The young boy was not the man’s son. He was a pet, not yet adolescent, with thin limbs and his growth spurt still far in
his future. It was obvious that he was petrified of Damen. The little barrel of his chest was rising and falling rapidly. He was, at the oldest, fourteen. He looked more like twelve.
Damen saw his chances of returning to Akielos gutter and die like candle flame, and all the doors to freedom close. Obey. Play by the rules. Kiss the Prince’s shoe. Jump through his hoops. He had really thought he would be able to do that.
He gathered the last of his strength to himself and said: ‘Do whatever you want to me. I’m not going to rape a child.’
Laurent’s expression flickered.
Objection came from an unexpected quarter. ‘I’m not a child.’ Sulkily. But when Damen looked incredulously at him, the boy promptly went white and looked terrified.
Laurent was looking from Damen to the boy and back again. Frowning as if something didn’t make sense. Or wasn’t going his way.
‘Why not?’ he said, abruptly.
‘Why not?’ said Damen. ‘I don’t share your craven habit of hitting only those who cannot hit back, and take no pleasure in hurting those weaker than myself.’ Driven past reason, the words came out in his own language.
Laurent, who could speak his language, stared back at him, and Damen met his eyes and did not regret his words, feeling nothing but loathing.
‘Your Highness?’ said Audin, confused.
Laurent turned to him eventually. ‘The slave is saying that if you want the pet unconscious, split in half, or dead of fright, then you will need to make other arrangements. He declines his services.’
He pushed up out of the box seat and Damen was almost driven backwards as Laurent strode past, ignoring his slave. Damen heard him say to one of the servants: ‘Have my horse brought to the north courtyard. I’m going for a ride.’
And then it was over—finally, and unexpectedly—it was somehow over. Audin frowned and departed. His pet trotted after him, after an indecipherable look at Damen.
As for Damen, he had no idea what had just happened. In the absence of other orders, his escort had him dressed and prepared to return to the harem. Looking around himself, he saw that the ring was now empty, though he hadn’t noticed whether the mercenary had been carried out, or had risen and walked out of his own accord. Across the ring was a thin trail of blood. A servant was on his knees mopping at it. Damen was being manoeuvred past a blur of faces. One of them was Lady Vannes who, unexpectedly, addressed him.
‘You look surprised . . . were you hoping to enjoy that boy after all? You had better get used to it. The Prince has a reputation for leaving pets unsatisfied.’ Her laughter, a low glissando, joined the sounds of voices and entertainment, as across the amphitheatre the courtiers returned, with almost no ripple of interruption, to their afternoon pastime.
CHAPTER 3
BEFORE THE BLINDFOLD was fixed in place, Damen saw that the men returning him to his room were the same two men who, yesterday, had administered the beating. He didn’t know the taller one’s name, but he knew from overheard exchanges that the shorter was called Jord. Two men. It was the smallest escort of his imprisonment, but blindfolded and securely bound, not to mention worn out, he had no way to take advantage of it. The restraints were not taken off until he was once again back in his room, chained by the neck.
The men didn’t leave. Jord stood by while the taller man closed the door with himself and Jord on the inside. Damen’s first thought was that they had been told to deliver a repeat performance, but then he saw that they were lingering of their own accord, not under orders. That might be worse. He waited.
‘So you like a fight,’ said the taller man. Hearing the tone, Damen prepared himself for the fact that he might be facing another one. ‘How many men did it take to collar you in Akielos?’
‘More than two,’ said Damen.
It did not go down well. Not with the taller man, at any rate. Jord took his arm, holding him back.
‘Leave it,’ said Jord. ‘We’re not even supposed to be in here.’
Jord, although shorter, was also broader across the shoulders. There was a brief moment of resistance, before the taller man left the room. Jord remained, his own speculative attention now on Damen.
‘Thank you,’ said Damen, neutrally.
Jord looked back at him, obviously weighing up whether or not to speak. ‘I’m no friend of Govart,’ he said finally. Damen thought at first that ‘Govart’ was the other guard, but he learned otherwise when Jord said, ‘You must have a death wish to knock out the Regent’s favourite thug.’
‘. . . the Regent’s what?’ said Damen, feeling his stomach sink.
‘Govart. He was thrown out of the King’s Guard for being a real son of a bitch. The Regent keeps him around. No idea how the Prince got him in the ring, but that one would do anything to piss off his uncle.’ And then, seeing Damen’s expression: ‘What, you didn’t know who he was?’
No. He hadn’t known. Damen’s understanding of Laurent rearranged itself, in order that he might despise him more accurately. Apparently—in case a miracle happened and his drugged slave managed to win the ring fight—Laurent had arranged for himself a consolation prize. Damen had unwittingly earned himself a new enemy. Govart. Not only that, but beating Govart in the ring could be taken as a direct slight by the Regent. Laurent, selecting Damen’s opponent with precise malice, would, of course, have known that.
This was Vere, Damen reminded himself. Laurent might talk like he’d been raised on the floor of a brothel, but he had a Veretian courtier’s mind, used to deception and double dealing. And his petty plots were dangerous to someone as much in his power as Damen.