Page 2 of The Prince

Clament didn’t answer, and Braxton could see he was shivering.

Braxton turned to one of the guards stationed in this wing. “Summon the healer,” he ordered. The man dashed off, and Braxton turned to a second one. “Open this door.”

The second man produced a key ring and fitted the key into the lock, which groaned as the lock was turned. The door hinges let out a screech as the guard yanked it open. And Clament didn’t twitch.

Braxton hurried inside, his two personal guards following closely, and paused at Clament’s side. He was definitely shivering, his nose curled up to his knees, and clutching at the blanket in clenched fists. Braxton slowly reached out, tentatively resting his palm against Clament’s forehead and yanked his hand back with a hiss. Clament’s skin was boiling.

“Why the hell am I back here so soon?” someone whined from the hallway. “I just put this bastard back together last night! Can’t you wait a few days before ripping him to pieces?”

Braxton sucked in a sharp breath at the healer’s words, clenching his own hands into fists to keep from lashing out. There was only one reason the healer would be familiar with this particular prisoner, a reason for which his words also implied. Braxton straightened and turned to face the door, catching both prison guards and the healer in his harsh, angry glare.

“Who signed the writ approving torturing this man?” Braxton asked, his voice eerily calm considering the fury churning inside, absolutely ready to explode like a volcano. “Answer me!” he roared.

“You wanted him to talk,” the guard who had fetched the healer began, his voice a whine that had Braxton clenching histeeth and taking in slow breaths through his nose to keep from screaming again.

“The law is clear,” he said, trying to sound reasonable and logical when all he really wanted to do was grab the guard and shake him until the stupid fell out. “Torture of political prisoners requires a royal writ, signed by the king or crown prince, and sealed by whichever one didn’t sign. Tell me where you got a writ to touch this man?” Braxton prowled closer, and his two personal guards spread out to encircle the three men.

“You want answers, this is how you get them,” the guard continued, still whining but sounding even more desperate as he glanced around the small space.

“Hands in the air. You’re under arrest. All of you,” Braxton added pointedly to the healer, who had opened his mouth to protest. The healer might not have participated in the torture, but he must have realized what was going on and done nothing to stop it. That made him equally guilty in Braxton’s eyes.

Slowly, all three obeyed, although the loudmouthed guard and healer both looked like they wanted to argue. One of Braxton’s guards, Mark, moved forward to disarm the two prison guards—he checked the healer, but he wasn’t carrying anything—the other personal guard, Sapson, drew his sword and stood ready to intervene if needed. Braxton watched, arms crossed and scowling, seething inside.

How dare these mere guards presume to know what Braxton wanted! How dare they touch Clament! All the fire, his fierce beauty, now shuttered and hidden behind a thin blanket and high fever. And there was no telling what mental issues Clament bore since torture was more effective at breaking a man than getting actual answers.

“Luckily, we’re already in a prison,” Braxton said, bending down to retrieve one of the sets of keys on the ground next to the pile of weapons. He passed the keys to Mark. “Mark, put them each in their own cell. Quickly. I need to get Prince Clament to the healers’ ward.” He wasn’t going to believe anything the healer down here had to say, not right now. The healers’ ward had people Braxton knew he could trust.

Mark took the keys and dragged the three prisoners off, Sapson following, sword still at the ready. Braxton left them to it and turned to Clament. He gently slid his arms underneath the curled body, feeling the shivering rattle through his own bones, and picked Clament up. Clament’s golden head rested against Braxton’s shoulder, his puffing, panting breaths blowing against Braxton’s neck. He walked out of the prison, heading for the secret passages that would keep Clament’s presence and illness secret from gossipmongers and spies alike. Mark and Sapson caught up quickly, following as Braxton led the way through the passages to the healers’ ward. Braxton walked as quickly as he dared, trying not to jostle Clament, and hoping he wasn’t too late to save Clament’s life.

Chapter One

HIS BODY’S SHIVERINGknocked Clament out of what had been a rather pleasant dream of being curled against a warm chest, strong arms carrying him, and a comforting voice telling him it would be all right soon. He felt a bone-deep iciness, as if his actual bones had been replaced by icicles, and the shivering only made his frozen joints ache even more.

Clament clutched at the thick blankets on top of him, trying to wrap them tighter around himself to preserve some warmth. They didn’t help. The cold was coming from within his body, not outside, so the barrier couldn’t stop the cold. At least the blankets were plentiful and the mattress underneath him soft; he could attempt to derive some comfort from that.

