Page 21 of The Gambler's Prize
“Yep. Just stretch your back all the way out like this.” I place my hands on the ground and stick my ass up as high as it can go. “You see cats do this all the time.”
“How did I know you’d admire the lifestyle of cats?” he says, rolling his eyes.
“Of course. They’re aloof, badass, they do what they please, they sleep half the day, and everyone always wants to snuggle with them. And most important, they always land on their feet. What’s not to aspire to?”
He shakes his head, at a loss for words.
“Come on, give the stretches a try. It’s good for keeping you limber.” I look up at him. “Especially at your age.”
He scowls down at me, his arms folded. “Florian, do you know something?”
“No.”
“Sometimes I really want to give you a smack around the ear.”
I laugh out loud. “Well, I knowthat. But you never would.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“You’re much too honorable.”
That throws him. He opens his mouth to answer and decides against it. His hand goes up to scratch under his hood. Something flickers behind his eyes. I don’t know why that got to him so much. It’s obvious I’m right. No matter how much I annoy him, he’s never laid a hand on me. After a moment of awkward silence, he drops to the ground beside me.
“Show me these exercises,” he says, “before my decrepit frame crumbles to dust before your youthful eyes.”
“That’s the spirit. It’s never too late to get in shape.”
He lifts his huge heavyweight boxer’s hand and bats me on the side of the head, so lightly. I don’t flinch.
“You were serious,” he says, confusion in his eyes. “You trust me.”
Chapter 9
Grimes
Once, little Lord Florian asked me to teach him boxing. The idea of pushing him around the ring, showing him just how helpless he can be, is appealing. I had to say no. If he squared up to me with those pretty blue eyes all fierce and proud, actually thinking he could land a punch on me, I mightn’t be able to resist hitting him right in that aristocratic face. Which would kill him. I’d be down one servant. Not part of the plan.So we stick to digging the foundations. He’s still working in those skintight little breeches that cling to every muscle of his ass and legs. At least I know he isn’t concealing a knife to pull on me. Those clothes leave nothing to the imagination. Ignoring the inappropriate attire, he’s a better worker than I expected. He can’t work as fast or as hard as me but he’s eager to please, pushing himself until his long hair is slick with sweat. He’s trying to prove himself, for some unknown reason. I didn’t expect a spoiled aristocrat to care about my opinion of him. After a few weeks together, I have to admit that my prisoner isn’t a bad house guest, all things considered. His cooking is out of this world. Though I could do without the smugness that comes with it.
He tried to seduce me, once, under the pretense of playing valet, but I put a stop to that nonsense fast. I know it was only a tactic, an attempt to disarm, a blatant plea for softer treatment. I won’t fall for it. His body and his pretty face might be tempting, but they’re not irresistible. He may never have learned that lesson before in his charmed life, but I intend to teach him.
He’s a lot more comfortable with me now, having lost most of his fear. I’m still curt with him but he doesn’t give me any excuse to be actively threatening, following all my orders without argument. Some part of me is vaguely disappointed he isn’t more of a brat, but never mind. This is about taking what I’m owed from him. Two years’ labor, two years of his life. That’s fair. More than fair. He isn’t locked up in a stinking cell at night. He eats with me at the kitchen table; his meals aren’t half-rotten before he gets them, shoved through a tiny window in a locked door like mine were for two years. He doesn’t know how lucky he is.
The most annoying thing about him is that he tries to be my friend. He tells me stories about his ridiculously louche life back at home in Rhennes, his fancy friends and their lavish parties.Not in a boastful way, more with an unworldly naivete, as though it doesn’t occur to him that I may not have run in quite the same circles. Through all of our conversations, I haven’t heard a malicious or cruel word spill from his lips. He seems happy with everything and everyone. Sometimes it’s hard to believe this innocent, disarming boy could’ve ruined my life.
The second most annoying thing about him? His constant pestering about visiting Galbrava. He claims to be lonely out here in the desert with only the noise of the wind and silent cacti for company. Since I made clear we wouldn’t be fooling around or sharing a bed, he’s turned his attention to getting company from other quarters. He isn’t above begging me, with his big eyes fixed on mine, for trips into town. I should say no:Inever had the chance to leave prison for trips into town. But listening to his pleas gets boring. So I agree to escort him to Galbrava for shopping, and to let him visit his friends, who are just as foolish as him. Still, it’s not enough for him. He wants to hook up and sleep over. He swears he’ll be back for work, that he won’t run away. No chance. I don’t trust him. I won’t risk losing him to someone who takes pity on his plight and helps him to escape. He’s mine, fair and square and legal. Once he’s paid me what he owes, he can sleep with half the city for all I care.
At some point, he started insisting on handling all the cooking. My taste buds overrode my pride, and I didn’t argue. To keep things fair, I handle the cleaning. But apparently I don’t keep house to his standards, because he keeps sweeping and dusting even though I told him it was my job.
“I don’t know why you bother. More dust is just going to seep in later,” I say one day. I’m watching in bemusement as he attacks the worn floorboards with a broom and a look of fierce determination on his plump lips.
“That’s no reason to just give up, Boss,” he says reproachfully.
I lapse into silence. Typical. His baseless optimism extends even to thankless household chores.
He packs away the broom and grabs a feather duster from the closet. But the house is spotless now: even good enough to reach his fastidious standards. Yet he takes the feather duster and starts flicking at imaginary dust with little flounces and sashays of his hips. He keeps glancing over at me, his lips curling into a smile. The smile suddenly makes me uncomfortable.
“What?” I demand.
“Maybe you could buy me a little maid’s uniform, and I could wear that while I work,” he says. He tilts his head to one side. “Would you like that, Boss?”
