The Summer Palace (Captive Prince #3.5)(5)

‘Laurent—’ said Damen.

‘And then?’ said Laurent.

He was wet, from his chest to his toes, though the slight steam from the closest of the pools was a sheen that seemed to wet his lashes and the petals of the flower behind his ear. The heat from the baths infused the air.

‘They undress me.’

Laurent came forward. ‘Like this?’

They stood under one of the colonnades, in light shade, close to the open, sunny place where steps led down to the largest of the outdoor baths.

Damen nodded once. Laurent was very close. His fingers at Damen’s shoulder were unpinning the golden lion, unfastening the catch and sliding the pin out through the fabric. He was bare, but for the sandals. Damen was fully clothed. More often between them, it had been the reverse.

He remembered—the steam of those other baths, the moment he had caught Laurent’s wrist in his hand. This close, he could see the wet tops of Laurent’s shoulders. Above that, the tips of Laurent’s hair were wet too, from steam or from the splash from the pitcher.

He felt the release of weight as Laurent unwound the heavy fabric that had lain underneath his armour.

‘They’ve faded.’ Damen heard himself say it.

‘Have they?’

‘Your brother and my brother.’

Laurent said, ‘And me.’

He met Damen’s eyes. These were not the hot, oversteamed indoor baths in Ios, or the close, overpatterned baths of Vere, but the air felt heavy.

He remembered, and he saw that Laurent did too, the past thick between them.

‘I knelt for you,’ said Damen.

Kiss it. The remembered words when Laurent had forced Damen to his knees, and extended the toe of his boot. Kneel then. Kiss my boot. He thought, Laurent would never do that. Laurent had too much pride.

Deliberately, Laurent went to his knees.

All the breath left Damen. Laurent’s internal struggle was plain. The rise and fall of Laurent’s chest was shallow. His lips were parted, but he didn’t speak. His body was tense. He did not like to be on his knees.

Laurent had knelt for Damen once before, on the wooden floor of the inn at Mellos. Laurent had believed it was their last night together. It had been partly an offering; partly Laurent’s desire to prove something to himself.

The only other time Damen had seen Laurent kneel, it was for the Regent.

Words would have been easier. This opened a channel to the past between them, one that made Damen just as vulnerable. He had not faced this part of their history. He had barely acknowledged what Laurent had done to him, even as it had happened.

Damen extended his foot.

His heart was pounding. Laurent unwound the straps of Damen’s sandal and drew it off—first one, then the other. Beside him was the pitcher, oils, and a sponge that divers would have plucked from the sea.

Slowly, he began to wash Damen’s foot. It was the action of a body slave, something one prince would never do for another.

Damen could see the faint flush that heat and steam gave to Laurent’s cheeks. He could see the camber of his lashes. He could see each delicate petal of the white flower in his hair.

The water was hot. It streamed from the sponge as Laurent dipped it, then lifted it, and ran it down Damen’s legs, leaving them clean and wet. Heel, sole and ankle were lathered. Then back up his calf, his shin. Laurent knelt up to soap behind Damen’s knee, then the long muscles of his left thigh. He rubbed each surface to a lather, then rinsed it.

Another tilt of the pitcher: water splashed the marble, and splashed Laurent’s thighs where he knelt, legs slightly apart. It wasn’t finished. Laurent was rising.

Washing Damen’s hands first, Laurent used only fingers, no sponge, massaging thumbs across Damen’s knuckles, his thumb and fingers working a lather between Damen’s. Damen’s arms were lifted, soaped, the curve of his bicep, the crook of his elbow.

Laurent didn’t look up into Damen’s eyes as he soaped Damen’s upper thighs and then between his legs, where his cock hung part-roused, feeling thick and heavy as it was pushed around by the sponge. Then Laurent raised the pitcher and poured water all the way down Damen’s body.

A stream of heat. He knew what was coming. His whole body felt like it was changing, even before Laurent moved to his back.

Silence; he was too aware of his own breathing. Laurent was behind him. He couldn’t see him but knew he was there. He felt exposed, vulnerable as if blindfolded: to be seen while unseeing. It was an effort, not to turn his head. Neither of them spoke.

He wondered what Laurent was seeing. He wondered what Laurent was remembering, if it had happened in Laurent’s mind the same way it had happened in his own. Water hit the marble as Laurent squeezed the sponge. He experienced it physically, the sound loud, a crack.

He shuddered when it touched him, because it was so warm, and gentle, against the scars. He felt the heat of the water and the soft touch of the sponge, softer than he had imagined, so that a second shudder, a tremor, passed through him.

Nothing could wash away the past, but this took them both there, touching a painful truth, acknowledging it.

It was gentler between his shoulders than it had been against his chest. Flesh and self were linked. The cleansing was slow, attentive, drizzling water, then soaping his skin. It was healing something he hadn’t known needed to be healed. Like breathing, it was necessary, even as the tenderness of it was too much, gentleness where he had never expected Laurent to be gentle.