his only adornments. He felt the warm, wonderful, impossible fact of his situation. Bed slave. He closed his eyes, and felt again that first long, slow push into Laurent’s body, heard the first of the small sounds that Laurent had made.

  Because they were a nuisance, he pulled at the laces of his shirt, which had caught under him, then bunched it in his hands, and used it, without thinking much, to wipe himself off. He tossed it from the bed. When he looked back up, Laurent had reappeared in the room’s archway.

  Laurent had put his own white shirt back on, though nothing else. He must have scooped it up off the floor; Damen had a lovely half memory of tugging it from Laurent’s wrists where it had tangled. The shirt reached the top of his thighs. The fine white fabric suited him. There was something splendid about seeing him like this, loosely laced, only part dressed. Damen propped his head on one hand, and watched him approach.

  ‘I brought you a towel but I see you have improvised,’ said Laurent, pausing at the table to pour a cup of water, placing it on the low bench by the bed.

  ‘Come back to bed,’ said Damen.

  ‘I,’ said Laurent, and stopped. Damen had caught his hand, entwined long fingers into his own. Laurent looked along their arms.

  Damen was surprised at how it felt: new, each heartbeat his first, and Laurent reshaped before him.

  Laurent had restored both his shirt and a flickering version of his usual standoffishness. But he had not laced himself back into his clothes, had not reappeared in his high-necked jacket and shiny boots, as he might have done. He was here, hesitating, on the edge of uncertainty. Damen drew on Laurent’s hand.

  Laurent half resisted the tug, and ended with one knee on the silk and a hand braced awkwardly by Damen’s shoulder. Damen gazed up at him, at the gold of his hair, the fall of his shirt away from his body. Laurent’s limbs were slightly stiff, more so when he shifted to get his balance, awkward, like he didn’t know what to do. He had the manner of a proper young man who has been coaxed for the first time into boyish wrestling and finds himself pulled atop his opponent in the sawdust. The towel was clutched in his fist against the bed.

  ‘You take liberties.’

  ‘Come back to bed, Your Highness.’

  That earned him a long, cool look at close range. Damen felt bliss-drunk on his own daring. He glanced sideways at the towel.

  ‘Did you really bring that for me?’

  After a moment, ‘I—thought to towel you down.’

  The sweetness of it was startling. He realised with a little pulse of his heart that Laurent meant it. He was used to the ministrations of slaves, but it was an indulgence beyond any dream of decadence to have Laurent do this. His mouth quirked at the impossibility of it.

  ‘What?’

  ‘So this is what you’re like in bed,’ said Damen.

  ‘Like?’ said Laurent, stiffening.

  ‘Attentive,’ said Damen, charmed by the idea. ‘Elusive.’ He gazed up at Laurent. ‘I should be attending you,’ he said.

  ‘I . . . took care of it,’ said Laurent, after a pause. There was a slight flush on his cheeks as he spoke, though his voice, as always, was steady. It took a moment for Damen to understand that Laurent spoke of practical concerns.

  Laurent’s fingers had tightened around the towel. There was a self-consciousness in him now, as though he had become aware of the strangeness of what he was doing: a prince serving a slave. Damen looked again at the cup of water, which Laurent had brought—for him, he realised.

  Laurent’s flush deepened. Damen shifted to regard him better. He saw the angle of Laurent’s jaw, the tension in Laurent’s shoulders.

  ‘Going to banish me to sleep at the foot of your bed? I wish you wouldn’t, it’s quite far away.’

  After a moment, ‘Is that how it’s done in Akielos? I can nudge you with my heel if I require you again before dawn.’

  ‘Require?’ said Damen.

  ‘Is that the word?’

  ‘We’re not in Akielos. Why don’t you show me how it’s done in Vere?’

  ‘We don’t keep slaves in Vere.’

  ‘I beg to differ,’ said Damen, on his side under Laurent’s gaze, relaxed, his cock lying warm against his own thigh.

  It struck him anew, the fact of them both here, and what had just passed between them. Laurent had at least one layer of armour peeled away and was exposed, a young man stripped down to a shirt. The white shirt trailed laces, soft and open, counterpoint to the tension in Laurent’s body.

&nbs
p; Damen deliberately did nothing at all except gaze back at him. Laurent had indeed taken care of matters, and had removed any evidence of their activities from his appearance. He did not look like someone who had just been fucked. Laurent’s post-coital instincts were remarkably self-denying. Damen waited.

