‘I will, I simply…’
The effort to ask drained him, but it would be its own form of help, Meilyr knew. He went and told Pedr and Blythe not to panic if they heard the pipes, and they came to help prepare the bath, desperate to be useful. Soon the filled tub steamed invitingly, and Meilyr politely sent the pair out.
‘I can attend myself,’ Osian insisted.
He stumbled as he tried to stand.
‘Stop, please.’ Heat blossomed as Meilyr unfastened the small buttons down the front of his tunic: a memory-mirror to the night of the ruined hunt, echoing with the night in the folly.
He needed to shut himself away. This was all still a lie.
The burn from Osian’s fevered skin seeped into his hands even without touch.
‘Thank you,’ the prince said.
Meilyr pushed the tangle of emotions into a wry smile. ‘It is somewhat my duty.’
‘Please read, or rest. Anything you need. I will not drown.’
‘Is that the swearing of another royal oath?’
‘More than that.’ Their fingers brushed as Osian stepped clear and took himself beyond the partition to the bath.
Meilyr fretted, uselessly. Settled on the divan but strained to listen: the soft scuffing of fabric, subtle entry splashes.
‘I am in. I have not drowned.’ A cough.
‘Thank you for telling me.’ He meant it.
Sometime later, ‘I am still breathing.’ Another small cough.
‘I am pleased to hear it.’ He was.
Later, the muffled splashing of getting out. No thud, just dripping and scuffing.
Meilyr rose as the prince came around the partition in a long, thick robe. His damp hair was going riotously curly, and there was blessed colour in his skin. He looked almost human.
‘That was an excellent decision, if I say so myself.’
‘I am glad. You should sleep now, Majesty.’
‘I will. The water is still quite hot, if you…’
It felt more suggestive – more intimate than the way the robe hung open past his inviting collarbones, the strong but vulnerable curve of his throat.
Meilyr’s lips tingled. ‘Thank you,’ he managed. ‘I will think on it.’
They stood close, achingly aware of each other. Meilyr could still feel the hum of Osian’s blood, the warmth of his bath-heated body, even these generous two paces apart. He could all but taste him, his flesh remembering the corridor wall. The folly.
This was a lie. This was all a lie.
‘Thank you,’ Osian said, as though not wishing to break something. ‘For so very much. Could I – is there any more cawl?’
‘Yes. I will bring it to you, Majesty.’
‘Thank you.’
Meilyr moved through an unsteady breath on his way to the fireplace, flexing his hands where his fingers still felt wrong and frozen. A bath was a wonderful idea.