Knees buckling, Kazia leans his good arm against the door. A sob catches in his throat; he covers his mouth to block its escape.
Footsteps approach, quiet on the rugs. On the other side of the door, mere inches away, Lucien says, “Kazia, should I call for someone?”
Lucien shouldn’t be calling him that. He should address Kazia asYour Highness, and Kazia should be furious at the disrespect. Not desperately tempted by the concern.
It’s fake. A trap. Just like everything else.
“Can I come in?” Lucien asks, so close he could be breathing in Kazia’s ear.
Kazia drags himself away. “Don’t call for anyone. Don’t open the fucking door.”
He should put Lucien back in his cell, but he doesn’t have the energy to talk to the guards. Now that he’s alone, he can’t control his expression anymore. He’ll tend his wounds, then lock Lucien up for the night. Or for the week—serve the man right for prying into Kazia’s business.
Kazia doesn’t need help. This hardly even hurts. His self-pity is pathetic. Father has hurt him far worse than tonight. Kazia should be able to handle this.
Only, the pain is usually over by now.
A dark wooden vanity dominates the wall across from the door. Kazia moves stiffly towards it, avoiding his own gaze in the mirror. The glimpse of dead eyes and pallid skin is bad enough.
Dragging his shirt off is more painful than putting it on. Lifting his arms is awful. He drops the shirt on the padded chair, then twists in front of the mirror, trying to see despite the uncomfortable angle. Pink welts criss-cross his back. A dozen at least. It doesn’t look as bad as it feels. Aliza healed the harder strikes.
Kazia leans against the chair. His knuckles whiten on the edge, and breathing deep doesn’t calm him down. Not when it only stretches his stinging skin.
The ointments are in the top drawer of the vanity cabinet. His jar of hallabark salve is half-empty, but there’s enough left. Clutching it, Kazia leans on the back of the chair again.
The hallabark will help, but Kazia just wants to sleep. Forget screaming and sobbing. He’s nothing more than a half-empty jar himself, and he doesn’t want to be awake anymore. Fuck, how much will the hallabark help? Kazia won’t be able to reach all the—
The door creaks, and Kazia whirls. Lucien stands just outside the door.
All Kazia’s pain blurs out with pure panic, and he scrambles for his shirt. The jar of hallabark thunks to the rug and rolls away. Lucien can’t see him. Nobody can know. If anyone sees Kazia hurt, they’ll ask why.
If they learn the truth, they’ll hurt him too.
“What the fuck is that?” Lucien asks, quiet and dangerous. He doesn’t move, a flame poised at the threshold.
Of course, because Kazia ordered him to stay in the parlor. Except that’s not the only order Kazia gave tonight.
He clutches his shirt, too afraid of taking his eyes off Lucien to put it on. “I told you not to open the door.”
“Did you? I guess the orders don’t work if I can’t hear you fucking mumbling them.” Lucien’s gaze flicks up behind Kazia. “Now that I can hear you properly, you can order me to close the door again. But you can’t order me to forget what I’ve already seen. So, you may as well let me help with that ointment.”
“I don’t need help,” Kazia says.
Lucien only looks behind him again. The mirror. Kazia’s back is turned, but Lucien can still see the injuries in the mirror.
“Everyone needs help, you fucking brat,” Lucien says.
The insult is so soft, so fond, it slips past Kazia’s defenses. And his back hurts, and he’s fucking tired, and he can’t reach all the welts anyway.
“Okay,” Kazia whispers. “You can come in.”
He prays this moment of weakness isn’t a mistake.
?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lucien
