Little Prince
“HOW IN ALL the hells did I end up here?” Prince Timothy howled at the ceiling, before lowering his head to direct his wrath at a more logical target. “Withyou?” he added, letting the words drip with disdain because disdain was all he had at this point. His best escape yet, a combination of stealth and cunning and outright speed, had gotten him the farthest from his uncle’s castle—and the tower Timothy called home—than he’d gotten in years. But what happened when he’d finally entered the Shastian Wildwoods to cross into Neri? He stumbled into a night sentry from the Prince of Neri’s camp who had stepped away from the main group to piss, and the sentry brought Timothy straight to the Prince. Of course.
Prince Nathaniel of Neri watched Timothy’s rant in careful silence. It was one of his more annoying habits, although not as annoying as his way of waiting until Timothy had calmed down to offer a comment on Timothy’s latest exploit. It was not that Nathaniel’s silence or his comments were wrong, even when Tim wished they were so he would have more reasons to argue; it was how composed Nathaniel managed to be. Timothy was cold and hot and hollow and full, unable to be still, and yet whenever he was in front of Nathaniel, the other prince was watchful and quiet and utterly, perfectly polite.
Everything a prince should be. Like someone out of a story.
Timothy glared up at Nathaniel for that offense, only to once again be irked by their height difference. The height difference didn’t mean anything in itself; Timothy was shorter than most everyone in his family and many courtiers besides. But Nathaniel of Neri was another matter… he was always another matter. He was tall and broad even among people known for their height and size. He was big, so people listened to him. As naturally as breathing people took him seriously and didn’t stare at him as if he was some sort of changeling left behind by the Sneaky Folk. When people looked at Prince Nathaniel, it was with respect, or lust, or some combination of the two.
Timothy absolutelyrefusedto stare at him in the same way. Timothy might be short by the standards of his family, and scratched by brambles, and wearing a stolen dress that had been used as a clever disguise, but he was still a prince of equal, if not greater, rank than Nathaniel of Neri.
Of course, if Tim had been alone, he would have admitted to admiring Nathaniel’s height and breadth. He might have confessed to fantasies of biting the smooth brown column of Nathaniel’s throat and to dreams of pulling Nathaniel’s tunic away to mark Nathaniel’s perfect skin with his hands. Timothy had no way to know if Nathaniel’s skin was perfect, but he assumed it was. Everything about Nathaniel was perfect. His height, his looks, his manner, even the location of the kingdom he would inherit. It was the reason they were betrothed.
That, and the curse.
Timothy scowled harder to think of the curse and was not surprised when his displeasure got no reaction from Nathaniel other than Nathaniel’s continued attention. Just once tonight, Timothy wanted to get a reaction out of Nathaniel that wasn’t blank assessment. Anyone who hadn’t heard Nathaniel’s dry remarks aimed in Timothy’s direction would have assumed Nathaniel was an ordinary, vapid, charming prince. Sadly, he wasn’t. There was a quick mind behind his handsome face.
At the silence, Timothy flicked his glare farther up, from Nathaniel’s shoulders to his eyes. He paused as he always did, stunned and suddenly breathless, to see those large, golden eyes fixed on him, the long, dark lashes the same shade as Nathaniel’s short black hair, the thick eyebrows, the noble nose and plush, full mouth.
Timothy had overheard servants praising that mouth, wondering how it would feel, envying Timothy for getting to taste it for himself. Timothy had some idea of what the servants meant, although most of what they’d said had been outside his limited knowledge of the activities done in the marriage bed.
He realized he was staring and that his face was growing hot, so he jabbed a finger in the space between them. “I’m not supposed to be here!”
“Yet here you are.”
Nathaniel spoke at last.
Timothy curled his hands at his sides and considered how to throw a punch, though he doubted it would land. Prince Nathaniel had trained with his knights and wore a sword he knew how to use. Timothy, in contrast, had been locked in a tower with books for company after his uncle had deemed Timothy a danger to himself. Timothy could read and write in six languages and speak in none of them save his own. But, in that one, he could and would speak as clearly and decisively as the king he’d one day be.
“Here I bloody well am.” Timothy crossed his arms then uncrossed them because it made his borrowed dress pull up under his chest. The dress was stretched tight across his shoulders and hung loose everywhere else. It was also the color of pale spring roses, with a blue trim that exactly matched his eyes—an accident that made it seem as if he’d chosen the dress for that reason. As if he wanted to be pretty. As if he wanted to be found, and to be here with Nathaniel, and forNathanielto say he was pretty.
“Do you ever think about that?” Nathaniel crossed his arms, too. He’d taken off the leather he usually wore while riding, leaving him in a simple tunic shirt and breeches. It was just Timothy’s luck that Nathaniel had been using his family’s hunting lodge tonight. From the way Nathaniel was dressed, Timothy’s arrival had either called him from his bed or someone else’s, and the large, canopied bed behind Nathaniel appeared untouched.
Timothy’s stomach tightened. He blamed it on the Prince and glared even harder.
He was certain Nathaniel had already sent a note to Timothy’s uncle, the Regent, to tell him they had found the errant Crown Prince Timothy. Timothy was likely to be returned to his tower at any moment. He didn’t see what they had left to talk about or why Nathaniel would insist on being so damn reasonable. Reason was all well and good, but Timothy was incapable of it in Nathaniel of Neri’s presence, and the fact that Nathaniel never seemed to have any similar problems was vexing beyond measure.
“Think about what?” Timothy demanded at last, grumpily, but rememberingsomemanners.
“Why you always end up finding me despite your best intentions?” Nathaniel stepped over to a table not far from the bed that held a bowl and a jug of water, and grabbed a scrap of linen. He poured some water on it then crossed over to Timothy and held it out.
Taking that as a sign that he had dirt on his face, Timothy snatched the cloth from him and threw it to the floor. Nathaniel’s gaze followed it. When he raised his eyes again, there was a small, unhappy smile at his perfect mouth but he nodded as if unsurprised.
“I didn’t find you,” Timothy hissed, even more irritable because he was acting childish and he knew it. “I found a damned sentry.”
“Why even come through Neri on your way to freedom, or wherever it is you’re going?” Nathaniel turned away, taking a few moments to pull fur-lined boots over his bare feet as if his toes were cold. The roomwasrather chilly. The fire had only been lit after Timothy’s arrival.
Timothy opened his mouth but paused before answering, unexpectedly thrown by the idea that Nathaniel of Neri had toes that grew cold the same as any other man.
It wasn’t that Timothy didn’t think of Nathaniel as a man—obviously, he was a man, a beautiful, incredible man—it was just that… Timothy didn’t think of Nathaniel as a man. It was better that way. Now, here Nathaniel was, tired, cold, and no doubt missing the physical attentions of some libertine, or worse, some friend who often shared his bed. Some friend he calledlover.
Timothy turned sharply away from the thought. He made himself focus on the discussion again and not on Nathaniel in love with someone else. “I… this border is close to the river. I could take the river to the ocean. Then I could go anywhere, anywhere in the world.” That had been his goal ever since their betrothal had been officially confirmed.
He had been twelve then, although the contract between the two kingdoms guaranteeing Timothy’s hand on his twentieth birthday had been arranged the week of his birth. Somewhere out there had to be a way to break the curse and Timothy intended to find it. He’d go to the ends of the earth if he had to, and he said as much.
“That far?” Nathaniel glanced at him, then away. “With what skills were you hoping to make a living, Little Prince? I hope more than just your winsome face.”
“Don’t call me that!” Timothy shouted, fully prepared to risk a sword for the chance to try punching his betrothed, just once.
