Celyn would hate this. Would be furious with Meilyr, simply sitting here.
‘Is there something else you would prefer?’ the prince asked quietly, in a break from other talk.
Meilyr’s appetite was a lost cause. He could not clear the metallic taste of death from his mouth and had nursed the bread and carrots on his plate for bells. The idea of attempting meat made his insides lurch.
‘Please do not concern yourself, My Prince.’
Prince Osian’s expressionwasthat of concern. It levelled as his sister, on his other side – tangled up with Lady Faina in a way that mirrored the prince and Meilyr – jabbed him in the arm to point across the tent.
A thread of tension remained strung through the prince; a muscle worked in his jaw near constantly. It had been like that since the hunt. His shoulders, too: subtle, only noticeable because the two of them were pressed against each other. Only noticeable because the damn bond seemed to want to make it Meilyr’s problem as well.
Had something happened? Was it the hunt itself?
Meilyr told himself it did not matter and drank more wine.
But as the night drew on, that damn muscle – that damn jaw, and that damn thread between them – remained so tight. Meilyr could not stop noticing it. Surely any instant the rest of the tent would hear as it snapped.
Oh, let it. The prince’s troubles were his own.
He looked away, and met the waiting gaze of Lord Leighton.
Really?
Even as he averted his eyes, disgust and fear shoved aside everything else. Being all over Prince Osian was one thing; for a start, the prince had never looked at him as though he was a meal, possessing as little autonomy as the deer on their plates. Lord Leighton’s attention, the places his mind travelled, were awful even to catch the edges of.
It was one of the worst kinds of instinct. The primordial bite ofdanger, the vulnerable prey animal behind the niceties and costumes of humanity scenting the creature that meant them harm. Meilyr was no stranger to it, or the panic rising through his blood:Danger. Run.
But he could not run. Unlike other prey animals, he was expected to stay, and smile, and be polite.
Gods, he had to make this stop.
Prince Osian’s hand was clenched on his own thigh, knuckles white-ridged.
Oh. Oh,no…
There was one way to send Lord Leighton a clear signal. To rid Meilyr’s flesh of his uninvited gaze.
Oh, to the hells with it.
He slid his hand over the prince’s and leaned in more against him. Close to his ear, he said, ‘You seem troubled, My Prince. Shall we retire early to bed?’
Prince Osian stiffened.
A surprisingly smug thrill quickened Meilyr’s pulse. If the prince was allowed to make things convincing, so was Meilyr. Let him feel it, and let Lord Leighton see Meilyr’s interests were very much focused elsewhere.
But the prince only missed a beat. He moved an arm around Meilyr’s back and drew him in firmly. His other hand touched Meilyr’s chin – and for an absolutely devastating slam of heartbeats, Meilyr was certain he was going to kiss him.
He did, but only on his temple. ‘Soon,’ the prince said, as his breath ghosted Meilyr’s lips. He kept his arm around him but turned back to his cup and the table.
Meilyr’s heart continued to hammer.
Wine, wine was a good idea. He emptied his cup, hoping to drown. It was an act. He only had to play the part and cursed himself with a mental lashing. He should not be feeling anything, not even a bodily reaction. It was only the proximity. Only how long it had been since someone had touched him like this. Only the damnable bond, muddling everything.
His cup was refilled swiftly, and he waded in more slowly. All he needed was a little more numbness. A little less thinking, less feeling.
He was so focused on the wine he almost spat it across the table when a familiar drawl cut through all the liquid.
‘Your Majesties.’ Lord Leighton bowed, settling across from the heirs.