The Summer Palace (Captive Prince #3.5)(2)
The weeks of bed rest had been a nuisance: the first hazy days that Damen couldn’t recall well, followed by the nuisance of physicians. A nuisance to lie around. A nuisance to limp. A nuisance to eat the broth.
He remembered only impressions from the baths: Nikandros arriving, alone, white-faced. Laurent up to the elbows in Damen’s blood. Kastor dead. Damen on the ground. Laurent adopting the tone of emotion-stripped authority that he would maintain throughout those first days: Fetch a pallet to carry him on, and a physician. Now.
Nikandros: I’m not leaving you alone with him.
Then he’ll bleed to death.
The blood loss, at that point, was possibly quite severe, because Damen recalled little beyond the pallet arriving, and his own blurry surprise at finding himself in his father’s rooms. The King’s rooms, with their outflung balcony and pillared view of the sea. My father died here. He didn’t say it.
He remembered Laurent, giving orders in that even voice wiped clean of emotion—secure the city, prepare for regional resistance, send news north to their forces in Karthas. In the same voice, Laurent directed the physicians. In the same voice, Laurent called Nikandros in to kneel and rise Kyros of Ios. In the same voice, Laurent ordered Kastor’s body held under guard, for viewing. Laurent had a mind that took in problems, faced them, quantified them and then, steadily, solved them: keep Damianos alive; cement Damianos’s rule; don’t appear to be ruling in his stead.
When Damen had woken next, it had been deep night, and his room had been empty of the people who had thronged it. He had turned his head to see Laurent lying beside him, fully clothed on top of the covers, still wearing that tattered, bloodstained chiton, in a sleep of utter exhaustion.
Now Damen held Laurent’s waist, liking how little stood between him and skin: just light cotton that moved with the movement of his hands. It was hard to think beyond the curve of Laurent’s shoulder, the long line of his thigh, visible. ‘You look Akielon,’ said Damen, his voice warm and pleased.
‘Take off your armour,’ said Laurent.
He said it with the wide ocean at his back. He stepped back, leaning slightly on the marble behind him that balconied the view, a barrier where the cliffs looked out. Overhead branches of myrtle shaded them from the sun, shifting light and shadow over Laurent’s body.
A diffuse excitement at the idea of having the view as their witness stirred in Damen. He felt a momentary connection to the Veretian monarchy’s tradition of public consummation, a possessive desire to see and be seen. It was transgressive and outside the bounds of his own nature, even as the gardens felt private enough that it might be possible.
He unbuckled his breastplate. He pulled off his sword-belt, a slow, purposeful gesture.
‘The rest can wait,’ he said. His voice was low.
Laurent put a hand against the undercloth pressed warm against Damen’s chest by his armour. Kissing felt much more intimate when sword and breastplate were discarded on the path and it was body against body. Laurent’s mouth opened to him, and he tongued inside in the way he liked. Laurent encouraged it, fingers curling around his neck.
Dressed like that, it was like having him naked; there was so much skin, and nothing to unlace. Damen pressed Laurent back against the marble. The bare skin of Laurent’s inner thigh slid along the inside of his own, the movement lifting his leather skirt slightly.
It could have happened then, pushing up Laurent’s skirt, turning him and thrusting into his body. Instead, Damen thought, with indulgent slowness, about taking his time, about the pink nipple that was close to the asymmetrical line of Laurent’s chiton. The restraint was part of it, the competing desires of wanting everything all at once, and wanting to savour each increment.
When he pulled back his skin felt flushed, his whole body much more hotly engaged than he realised. He managed to pull back further, to see Laurent’s face, his lips parted, his cheeks heated, his hair slightly disordered by Damen’s fingers.
‘You’re here early.’ As if only now noticing this.
‘Yes.’ Laughing.
‘I planned to greet you on the steps. Veretian protocol.’
‘Come out and kiss me in front of everyone later.’
‘How far behind did you leave them?’
‘I don’t know,’ Damen said it, his smile widening. ‘Come on. Let me show you the palace.’
Lentos was a sea crag, where the mountains were wild and the ocean was visible from the eastern side, between headlands of tumbled rocks. Water crashed into cliffs and stone and the tumble of land into the sea was jagged and inhospitable.
But the palace was beautiful, nestled in a series of gardens, with flower sprays and fountains, and meandering paths that offered startling views of the sea. Its marble colonnades were simple and led inside to atriums and further gardens, and cooler spaces where the heat of summer was distant, like the outdoor hum of cicadas.
Later he would show Laurent the stables and the library, and the path that wound through the gardens, through the trees of orange and almond. He wondered if he could coax Laurent into sea bathing or swimming. Had he done it before? There were marble steps down to the sea, and a beautiful spot for diving, where the water was calm, with no undertow. They could set up a silk awning in the Veretian style, cool shade for when the sun was at its height.
For now it was the simple pleasure of Laurent beside him, their hands linked, with only sunlight and fresh air about them. Here and there, they stopped, and everything was a delight: the leisure to kiss, to linger under the orange tree, the bits of bark that clung to Laurent’s chiton after he was pressed up against it. The gardens were full of small discoveries, from the shaded colonnades, to the cool waters of the fountain, to a series of balconied garden outlooks, where the sea stretched wide and blue.