‘You’re not celebrating,’ said Damen.
He leaned his back against the tree beside Laurent, and let his limbs feel heavy. The sounds of merriment and success drifted over to them, the men drunk on the euphoria of victory, sleeplessness and bad wine. It would be dawn soon. Again.
‘I’m not used to my uncle miscalculating,’ said Laurent, after a pause.
‘It’s because he’s working at a distance,’ said Damen.
‘It’s because of you,’ said Laurent.
‘What?’
‘He doesn’t know how to predict you,’ said Laurent. ‘After what I did to you in Arles, he thought you’d be—another Govart. Another one of his men. Another one of those men today. Ready to mutiny at a moment’s notice. That was what was supposed to have happened tonight.’
Laurent’s gaze passed calmly, critically over the troop, before it came to rest on Damen.
‘Instead, you have saved my life, more than once. You have made fighters of these men, trained them, honed them. Tonight you handed me my first victory. My uncle never dreamed you’d be this kind of asset to me. If he had, he would never have allowed you to ride out of the palace.’
He could see in Laurent’s eyes, hear in his words, a question that he did not want to answer.
He said, ‘I should go and help with repairs.’
He pushed away from the tree. He felt an odd dizziness, a sense of displacement, and to his surprise he was prevented from moving off by Laurent’s hand clasping his arm. He looked down at it. He thought for a strange moment that it was the first time Laurent had ever touched him, though of course it wasn’t; the grip was more intimate than the flutter of Laurent’s lips against his fingertips, the sting of Laurent striking his face, or the press of Laurent’s body in a confined space.
‘Leave the repairs,’ said Laurent. His voice was soft. ‘Get some sleep.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Damen.
‘It’s an order,’ said Laurent.
He was fine, but he had no choice but to do as he was told; and when he tumbled onto his slave pallet and closed his eyes for the first time in two long days and nights, sleep was there, heavy and immediate, drawing him down past the strange new feeling in his chest into oblivion.
CHAPTER 9
‘So,’ Damen heard Lazar say to Jord, ‘what’s it like having an aristocrat suck your dick?’
It was the evening after the rockfall at Nesson, and they were a day’s ride further south. They had set out early, after assessing damage and repairing wagons. Now Damen sat with several of the men, sprawled by one of the campfires, enjoying a moment’s rest. Aimeric, whose arrival had prompted Lazar’s question, had come to sit beside Jord. He returned Lazar a level look.
‘Fantastic,’ Aimeric said.
Good for you, thought Damen. Jord’s mouth quirked up a fraction, but he lifted his cup and drank without saying anything.
‘What’s it like having a prince suck your dick?’ said Aimeric, and Damen found that everyone’s attention was on him.
‘I’m not fucking him,’ he said, with deliberate crudity. It was perhaps the hundredth time he had said it since joining Laurent’s troop. The words were firm, intended to shut down the conversation. But of course they didn’t.
‘That,’ said Lazar, ‘is one mouth I’d love to ream out. A day of him ordering you around, you’d get to shut him up at the end of it.’
Jord gave a snort. ‘He’d take one look at you, and you’d piss your pants.’
Rochert agreed. ‘Yeah. I couldn’t get it up. You see a panther opening its jaws, you don’t get your dick out.’
That was the consensus, with a breakaway dispute: ‘If he’s frigid and doesn’t fuck, there’d not be any fun in it. A cold-blooded virgin makes for the worst ride.’
‘Then you’ve never had one. The ones that are cold on the outside are the hottest once you get in.’
‘You’ve served with him the longest,’ said Aimeric to Jord. ‘Has he really never taken a lover? He must have had suitors. Surely one of them talked.’
‘You want court gossip?’ said Jord, sounding amused.