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“Pretty sweet orders for a bed slave.” The taller one’s mind stuck on the subject as the other grunted noncommittally in reply. “Think what that’d be like, getting a leg over the Prince.” I imagine it would be a lot like lying down with a poisonous snake, thought Damen, but he kept the thought to himself.
Damen saw nothing that did not confirm his earlier opinion: spoilt, like fruit too long on the vine. Laurent’s slightly lidded eyes, the slackness around his mouth, spoke of a night wasted in a dissolute courtier’s overindulgence in wine.
The only reason Damen had that language was because his father had insisted that, for a prince, learning the words of an enemy was as important as learning the words of a friend.
If you believed the Prince’s Guard, Laurent was the impregnable citadel and took no lovers at all. Right now Laurent gave the impression of a mind somewhat engaged, and a body wholly aloof, untouched by ardour. The ribald fancy of the Prince’s Guard held a kernel of plausibility. On the other hand, the aloof, untouched Laurent was at this moment delivering a precise treatise on cocksucking.
And what did it mean, to be a prince, if he did not strive to protect those weaker than himself?
He was not inclined to believe that cruelty delivered with one hand was redeemed by a caress from the other,
Laurent was a nest of scorpions in the body of one person. Torveld looked at him and saw a buttercup.
“A puppy,” said Torveld. To demonstrate, Laurent picked up a confection of crushed nuts and honey and held it out to Damen as he had at the ring, between thumb and forefinger. “Sweetmeat?” said Laurent. In the stretched-out moment that followed, Damen thought explicitly about killing him.
Considering Nicaise’s loyalties, it was strange that Laurent had seemed drawn to him—had seemed even oddly to like him—but who knew what went on in that maze of a mind?
“Yes, apparently I have fucked my enemy, conspired against my future interests, and colluded in my own murder. I can’t wait to see what feats I will perform next.”
The predawn light bleached Laurent’s hair from gold to something paler and finer; the bones of his face appeared as delicate as the calamus of a feather.
If it was the only way to prevent war, or postpone it, then Damen would do whatever was necessary to keep Laurent safe. He had meant that.
