Page 30 of The Traitor's Curse
I couldn’t stop, even though I hated myself for my own weakness. The tightness in my chest simply wouldn’t ease, and I’d shake into pieces…
Benedict sighed, took an arm from around me, and slipped his hand into the front of my dressing gown, spreading his fingers over my breastbone. For a moment I thought he meant to start seducing me. My fresh grief was all the more horrible for being so unexpected. One moment of simple comfort, even if it was only his pity. Was that really so much to ask? But to have him want to use me at a moment like this…
And then I gasped, startled out of my misery as a cool, tingling sensation spread out from his hand and into my chest, crawling over my skin like friendly ants, the overheated discomfort of being past the point of enjoyable drunkenness evaporating in their wake.
The magic reached my head and trickled through my mind like fresh water in the summer, an instant, stunning relief. The confusion and fuzziness rinsed away, leaving me clear, calm, centered.
Sober.
And not hung over, either. Simply refreshed.
Benedict took his hand away, but he didn’t wrap his arm around me again, instead rolling onto his back. My head lay in the crook of his shoulder. He didn’t shake me off, but I could feel the rigidity in the arm still underneath me.
All right. I’d embarrassed him with my display. I’d embarrassed myself, for that matter. Clearly he’d seen no option but to sober me up, and quickly, so that I stopped whining about how neither of my parents gave a bloody fuck about me.
I ought to move. Say something to change the subject, or better yet, say nothing at all. Go into my bathroom and ready myself for bed. But his alcohol-draining magic trick—and that explained quite a bit about his endless ability to handle his liquor, if he could perform the same magic on himself as easily as he had on me—hadn’t rid me of the lassitude that came after an unpleasant surge of emotion.
Instead of rising, I tipped my head enough to get a look at Benedict’s profile. He stared up at the ceiling, lips compressed, not giving much away.
Maybe I didn’t want to move, but I could change the subject, at least.
“How much will you pay me not to tell everyone who thinks you have godlike powers of drinking that you can clearyour head whenever you want, and cheat?”
Some of the tension drained out of him, his arm relaxing under me. Apparently he wanted to discuss my weeping into his shirt as little as I did.
“Pay you? You have the ducal treasury at your command. You don’t need it.”
“You spend enough time with Clothurn to know the treasury’s not precisely overflowing,” I said, and immediately regretted it. I’d meant to sound scathing, or possibly just conversational. Instead, I’d sounded…jealous. Dammit.
Benedict turned his head, meeting my eyes steadily. “Not anymore. And it’s not as if we spent much time talking about council business.” His lips quirked. “Although I’m getting the impression you’d prefer it if we had, hmm?”
Oh, how dare he! “Hardly,” I snapped, and sat up abruptly enough that my vision went sparkly for a second.
“Oh, very hardly,” he said, a thread of malicious amusement in his tone. Bastard. “Extremely hard. Over and over again.”
“If you think I’m interested in hearing about—” I had to cut myself off, my previous fevered imaginings of Benedict and Clothurn in bed popping into my mind. If I finished that sentence, I’d choke on it. “I’m not,” I finished lamely.
He gave another thoughtful hum. “All right. Maybe you’d be more interested in hearing about what I’m going to do toyou.”
My cock instantly stiffened, pressing against the small bit of dressing gown that still covered it. And wouldn’t cover it for long, if this kept up.
No, absolutely not. With the wine sent on its merry way, I had no excuse at all for further…indulgence.
“It’s getting late, and I’d prefer to sleep without nightmares, thank you, so no thank you.” I grasped the edgesof the dressing gown and pushed to my feet—almost, because Benedict struck as fast as a snake, tossing me flat on my back again firmly enough to make the bed bounce, looming over me and caging me in with his hands on either side of my shoulders, with my legs hanging off the side of the bed again.
My dressing gown finally gave up the fight and fell open, exposing my heaving chest and my flushed skin—and my fully-hard cock.
Benedict smiled slowly, surveying me up and down, finally pinning me with his gaze. I’d never seen his eyes so bright; they almost seemed to glow with his magic—or with something else that I couldn’t name but that made my breath catch.
“I believe I owe you,” he said at last. “I like to pay my debts in a timely manner.”
“Owe me?” Gods, what could he possibly think he owed me? This had to be the lead-in to some scheme or trick, something that would put me in another terrible position—like on my throne with his cock in my mouth, or bent over whimpering as he turned me inside out. “You don’t owe me anything. Nothing. I absolve you of any debt, Benedict.”
He threw back his head and laughed, a full-body guffaw that would’ve been considered egregiously vulgar by anyone at court, including me…except that it made me want to crawl inside his chest and feel the vibrations of it.
“I get the feeling you don’t trust me,” he said, still grinning down at me with his eyes bright and his wavy hair all tumbled about his shoulders, appearing about as trustworthy as a big, predatory cat crouched over a sparrow. “I’m wounded, Lucian. Really. To the heart.”
“As if you have one. All of those languishing former lovers can attest to its absence, I expect.”
