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40 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 6, 2018
OMG, Ancel is such a trip. And Berenger? *swoon* Pacat is truly gifted (why isn't she writing more books?!) and for such a short story, it had a proper arc.
'You’re right,’ said Berenger. ‘They’re very beautiful. And rare. In the poem, the lover is given only a single flower.’
‘What a terrible gift. I’d much rather have jewelry,’ said Ancel, wrinkling his nose. ‘Or clothes. Even the horse was better.’
Berenger’s mouth quirked, his eyes shifting from the flowers, amused and warm. ‘Yes, you’re a little more expensive.’
‘The court,’ Berenger began to explain to him, two days before they departed, ‘is very different, the entertainments can be—debauched—’
‘I’ve seen pets fucking before,’ said Ancel. ‘I am a pet. Remember? I’ll cover your eyes if you’re shocked.’
The slave was more frightening close up, and bigger. Physically imposing, and dripping with disdainful pride, he looked as though he could break any handlers in half. He was nothing like a court pet: it was as if the other courtiers were playing with kittens while the Prince had brought in a lion.
Arriving in the bower, the Prince of Vere was instantly commanding, with nothing soft or yielding in him. A young man with golden hair, cold blue eyes, and an arresting profile, he had a pet’s looks and a Prince’s bearing, laced up tighter than Berenger, in dark, severe clothing. He looked capable of mastering the slave through force of will, as though the slave’s discomfort was his pleasure.
Ancel swallowed before he realized what he was doing, a hazy instinct.
The slave was panting, looking up through a tangle of curls in a furious way, as though he’d like to have a second go-around, this time with his hand around someone’s throat. But he wasn’t looking at Ancel at all. He lifted that gaze and fixed it right on the Prince.
Kiss me,’ said Ancel as he settled, one knee on the couch on either side of Berenger’s thighs, his hands linked behind Berenger’s neck.
‘What?’ said Berenger.
‘On the mouth,’ said Ancel. ‘Everyone’s watching. Do it like you mean it.’
When Berenger pulled back, Ancel was straddling Berenger’s lap, looking down at him. He was still struggling to process his over-awareness of Berenger, the staid, serious man who preferred reading to talking. His lips were tingling from kissing Berenger, and that didn’t seem to make sense.
‘Ancel—’ said Berenger.
‘Like you mean it,’ said Ancel, and kissed him again.
'You’re not poor now. You can afford me.’
Berenger was shaking his head. ‘Ancel, I’m not poor now. But if the Prince fails—’
‘If he fails,’ said Ancel. He was stepping into Berenger’s space. He put his hand on the laces of Berenger’s jacket, and Berenger didn’t move away.
‘But if he wins?’