Captive Prince (Captive Prince, #1)

by C.S. Pacat

“Please. They’re not like me. They’re not soldiers. They haven’t killed anyone. They’re innocent. They will serve you willingly. And so will I, if you do something to help them.”

“No. I—” Laurent’s golden brows had drawn slightly together, as though he had encountered something that did not make sense. “You would really sacrifice your pride over the fate of a handful of slaves?” He had worn the same look on his face at the ring; he was gazing at Damen as though he was searching for an answer to an unexpected problem. “Why?”

“Because I am stuck here in this cage, and I have no other way to help them.”

“You should kiss the floor when you beg for my favour.”

Laurent narrowed his eyes at the problem, but offered no immediate solution. Damen said, “You could bring in more men.”

“When someone doesn’t like you very much, it isn’t a good idea to let them know that you care about something,” said Laurent.

He was not inclined to believe that cruelty delivered with one hand was redeemed by a caress from the other, if that’s even what this was.

“Don’t underestimate him because of his age. He has experienced things many adults have not, and his mind is no longer that of a child. Though even a child may learn how to manipulate an adult.

my shayla :(

Laurent used that to his advantage, using the propensity of courtiers to fall back in reaction to Damen’s presence as a means of extricating himself smoothly from conversation. The third time this happened, Damen said, “Shall I make a face at the ones you don’t like, or is it enough to just look like a barbarian?” “Shut up,” said Laurent, calmly.

To have lost so much and gained so much, all in the space of a moment.” “That is the fate of all princes destined for a throne,” said Laurent.

Laurent was a nest of scorpions in the body of one person. Torveld looked at him and saw a buttercup.

“Nephew. You were not invited to these discussions.” “And yet, here I am. It’s very irritating, isn’t it?” said Laurent.

“Your life would be a lot easier if you stopped baiting him,” said Damen. This time coldly, flatly, “I told you to shut up.”

“I don’t want to sit next to you,” said Nicaise. “Fuck off.”

“It’s all right,” said Damen. He spoke to the boy as gently as he could. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Good,” said Nicaise, and stabbed the fork viciously into Damen’s thigh under the table.

“I made your pet jump,” said Nicaise, smugly. Not sounding at all displeased: “Yes, you did.”

It was like watching a man smile as he surrendered himself to drown in deep water.

Damen opened his mouth to reply and found his words stopped by the startling touch of Laurent’s fingers against his lips, a thumb brushing his jawline. It was the sort of absent touch that any master at the table might give to a pet. But from the shocked reaction that rolled over the courtiers at the table, it was clear that Laurent did not do this sort of thing often. Or ever.

“He looks combative, but he’s really very docile and adoring,” said Laurent, “like a puppy.”

In the stretched-out moment that followed, Damen thought explicitly about killing him.

That a man of Torveld’s honourable reputation would choose Laurent as the object of his affections was difficult to swallow, but perhaps Torveld admired reptiles.

You don’t know him, thought Damen. You don’t know anything about him. You’ve known him one night.

“Stop this,” said Damen to Laurent. “It’s cruel. That boy was badly burned. He’s afraid of the fire.” “Burned?” said Torveld.

Nicaise gave Laurent a look that was desperately, spitefully calculating. “Oh, will you—enough,” said Laurent. “Enough. You’re learning. It won’t be as easy to do next time.” “I promise you, it won’t,” said Nicaise venomously, and he left without, Damen noted, giving Laurent his earring.

Damen had to smile. He supposed that he couldn’t blame Ancel for ambition. And it wasn’t a bad achievement, for an eighteen-year-old boy.

Laurent seemed, bizarrely, to be in a good mood. He leaned a shoulder rather casually against the wall. His voice was not exactly warm, but nor was the ice edge polished to cut.

“What do you mean?” Laurent detached his gaze from the Regent and turned it back on Damen, his blue eyes showing neither his usual hostility, nor arrogance, nor contempt, but instead something that Damen could not make out at all. “I warned you about Nicaise because he is not Councillor Audin’s pet. Haven’t you guessed yet whose pet he is?” Laurent said, and then, when he didn’t answer: “Ancel is too old to interest my uncle.”

“He is . . . very willing, but I suspect there has been some mistreatment, not only the branding. I brought you here because I wanted to ask you the extent of it. I am concerned that I will inadvertently . . .” Another silence. Torveld’s eyes were dark. “I think it would help for me to know.”

“You know,” said Torveld, slowly, “you resemble Kastor a little. It’s something in the eyes. In the shape of the face. The more I look at you—” No. “—the more I see it. Has anyone ever—” No. “—remarked on it before? I’m sure Laurent would—” “No,” said Damen. “I—”

it would be in Kastor’s interests to keep Laurent off the throne.” Trying to imagine Kastor plotting against Laurent was like trying to imagine a wolf plotting against a serpent.