Except… Clement forced his eyes open, looking blearily around at his surroundings. The white walls wobbled as he shook, and the space slowly spun around him too, but it was definitely not a prison cell. He shut his eyes again before he added nausea to the cold he was feeling, but at least his brain was engaged and whirring again.

He was clearly very ill. Perhaps being captured and tortured was all a terrible fever dream? But that couldn’t be it. He remembered starting to feel bad after the healer had finishedwith him a few sessions ago, an odd tightness to his lungs and a slow cough that said something wasn’t right. Which meant he must still be in Etoval, but that didn’t explain why he wasn’t in the dungeons. Prisoners didn’t get soft blankets and mattresses, even if they were princes.

The click as the door opened seemed loud in the room, and Clament tensed instinctively, his body curled to protect his vulnerable stomach. Soft footsteps clicked closer, as if whoever had entered the room and was approaching Clament was trying to be quiet. Even despite his body’s constant shivering, Clament was ready for whatever was about to be inflicted on him. A moment later, soothing warmth filtered through his body rather than sharp pain, and Clament risked opening his eyes again, surprised and anxious to figure out what was going on.

The woman standing at the side of the bed was wearing a light green tunic over brown pants. Green light glowed around her hands, which she held about an inch over Clament’s blanket-covered body.

“How is he?” a familiar voice asked quietly. Clament thought it sounded like Braxton, but Braxton had never before sounded so gentle and meek. When he showed up at the prison to question Clament, he presented the picture of a man certain in his skin, one who was always confident and aggressive in getting what he wanted. Braxton had to have been the man who had ordered Clament’s torture, but then had him all healed up so he wouldn’t have to see the ugly parts of what breaking a man like Clament entailed.

“He is healing surprisingly well, considering, Your Highness,” the healer replied. “As you know, the pneumonia was really advanced, with significant damage to his lungs. I have repaired the worst of it, so his lungs are almost cleared of the fluid buildup, but he still has quite a ways to go. I exhausted alot of his energy while I was healing him, plus his muscles were somewhat starved of oxygen, so I expect him to feel weakness in his limbs for a few weeks, if not months. The poor boy is going to have a very a long recovery ahead of him. The problem right now is reducing this stubborn fever so we can get him started in that direction.”

“You’re the best healer in this palace, Alina,” Braxton said, his tone half joking, half serious. “I know you can help him feel better.”

“I’ll certainly try,” she answered, the green glow intensifying.

More soothing warmth filtered deep into Clament, cracking some of the ice surrounding his bones. The feeling was so comforting. No matter how badly he wanted to stay aware when Braxton was in the room, Clament’s eyes slid closed and his mind drifted off, sleep taking him away.

Waking a second time was better. He was still tucked beneath thick blankets, on an incredibly comfortable mattress in the white room. He wasn’t shivering, though, which made for a very nice change. Instead, he felt completely worn out as if he hadn’t slept for a week, coupled with doing multiple stints in the gladiator’s ring. Namin’s national sport was fighting, and the ring was the grandest place to show off the best of the best. Clament would never come close to being good, let alone the best, at any kind of fighting. He was passable with a sword, although Prince Fenwick had handily beaten him there. He knew how to hand fight and wrestle, but he wouldn’t want to test his abilities. Clament’s skills had always leaned toward his ability to reason—he knew he could outthink every one of his family members—but that wasn’t something that impressed in Namin. Brawn always beat brains. Yet another reason for his so-called family to despise him. And apparently, he also felt nasty enough for his thoughts to go morose. Clament let out a huff of air andcarefully pushed the blankets away. He sat up slowly, waiting for the moment of inevitable ache. Except, it didn’t come. He didn’t feel up to actually getting out of bed, but at least he could look around.

White walls. White ceiling. White blankets on a white bed. Even the floors were pale gray that did nothing to break up the stark unpleasantness of the room. The wall to his right had a tall cabinet, also white, and aside from the bed, that was it for furniture. The opposite wall had a window covered with an opaque white shade that blocked the light so Clament couldn’t guess the time or even whether it was day or night. He had no idea how long he had been here rather than in his cell.

The door clicked as the handle turned, cutting Clament’s swirling thoughts short as a spike of adrenaline shot up his spine and his heart rate accelerated. He turned to look, trying to school his features into a bland expression to conceal the fact that a moment ago he had been wide-eyed with fear at the idea of someone approaching. Thankfully, only the female healer from before stepped into the room. She smiled when she saw he was up.

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