very very very rough draft of a scene from my wip fantasy book. its set in chapter 4, their second interaction. theres very little surrounding context, but they're in a cell!
A haunting groan echoed down the stairwell, a door pulling open. Deimos lifted his head to the sound of clicking footsteps–delicate, deliberate, controlled. Deimos knew immediately who they belonged to. His side throbbed in anticipation. He felt every swallow beneath his collared throat as the footsteps neared, attaching to a blond figure in shiny black boots.
The Prince.
He wore no robes, no sheer drapes of white, but the arrogance on his face was familiar. He strolled forward and stopped an arm’s length before Deimos’ cell, looking down at him with something like self-satisfaction behind his cool blue eyes. The dark red of his flowing, embroidered shirt was ornate. Open laces dangled along his chest, exposing pale collarbones. He wore dark gloves at his hands.
Deimos recalled the sharp sting of those gloves backhanding him.
“You’re awake,” the prince said.
It was a vicious accusation out of Deimos’ mouth before he could stop it. “You collared me.”
“You don’t like it? I think it suits you.”
Deimos breathed through barely contained contempt.
The prince took the last remaining step forward, which Plite advised against from his positioned post of guard. Considering Plite's smirk, it was largely to taunt Deimos.
“I urge caution, Your Highness. He’s said to be merciless.”
“Merciless?” The prince looked Deimos over as thoroughly as Deimos had done, a long, unhurried look, notably appreciating the golden collar at his neck. “He is but a pup, harmless. Leave us.”
The guards bowed and left.
Frustration at being restrained clawed at Deimos. He had spent an excruciating amount of time wondering about the prince’s whereabouts, but now that he had come, Deimos felt much like an attraction. It was a distasteful feeling, one he was not accustomed to.