“A rogue,” Alucard rolled the word over his tongue. “Better a rogue than a bored royal.”
Rhy felt Alucard’s eyes wandering slowly, hungrily, over him, and he blushed. The heat started in his face and spread down, through his collar, his chest, beneath shirt and belt. It was disconcerting; Rhy might not have magic, but when it came to conquests, he was used to holding the power—things happened at his whim, and at his pleasure. Now he felt that power falter, slip. In all of Ames, there was only one person capable of flustering the prince, of reducing him from a proud royal to a nervous youth, and that was Alucard Emery. Misfit. Rogue. Privateer. And royal. Removed from the throne by a stretch of tangled bloodlines, sure, but still. Alucard Emery could have had a crest and a place in court. Instead, he fled.
“You’ve come for the tournament,” said Rhy, making small talk.
Alucard pursed his lips at the attempt. “Among other things.”
Rhy hesitated, unsure what to say next. With anyone else, he would have had a flirtatious retort, but standing there, a mere stride away from Alucard, he felt short of breath, let alone words. He turned away, fidgeting with his cuffs. He heard the chime of silver and a moment later, Alucard snaked an arm possessively around his shoulders and brought his lips to the prince’s neck, just below his ear. Rhy actually shivered.
“You are far too familiar with your prince,” he warned.
“So you confess it, then?” His brushed his lips against Rhy’s throat. “That you are mine.”
He bit the lobe of Rhy’s ear, and the prince gasped, back arching. Alucard always did know what to say—what to do—to tilt the world beneath his feet.
Rhy turned to say something, but Alucard’s mouth was already there on his. Hands tangled in hair, clutched at coats. They were a collision, spurred by the force of three years apart.
“You missed me,” said Alucard. It was not a question, but there was a confession in it, because everything about Alucard—the tension in his back, the ways his hips pressed into Rhy’s, the race of his heart and the tremor in his voice—said that the missing had been mutual.
“I’m a prince,” said Rhy, striving for composure. “I know how to keep myself entertained.”
The sapphire glinted in Alucard’s brow. “I can be very entertaining.” He was already leaning in as he spoke, and Rhy found himself closing the distance, but at the last moment Alucard tangled his fingers in Rhy’s hair and pulled his head back, exposing the prince’s throat. He pressed his lips to the slope below Rhy’s jaw.
Rhy clenched his teeth, fighting back a groan, but his stillness must have betrayed him; he felt Alucard smile against his skin. The man’s fingers drifted to his tunic, deftly unbuttoning his collar so his kisses could continue downward, but Rhy felt him hesitate at the sight of the scar over his heart. “Someone has wounded you,” he whispered into Rhy’s collarbone. “Shall I make it better?”
Rhy pulled Alucard’s face back to his, desperate to draw his attention from the mark, and the questions it might bring. He bit Alucard’s lip, and delighted in the small victory of the gasp it earned him as—
The bells rang out.
The Banner Night.
He was late. They were late.
Alucard laughed softly, sadly. Rhy closed his eyes and swallowed.
“Sanct,” he cursed, hating the world that waited beyond his doors, and his place in it.
Alucard was already pulling away, and for an instant all Rhy wanted to do was pull him back, hold fast, terrified that if he let go, Alucard would vanish again, not just from the room but from London, from him, slip out into the night and the sea as he’d done three years before. Alucard must have seen the panic in his eyes, because he turned back, and drew Rhy in, and pressed his lips to Rhy’s one last time, a gentle, lingering kiss.
“Peace,” he said, pulling slowly free. “I am not a ghost.” And then he smiled, and smoothed his coat, and turned away. “Fix your crown, my prince,” he called back as he reached the door. “It’s crooked.”
II
Kell was halfway down the stairs when he was met by a short ostra with a trimmed beard and a frazzled look. Parlo, the prince’s shadow since the tournament preparations first began.
“Master Kell,” he said, breathless. “The prince is not with you?”
Kell cocked his head. “I assumed he was already downstairs.”
Parlo shook his head. “Could something be wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” said Kell with certainty.
“Well then, it’s about to be. The king is losing patience, most of the guests are here, and the prince has not yet made an entrance.”
“Perhaps that’s exactly what he’s trying to make.” Parlo looked sick with panic. “If you’re worried, why don’t you go to his room and fetch him?” The ostra paled even further, as if Kell had just suggested something unfathomable. Obscene.