Lips Like Ice

XII

The Prince makes a low, dark, pained sound. The new register of his voice lends it a deeper, more rich tone and Lydia feels something hot twist tight in her pelvis in response.

She reaches out, nearly blindly, fumbling, and presses the goblet into his hand. The Prince, equally blindly, swigs. His eyes meet hers, purple-rimmed and stark, and Lydia feels her own prick and burn with sympathy.

"What happened?" she asks again.

"It does not matter," the Prince replies.

"Of course it matters! It looks like someone knocked you to the floor and kicked the shit out of you! You're royalty, aren't you? Shouldn't a guard, or someone have done something to stop it?"

The Prince lifts his chin and drains off the rest of the goblet as an excuse to not meet her gaze. Lydia reaches up, gently, so as not to startle him or cause more pain, and rests her small palms on the tops of each thigh.

"My Prince?" she asks, gently.

"I have made choices that others do not like," he says. "And we will leave it at that. Now, leave me. I want hot water to soothe my... strains."

"No. You're still bleeding," Lydia replies. She hauls herself out of the water, and goes to the valet bench for one of the small hand towels. She wets it in the tub and stands by the Prince's shoulder, clearing away the blood from his split lip, his torn cheek, his scraped knuckles.

He closes his eyes, tilts his head back, and leans into her touch. His shoulder comes to rest between her breasts, his torn cheek pillowed above her left nipple, his breath cool as it wafts across it, making it tighten and ache. A tingle shimmies under the skin of Lydia's belly, pools soft between her legs, and she ignores it. He doesn't mean it like that.

The pale nape of his neck rests on her shoulder, vulnerable. Misery radiates from his every pore. Lydia pauses in cleaning the fingernail scratches around his shoulder blades and drops a soft kiss right on the knobbly vertebrae. She doesn't know why she does it. Only he seems so sad. She regrets it almost immediately, for he stiffens and huffs out a breath in shock. They both freeze and then, slowly, like ribbon left slack, uncoiling gently, he leans down and licks her left nipple. Lydia gasps and stiffens, curling her fists around the cloth and in the tender hair behind one pointed ear.

She doesn't pull, and he doesn't lick her again.

"Don't," she says.

He backs away and she lets him go.

"But you..." he begins, and raises one hand to the back of his neck.

"I shouldn't have," she says. She changes the subject, redirects the intent. "Is there a salve or something?"

"In the brocade bag on the third shelf, there," the Prince says and points to the red sack that she vaguely remembers him using when she was ill. Lydia brings it over, and he retrieves a small red glass jar from its depths. The salve is bright green and smells strongly of mint and poultry seasoning. Huh. It is cold on her fingers and quickly turns warm and sticky as she smooths it over each gouge, cut, and scrape. It takes a bit of picking to get it off her own skin once it sets, a bit like contact cement.

"Is it waterproof?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's nifty," Lydia admits.

The Prince's legs seem fine, save for some more crescent bruises on his shins where he obviously had drawn his knees up to protect this stomach. She salves those, and after a brief moment, he drops them back down into the water.

All that's left is... oh. Lydia slips into the water, rinsing out the cloth and resuming her place between his parted knees. And yes, this is going to be the absolute king of mixed messages, isn't it?