A Million Different Ways (Horn Duet 1)

* * *

“I need a shower,” he said, when he woke from a nap.

Day three. His face still looked drawn, with dark circles painted under his eyes. At least the tremors and hot flashes had subsided. He was weak, standing under a hot shower wasn’t a good idea. I fluffed his pillows and placed them behind his back so he could sit up in bed more comfortably.

“I’m running the water for your bath right now. But I want you to have some broth first.”

“I can’t.” He made a feeble attempt to turn his head away as I drew closer with the cup of steaming liquid.

“Sebastian, please, you need nutrients. You’ve already lost weight, and you’re probably dehydrated… just a cup.” I brought the cup to his lips and he sipped it slowly, watching me the whole time. His expression was a mixture of fascination and caution, as if he were expecting me to peel back my skin and reveal something alien.

When he was done, he closed his eyes and his head fell back against the padded headboard. Utterly beautiful in the midst of his struggle. So vulnerable, and yet so brave. I knew how difficult it was for him to appear defenseless in front of anyone, and the fact that he wanted me here made me love him even more.

“You’re right. I feel better.” He cracked one eye open, then the other. “You never talk about yourself.”

“There’s not much to talk about. I’m not the handsome, rich bachelor traveling the globe and dating supermodels.” My childish attempt to distract him didn’t work. His eyes filled with sympathy instead of disapproval.

“How did you get to Milan?” The silence was heavy. He waited patiently for me to respond. How could I deny him? He had placed himself in my care, trusting me so completely that I felt compelled to take at least a tiny step forward.

“A friend of mine from university––his father ran a ferry from Durres to Otranto, near Bari, Italy. I packed as much as I could carry and met him at the docks at midnight…it was so cold that night.” Lost in thought, the edge of my vision bled, a rush of memories hitting me all at once. “There were seventeen of us on board. The water was choppy and the boat was old. I was scared––you know I’m a terrible swimmer––but there was a little boy, maybe six, traveling with his father. So I pretended the swaying of the boat was fun.” I turned to look at him and found his soft eyes unblinking. He squeezed my hand––the hand I hadn’t even realized he’d been holding the entire time. “The boat crashed on the rocks in Otranto. I can still smell the gasoline in the water…my teeth chattered so loudly. The boy and his father made it. Although the Italians caught two others that were with us. We were lucky. I heard another ferry sank a week later.” The conversation left me feeling raw and exposed. I shrugged trying to mask my discomfort. “The rest was easy. I took the train when I could and walked the rest of the way.”

“You walked from Bari? All the way to northern Italy?” The bewilderment on his face made me smile. It didn’t sound extraordinary to me at all. Somewhere deep inside of me an impenetrable core existed, a force of will that would never allow me to surrender, to be swallowed up by despair. I had always been aware of it.

“It sounds crazy now but it was easy at the time…I guess we don’t know what we’re capable of until tested.” I bent forward and caressed his jaw, ran a finger down the gentle slope of his nose, kissed the tiny scar on his top lip. His lips parted and a soft sigh slipped out. “Your bath awaits you, your Highness.”

His eyes were filled with an indescribable emotion. I stared back as something big passed between us, something meaningful. I love you, I thought. And this time, I didn’t look away.

* * *

Once he was in the tub, I placed a rolled towel at one end so he could rest his head back. He hadn’t shaved in four days and his dark golden scruff had fully grown in. If this was a Victorian melodrama, I’d say he looked like a disreputable rake––and I must admit, outrageously sexy for a man who’d recently been to hell and back.

“Would you like me to shave you?”

His lashes lifted lazily. “Depends where,” he answered with a slow grin.

“You must be feeling better. I see your wicked sense of humor is back. I vote for leaving the scruff…I like it.”

His eyebrows lifted a fraction, mischief lurking in his expressive eyes. “If you like it, then it stays.”

After soaking the sponge with bath gel, I sat on the edge of the tub and began washing him. His head fell back in surrender. The fatigue stamped on his face softened, a content expression growing on his face as I lathered his arms, his shoulders, and in between each finger before moving on to his chest and corrugated abdomen. I tipped him forward and washed his back, the nape of his neck, down his legs and toes. When I skimmed the sponge between his thighs and over his sex, I heard him moan. I almost couldn’t believe my eyes when his penis stood erect underwater; evidence of the man’s considerable virility.