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“There’s nothing wild about it. This is a piece of intentional provocation, aimed at me, and at Akielos. Laurent would like nothing better than for our treaty with Kastor to founder. He mouths platitudes in public, and in private—this.”
“You look like a whore.” The soft words barely stirred the air by Damen’s ear, inaudible to anyone else. Laurent murmured: “Filthy painted slut. Did you spread for my uncle the way you did for Kastor?”
“I don’t think I need to bring in more men,” said Laurent. “I think all I have to do is tell you to kneel, and you’ll do it. Without me lifting a finger to help anyone.” “You’re right,” said Damen.
He realised that at some point he had begun to think of being alone in a room with Laurent as dangerous.
Laurent was a nest of scorpions in the body of one person. Torveld looked at him and saw a buttercup.
In Laurent, there was only a patrician coolness, and if the purity of Laurent’s profile drew the eye, Damen had the scars on his back to prove that one could look, but not touch.
“Laurent. Why must you always defy me? I hate it when we are at odds, yet you force me to chastise you. You seem determined to wreck everything in your path. Blessed with gifts, you squander them. Given opportunities, you waste them. I hate to see you grown up like this,” said the Regent, “when you were such a lovely boy.”
A golden prince was easy to love if you did not have to watch him picking wings off flies.