  ‘I lack,’ said Laurent, ‘the easy mannerisms that are usually shared with,’ you could see him pushing the words out, ‘a lover.’

  ‘You lack the easy mannerisms that are usually shared with anyone,’ said Damen.

  A handspan separated them. Damen’s knee almost touched Laurent’s where Laurent’s leg crooked on the sheets. He saw Laurent close his eyes briefly, as though to steady himself.

  ‘You’re not . . . the way I thought, either.’

  The admission was quiet. There was no sound in the room, just the shifting glow of the candle flame.

  ‘You thought of it?’

  ‘You kissed me,’ said Laurent. ‘On the battlements. I thought of it.’

  Damen couldn’t help the furl of pleasure in his stomach. ‘That was barely a kiss.’

  ‘It went on for some time.’

  ‘And you thought of it.’

  ‘Are you angling for an earful of talk?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and the warm smile was helpless too.

  Laurent was silent, as he fought an internal battle. Damen felt the quality of his stillness, the moment when he pushed himself to speak.

  ‘You were different,’ said Laurent.

  It was all he said. The words seemed to come from a deep place in Laurent, eked out from some core of truthfulness.

  ‘Shall I put out the lights, Your Highness?’

  ‘Leave them burning.’

  He felt the careful aspect of Laurent’s motionlessness, the way that even his breathing was careful.

  ‘You can call me by my given name,’ said Laurent. ‘If you like.’

  ‘Laurent,’ he said.

  He wanted to say it while sliding his fingers into Laurent’s hair, tilting his head for the first brush of lips. The vulnerability of kissing had caused tension to ribbon through Laurent’s body, a sweet, hot tangle. As now.

  Damen sat up alongside him.

  It had its effect, the shallowing of breath, though Damen made no move to touch him. He was larger, and took up more space on the bed.

  ‘I’m not afraid of sex,’ said Laurent.

  ‘Then you can do as you like.’

  And that was the crux of the matter, it was suddenly clear from the look in Laurent’s eyes. It was Damen’s turn to hold himself still. Laurent was looking at him as he had since he had returned to the bed, dark-eyed and on the cusp.

  Laurent said, ‘Don’t touch me.’

  He was expecting . . . he wasn’t certain what he was expecting. The first hesitant brush of Laurent’s fingers against his skin was a shock. There was an odd sense of inexperience in Laurent, as though the role was as new to him as it was to Damen. As though all of this was new to him, which made no sense.

  The touch on his bicep was tentative, exploratory, as though it was something new to be marked out, the span of it, the shape of the curved muscle.

  Laurent’s gaze was travelling over his body, and he looked in the same way that he touched, as if Damen was new territory, unexplored, that he couldn’t quite believe was under his command.

  When he felt Laurent touch his hair, he bowed his head and gave himself up to it, as a workhorse might bow for the yoke. He felt Laurent shape his palm to the curve of his neck, felt Laurent’s fingers sliding through the weight of his hair as though experiencing the feel for the first time.

  Perhaps it was the first time. He hadn’t taken Damen’s head like that, splaying his fingers over its shape, when Damen had used his mouth. He’d kept his hands fisted in the sheets. Damen flushed at the idea of Laurent cupping his head as he gave him pleasure. Laurent was not that uninhibited. He hadn’t given himself over to sensation, he’d caught it up in an internal tangle.

  He was tangled up now. Dark-eyed, as though touch was to him an extreme act.

  The rise and fall of Damen’s chest felt careful. A single breath might disturb Laurent, or so it felt. Laurent’s lips were parted slightly, his fingers sliding down the planes of Damen’s chest. It felt different to the proprietary pushiness he had exercised when he’d pressed Damen down onto his back, and taken him in hand.

  Damen’s blood thrummed with his over-awareness of Laurent. The heat of Laurent’s body in proximity was unanticipated, like the soft tickling shift of Laurent’s white shirt, specifics lacking from imagination.

  Laurent’s fingers dropped to his scar.

  His gaze caught there first. Touch followed, drawn with strange fascination, almost reverence. Damen felt the shock of it as Laurent’s fingers travelled its length, the thin white line where a sword had run through his shoulder.

  Laurent’s eyes were very dark in the candlelight. A first spill of tension, Laurent’s fingers on his skin as his heart beat like a bruise in his chest.

  Laurent said, ‘I didn’t think anyone was good enough to get past your guard.’

  ‘One person,’ said Damen.

