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He grasped the balcony rail, tipped his head, and closed his eyes.
Like this, he was the rawest version of himself, the pure truth. Stripped of his fancy coats and silk gloves, his perfect hair and theatrical face paint… Here, now, he wasn’t trying to entertain, or distract me. He was just Lark—or Zayan, I supposed. This was the man I’d vowed to save, the man nobody saw, including me. “Zayan?”
His lashes fluttered open. “Not that name. Not from you. Only Lark.”
“All right.” I propped a hip against the balcony rail. “Lark, I see you.”
He smiled but his brow furrowed at the same time, muddying his expression. “Of course you do.”
“No, I seeyou.Therealyou—the man you try to hide.”
“I rather wish you didn’t. I’m nothing special beneath the lies.” He stared at the hazy sun.
He didn’t see how unique he was, how brilliant and infuriating. Maybe he couldn’t. Perhaps nobody had ever told him that he didn’t need to fight to be loved, that he already was.
“You’re staring. Again. If this is going to become a regular occurrence, people may talk.”
I laughed and pushed off the rail, stepping closer. “You love it when people talk. Just so long as they’re talking about you.” His messy hair stuck out at all angles, encrusted with sand. I flicked a few stiff locks from his shoulder and found his eyes widening. I wanted to say something about keeping him safe, even though I’d already told him I would. He hadn’t believed me then and probably wouldn’t now. But Iwouldprotect him. I wanted to tell him about my dream of the meadow and his music, but it seemed silly, and too much. He’d think me mad.
The corner of his lips twitched and a little of that real smile appeared, like a ray of sunshine through storm clouds. Fleeting, but so very bright and full of possibility.
“My Prince of Storms,” I said softly.
A slight blush colored his face. I’d never seen him blush before. I hadn’t known him capable. “My Prince of Flowers?” he whispered, his words lifting in query.
“If I’m interrupting, I can return with news later?” Draven strolled through the bedchamber.
I hadn’t heard him enter. Not that it should matter. Although, how much had he just heard? I stepped away from Lark and almost missed how Lark’s smile vanished again.
“But you’re going to want to hear this,” Draven added, folding his arms and arching an eyebrow, judging and questioning in one gesture.
As Lark turned, his whole personality changed, subtle but loud now I knew to look for it. His act was sliding into place. He folded his arms, the motion smoother than before, as though he was aware how every gesture meant something. Did he know how easily he slipped his mask back into place? I’d tried to be someone else for a few years, and it had been a challenge. He’d been someone else for much of his life, always entertaining, always acting, always lying.
It was a shame my court was gone. Had I saved it, I could have kept him safe there too.
“Arin?” Draven said, perhaps having repeated it several times.
I’d been staring again. “Yes?”
“I said, Justice has demanded War release Razak into their care. They’ve sent a prison wagon to collect him.”
“So soon?” I asked.
“No,” Lark said. He shoved from the balcony. “That can’t happen—”
Draven grabbed Lark’s arm, pulling him to a halt, his rough handling almost enough for me to step in. But Lark scowled at the grip and yanked his arm free, scolding all he needed with a glare.
Draven swallowed. “You cannot leave.”
“Am I a prisoner? Yours perhaps? What do you want to let me go? My mouth on your cock, Warlord?”
“Lark,” I began, anticipating this spiraling out of control.
But Draven raised his hands and backed off. “Easy, Lark. I’m not your enemy. If you leave, looking like you do, the guards will stop you. Razak isn’t going anywhere yet. Get cleaned up. You need it, you’re a mess. I’ll find you an outfit to help you blend in, and then I’ll take you and Arin to see Justice. We do this the proper way. Anything else will likely get you executed and Arin and I exiled.” He still had his hands raised and looked to me for help in handling the wild card in the room.
Lark might lash out, baiting Draven some more, or he might see the sense in Draven’s words. Speaking with Lark was sometimes like juggling those balls, and I hadn’t yet learned how to juggle very well.
“All right,” Lark conceded, propping a hand on his hip. “But must I wear red and black?”
