Page 45 of Bride of the Midnight Prince

I push open the door. “I am here, Master. What can I—” The words die suddenly on my tongue.

Prince Rahk lays on his stomach on the bed, above the bedclothes. He is shirtless again.

I drag my gaze to the rafters and pin it there. “What can I do for you, my lord?”

“My back is sore from sitting all day. Massage away the aches. There is oil on my bedside table.”

My mind goes completely blank at the thought of doing what he asks. I can think of little that would be more inappropriate than this—except that I’m Nat. It wouldn’t be inappropriate for a servant boy to tend his master this way.

If he ever finds out I’m a woman, he will kill me.

“I am not skilled in massage,” I say in one desperate attempt for a reassignment. “I could get Edvear—”

“He is busy, and this is your job. Attend to it at once.”

You’re going to have to do it, Kat,I tell myself.And you’re going to be unflappable about it.

I leave the door open because it feels like I am doing something illicit if I close it. I march to his side, locate the oil, and slather it across my hands.Unflappable. Unflappable. Unflappable.I regard the broad expanse of his pale, muscular back.Be unflappable, Kat!

The first thing that surprises me is how warm his skin is beneath my touch. The second is that he immediately flinches.

I withdraw. “Are my hands too cold?”

“No,” he says quickly. Gruffly.

Hesitantly, I lay my hands flat on his back. My heart threatens to beat straight out of my chest, but I make my hands move, spreading the oil across his back until his skin gleams.

Unflappable.

The tension has not left his muscles, and I get the distinct sense he doesnotenjoy this. Strange, considering this was his idea.

I move his hair to one side, only to pause when a dark lined tattoo is revealed.

It’s a curling vine of ivy. I tilt my head to one side.

“What is your tattoo?” I ask.

The only visible side of his jaw tightens. His whole body feels like a coiled spring, tense and taut and ready to snap. I bite my lip and step backward. I shouldn’t have asked, should I?

A minute passes, but the prince offers no answer. I decide eventually that he isn’t about to leap up and strangle me for my insolence, so I creep back and continue my work.

I start at his shoulders, working the muscles at the base of his neck. His head lies on his folded arms, contracting his shoulders and making his arms seem even bigger than normal. My eyes dance around, trying to find anywhere safe to look where I can both see what I’m doing and still not seehim. I settle on staring at the back of his head.

“Rub harder,” he grunts. “Put your weight into it.”

I drag my lip between my teeth. He wants more force? I’ll give himforce. I’ll channel all my frustration and embarrassment into his back. I dig my knuckles into his flesh, driving my weight into his ribs.

“Yes, like that,” he says approvingly, instead of crying out in pain like I’d hoped.

And yet, he still seems to brace against me.

I set it as my goal to make him flinch in pain while I work. That helps me set aside my discomfort. I roll up my sleeves and sink my elbow into his shoulder blades, which earns me another nod of approval. My frustration only drives me to work harder.

I work my way down his spine and then back up again, focusing on my efforts to make him flinch. When I use my elbow just beneath his shoulder blade, I am finally rewarded. It’s almost more of a twitch, but to me, it counts. I smirk in satisfaction and then lean forward to similarly hurt his other shoulder blade.

My arms grow more tired by the moment. I’m going to pay for this dearly tomorrow in soreness. How long have I been doing this? Half an hour? Longer?

Abruptly, his eyes open. My hands go still.

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