  Laurent wet his lips, his fingertips tracing up and back, slowly, over the ghost of a long-ago fight. There was a strange doubling, brother for brother, Laurent close as Auguste had been, and Damen even less defended, Laurent’s fingers on the place where he had been run through.

  The past was there with them suddenly, too close, except that the sword thrust had come clean and fast, and Laurent was dark eyed and slow, fingers sliding over scar tissue.

  Then Laurent’s gaze lifted—not to his own, but to the collar. His fingers lifted to touch the yellow metal, his thumb pressing into the nick.

  ‘I haven’t forgotten my promise. That I’d take off the collar.’

  ‘In the morning, you said.’

  ‘In the morning. You can think of it as baring your neck to the knife.’

  Their eyes met. Damen’s heartbeats were behaving oddly.

  ‘I’m still wearing it now.’

  ‘I know that.’

  Damen found himself caught in that look, held in it. Laurent had let him inside. That thought was impossible, even though he felt inside now, as though he had passed inside some crucial boundary: there was the warm space between jaw and neck, where his own lips had rested, there was his mouth, which he had kissed.

  He felt Laurent’s knee slide alongside his own. He felt Laurent shift in towards him, and his heart was pounding in his chest as, in the next moment, Laurent kissed him.

  He half expected an assertion of dominance, but Laurent kissed with a chaste touch of lips, soft and uncertain, as though he was exploring the simplest sensations. Damen fought to stay passive, his hands curling in the sheets, and simply let Laurent take his mouth.

  Laurent shifted over him, Damen felt the slide of Laurent’s thigh, Laurent’s knee in the bedding. The fabric of Laurent’s white shirt brushed his erection. Laurent’s breathing was shallow, as though he was out on a high ledge.

  Laurent’s fingers brushed his abdomen, as if curious about the feel, and all the breath left Damen’s body as Laurent’s curiosity took him in a certain direction.

  His touch, once there, made its inevitable discovery.

  ‘Overconfidence?’ said Laurent.

  ‘It’s not—to a purpose.’

  ‘I seem to recall otherwise.’

  Damen was halfway to being pushed down onto his back, with Laurent kneeling in his lap.

  ‘All that self restraint,’ said Laurent.

  As Laurent leaned in, Damen unthinkingly lifted a hand to his hip to help balance him. And then realised what he had done.

  He felt Laurent’s awareness of it. His hand was singing with tension. On the boundary of what was permitted, Damen could feel the shallowness of Laurent’s breathing. But Laurent didn’t pull away, instead, he inclined his head. Damen leaned in slowly, and, when Laurent didn’t draw back, he pressed a single sof
t kiss to the column of Laurent’s neck. And then another.

  His neck was warm; and the space between neck and shoulder; and the small hidden space under his jawline. Just the softest nosing. Laurent let out an unsteady breath. Damen felt the soft shifts and movements, and he realised the sensitivity of Laurent’s too-fine skin. The slower his touch the more Laurent responded to it, silk heating beneath an insubstantial brush of lips. He did it slower. Laurent shuddered.

  He wanted to slide his hands up over Laurent’s body. He wanted to see what would happen if this gentle attention was lavished on all of him, one part at a time, to see if he’d relax for each one, if he’d slowly begin to come apart, giving himself over to pleasure, the way he hadn’t quite allowed himself to do at any moment except perhaps the climax, coming with flushed cheeks under Damen’s thrusts.

  He didn’t dare move his hand. His entire world seemed to have slowed, to the delicate shuddering of breath, the skitter of Laurent’s pulse, the flush of Laurent’s face and throat.

  ‘That—feels good,’ said Laurent.

  Their chests brushed. He could hear Laurent’s breath in his ear. His own arousal, pressed between their bodies, felt only the subtlest shifts as Laurent pressed unconsciously against him. Damen’s other hand came up to rest on Laurent’s other hip, to feel the movement without guiding it. Laurent had forgotten himself enough to start moving against him. There was not even anything practiced about it, just a closed-eyed seeking after pleasure.

  It was a shock to realise in the slight tremors, the flickering of breath, that Laurent was close, and how close he was, that he could come from being kissed, and this slow back and forth. Damen felt the slow slide of it, sparks of pleasure, like sparks struck from flint.

  Damen could never have reached his own peak like this, but the slower Damen kissed him as they moved together, the more it seemed to take Laurent apart.

  Maybe Laurent had always been this sensitive to tenderness. Laurent’s eyes were half closed. A first small sound escaped him. His cheeks were flushed and his lips parted, his head turned slightly to one side, a small tumult in the normally cool, calm expression.