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He fumbled himself back into his trousers. When he settled back on the opposite bench, he no longer gripped the seat as though his life depended on it, appearing thoroughly sated and relaxed.
“How was it?” I asked, and as his grin broke out, I added, “Fucking Razak’s mouth?”
His face fell. “That wasn’t— I wasn’t thinking that.”
“No?” He must have, for a moment. Razak on his knees, his cock down his throat? Had he liked it?
“Lark—” he began, desperate to explain.
I leaned forward. “You had better start thinking it, because your life depends on believing I’m my brother.”
Arin stilled, ground his jaw, making his cheek twitch, and cast his gaze out of the filthy carriage window. “I know.”
Did he? He had better remember this moment, and how he’d just fucked Razak’s mouth, because he’d need it, where we were going. Pain could make the strongest man as weak as a kitten. It wasn’t about muscle, or reputation, or righteousness. Pain was fought inside the head.
He’d need to cling to the memory of taking Razak on his knees, cling to the power it gave him over my brother. And I’d cling to my Prince of Honey and Sunshine, and hope the storms didn’t devour him.
CHAPTER14
Arin
Rain washedsand from the carriage windows. The sky had turned black and War’s sand dunes had given way to rows of brick buildings. Houses for the city workers, I presumed. Each one was sparse and basic, no color, no personalization, just brick after brick, each built on top of the next.
The darker the skies fell, the quieter Lark became. He stared out of the window too, and the darkness paled his face. He was coming home, but this was no jubilant return. I could only imagine what thoughts went through his head.
This would test us, but I had faith. He steadied me, and I anchored him.
The carriages clattered, shunted, and rattled to a screeching halt, and a shrill whistle rang out.
We’d arrived.
I slipped the pair of cuffs from my pocket—purchased from a Palmyra trader—and handed them out to Lark. He ratcheted them around my wrists, then took a pair of fine purple silk gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. Two stiffened additions hid his missing digits.
Now, I was his, and he was Razak.
This was it. The beginning of the lie. Perhaps the greatest lie we’d ever have to tell. Our last lie.
Lark opened our carriage door and stepped down onto the station platform. I wiped clammy hands on my jacket and followed. A few passengers glanced our way. We’d drawn attention when we’d departed, due to our strange clothing, but it was different here. Here, our clothes marked us as nobles. But my white and gold marked me as the prince of a fallen court, and I stood among them, like day is to night.
“I’ll see if we can hail a carriage outside the station before we draw too much attention,” Lark said, striding forward into the main thoroughfare where hundreds of people gathered.
I nodded, following along, thoughts reeling at the strange world around me. Everyone wore black. The walls were grey, the floor too. There wasn’t a flash of color anywhere. Lark pulled on my bound wrists, hastening me through the people as they went about their day, their faces blank and their eyes cold.
More and more people observed our passing. Any moment, someone would call out, they’d stop us, and know we were imposters.
We hurried out of the station, onto a sidewalk. Carriages lined up, waiting for their fares. Black horses stomped heavy hooves on wet cobbles. Rain lashed both beast and man, but nobody appeared concerned. They all marched on, weaving around each other, as quietly and orderly as ants, with no minds of their own.
“You!” Lark declared, striding toward the largest of the coaches led by four horses. “To the towers, and hurry!”
“Sir?” Rain poured over the driver and ran in streams from his wide-brimmed hat.
“Don’t you know your prince when you see him?” Lark snapped. “Hurry now, I’m without my own transport and have matters to attend.” He grabbed me, hauled me against his side, then shoved me toward the carriage. “Climb in.”
I stumbled, missing the driver’s response behind the noise of water hammering on the carriage roof, but he must have been convinced. No shout came when I climbed in through the door. Lark closed the door behind us, the crack of a whip sounded through the noise, and the carriage jolted on.
“Do you think he believes us?”
“I think he knows it’s not worth losing a finger over if he’s wrong.”
