Lips Like Ice

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She wakes when the light of the sun, filtered through the amber window, puddles golden and warm on her face. The Prince is sitting on a deep, plush chair beside the head of the bed. The spindly table that had once graced its position has been moved between the two windows, flush against the wall. The lamp is still upon it, but Lydia's writing desk is on the mattress by her feet.

It must be the weekend again. She isn't sure; she keeps forgetting to make a calendar. Her period is over, so that's been four days, at least.

She sits up blearily and rubs her eyes. The air is comfortable this morning, which means the Prince must be too warm. He is wearing only a loose pair of trousers that end well above his ankles and are held on his narrow hips by a silver sash. He has a loose, linen-like shirt on as well, but the neck is unlaced as far as it will go, the vee gaping obscenely and offering a glimpse of pointed collarbone, and a glimpse of the dusky blue ridge of his pectoral muscle. He hasn't any chest hair. Or nipples, as far as she can tell.

It seems strangely sensual and modest after he had stood before her in all his proud nakedness the other night. Knowing what is beneath the billowing drape of sleeve, the fold of belt, makes her feel sort of squirmy inside, like she is privy to a secret that she shouldn't have even known is a secret to begin with.

"Do you ever sleep?" she asks, but it isn't cheeky. She isn't really scared of him anymore. Or, if she is, it's just a dull buzz in the background of her waking thoughts. There's little reason, therefore, to be insolent. She must have really slept deeply last night, or she would have noticed him sneaking back in and moving about the furniture. Not that a Prince really needs to sneak around his own apartments.

"You sleep too much," the Prince counters. He has his pointed chin on the back of one hand.

Lydia is tempted to spit back: "There's little else to do," but decides that will be too much of an impertinence. Instead she says, "Humans need about eight hours in every twenty-four, on average." She explained about seconds, minutes and hours last week. She sits up and runs her hands through the sleep-matted tangles that must pass for her hair this morning, and looks attentive. He'll tell her what he wants of her sooner or later. Until then, he usually prefers it if she just stays still and silent in his presence.

"If I were not here, what would you do right now?" the Prince asks suddenly, and it is not at all like an order to get out of the bed, to help him dress, to draw him a bath or to suck his newly minted cock, or any of the other things she expects or fears he will order her to do, so it takes Lydia a moment to actually process the question.

"I, uh, you mean, usually?"

"Yes," he scoffs with an annoyed eyebrow arch.

"Go to the bathroom, I guess," Lydia answers. "Get cleaned up, get presentable for... um..."

"If I chose to show up."

"Yes?" She tents her knees under the duvet and put her hands over the curves she's created, watching warily. Is this some sort of test? Is there a wrong answer she can give? And if she does, what will her punishment be this time?

"And then?"

She nods toward the plate of breads and cold meats, cheeses and fruits that live on the credenza in the sitting room. It is just visible through the bedroom door. "Eat."

"And then?"

Lydia bites her bottom lip and picks at her fingernails, uncertain how to answer. "Come back here, write a bit, and maybe watch the city? Repair my clothing if it tears?"

Why is he studying her so intently? What are his silver eyes seeing? It makes her feel more naked than she already is under the blankets.

"Why back to the bedroom?"