A boar was more intelligent than a deer or even a hare, which would run until it escaped or was overcome. A boar, fearsome, furious and aggressive, would occasionally turn and fight.

Laurent’s fussy horse began acting out again, and he leaned forward in the saddle, murmuring something as he stroked her neck in an uncharacteristically gentle gesture to quiet her.

Re-entering the tent, Damen looked nowhere else. Erasmus looked down and tried not to smile, and instead blushed, slowly and thoroughly. “Hello,” said Damen.

“I know that you have somehow arranged this,” said Erasmus. He was incapable of hiding what he felt and just seemed to radiate embarrassed happiness. “You kept your promise. You and your master. I told you he was kind,” Erasmus said. “You did,” said Damen. He was pleased to see Erasmus happy. Whatever Erasmus believed about Laurent, Damen wasn’t going to dissuade him. “He’s even nicer in person. Did you know he came and talked to me?” said Erasmus.

If there is a way to repay you, I will find it. I swear that I will.” “There’s no need. Your happiness is repayment enough.” “And what about you?” said Erasmus. “Won’t you be lonely, all by yourself?” “I have a kind master,” said Damen.

MY SWEET BOY MY PRECIOUS BABY

“I like him,” said Erasmus, shyly, blushing. “I like his eyes. I think he’s handsome.” And then he blushed again at his own boldness. “More handsome than the Prince of Akielos?” Damen teased. “Well, I never saw him, but I really don’t think he could be more handsome than my master,” said Erasmus.

“Another kingdom . . . In Akielos, none of us thought we’d ever leave the palace.” “I’m sorry that you’ll have to be uprooted again. But it won’t be like last time. You can look forward to the journey.” “Yes. That is—I . . . I will be a little frightened, but so obedient,” said Erasmus. And blushed again.

“Nephew,” said the Regent. Laurent had come with soft, padding grace into the tent. There was an aseptic lack of expression in the cool blue eyes, and it was very clear that vicious mood was an understatement. The Regent said, “Your brother never had any difficulty running down a mark without slaughtering his horse. But we aren’t going to talk about that.” “Aren’t we?” said Laurent. “Nicaise tells me you influenced Torveld to bargain for the slaves. Why do it in secret?” said the Regent. His gaze tracked over Laurent slowly and consideringly. “I suppose the real question is what motivated you to do it at all?” “I thought it was terribly unfair of you,” drawled Laurent, “to burn the skin of your slaves when you would not let me flay mine even a little.”

“Something to say?” said Laurent. “I heard you killed your horse.” “It’s just a horse,” said Laurent. “I’ll have my uncle buy me a new one.”

you just know he's crying on the inside

“The Prince doesn’t want me to fuck him,” said Damen.

Laurent was on the reclining couch, his feet tucked up under him in a relaxed, boyish posture.

The image was damascened, as beaten metal. He was reading.

It might have prolonged the illusion of an assignation a few seconds longer because Laurent drunk was surely capable of all kinds of mad demands and unpredictable behaviour. Except that it was perfectly clear from the first moment he looked up that Laurent was not expecting company. And that Laurent did not recognise the guards either.

Laurent knew what was happening. Damen, who had seen the long, empty corridor, dark and quiet and absent of men, knew also. The guard at the door had entered behind them; there were three men, all armed.

Later, he’d wonder what it was that caused him to react as he did. He had no love for Laurent. Given time to think, he would surely have said, in a hardened voice, that the internal politics of Vere weren’t his business, and that whatever acts of violence Laurent had brought down upon himself were thoroughly deserved. Maybe it was bizarre empathy, because he’d lived through something like this, the betrayal of it, violence in a place he’d thought was safe. Maybe it was a way of reliving those moments, of repairing his failure because he had not reacted as quickly as he should have, then.

He could see—he could feel—that Laurent knew it. He could feel too how badly Laurent wanted it, wanted to see him taken, wanted to trump both Damen and his uncle. He bitterly regretted the impulse that had led him to save Laurent’s life. “You’re misinformed,” said Laurent. He sounded like he was tasting something unpleasant. “There has been no attack against me. These three men attacked the slave, claiming some sort of barbarian dispute.” Damen blinked. “They attacked—the slave?” said the soldier, who was apparently having almost as much difficulty digesting this information as Damen. “Release him, soldier,” Laurent said.

“Not wounded. Poisoned,” said Damen. “You can restrain your delight. I am not going to die from it,” said Laurent.

This place sickened him. Anywhere else, you simply killed your enemy with a sword. Or poisoned him, if you had the honourless instincts of an assassin. Here, it was layer upon layer of constructed double-dealing, dark, polished and unpleasant. He would have assumed tonight the product of Laurent’s own mind, if Laurent were not so clearly the victim. What was really going on?

Laurent was hardly abandoned. He was not speaking with his usual ease, and his breathing was shallow, but these were the only signs. Damen realised, suddenly, that what he was witnessing was an exercise in sheer iron-willed self-control.