Page 16 of The Gambler's Prize
“Move over.”
Before I realize what’s happening, he’s lifting my blankets and crawling right in beside me. I scrunch to the far side of the bed in panic, glad I’m at least wearing underwear.
“Florian, what the fuck are you doing?” I hiss.
“Getting in,” he says.
“Well, obviously. But why?”
“Because you had a nightmare. You shouldn’t be alone.”
The simple kindness in his voice silences me momentarily. He sounds so young, so naïve. The gentleness of his tone combined with the aristocratic Rhennian accent… for a moment he sounds just like Jos. He lies down next to me. Puts his head on my chest and even sneaks an arm around me. His breathing is soft and so close to me. His hair tickles my chin. I remind myself that he’s the biggest slut in Galbrava. Even so, his intrusion into my bed feels chaste and innocent. He doesn’t want to seduce me. There’s no ulterior motive, except perhaps that he feels lonely. And cold.He’s shivering a little after the trip from his room to mine in underwear and with bare feet.
“I’ll hold you until you forget the dream, Boss,” he says. His voice is so soft and sweet and it steals inside my veins, calling to some part of me I didn’t even know existed.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically. I barely know what I’m saying, so addled by this quiet, gentle interloper.
“Do you want me to leave?” he asks.
I shake my head wordlessly. His soft hair is in my face and our bare skin is touching. How is this happening? He came into my bed. He wasn’t afraid to. He wants to comfort me. Why? I’ve only ever treated him like someone to look down on. Why is he upset that I had a nightmare?
“Go to sleep, Boss,” he whispers like he can hear my stormy thoughts. “Stop worrying. I’m here.”
“I can’t sleep,” I say, in the same thoughtless monotone.
The man who sent me to prison, fretting that I had a dream about prison. The irony. He shifts his weight against me: a small, comfortable movement that soothes me despite myself.
“Well, do you want to talk?” he says. “What was the nightmare about?”
I blow out the candle with a swift gesture. If we’re going to talk, I can’t let him see me.
“My last home,” I say.
“Didn’t you like it?”
In the dark my lips twitch into a mirthless smile that I’m glad he can’t see. “It wouldn’t have been my first choice.”
“So why were you there?”
Of course the spoiled little aristocrat can’t fathom anyone doing anything they don’t want to do. His life has been an endless stream of pleasure outings and avoiding honest toil. Even before I went to prison I worked long and hard, starting at age ten when I helped my father deliver beer to the city’s tavernson his rickety cart. I’d seen more of the city of Rhennes, of real life and poverty, as a child than Florian has probably seen yet.
“It was just the way things worked out,” I say.
Florian nods, still sprawled across my chest. The man I hate, lying on me like a pillow. But he smells damn good, and he’s warm now, and he’s reminding me of how rarely I share a bed. My body and my brain have a little duel. Half of me wants to crush his delicate face with my fist, the other half wants to stroke that soft-looking cheek. I settle for neither, letting his arm rest on me but not touching him back at all.
Is he going to stay here all night? Does he want to fall asleep by my side? Neither my body nor my brain has any idea what to do with that thought.
“Boss,” he says.
“What?”
“Don’t you ever get lonely? Living out here all alone?”
“Don’t you ever get lonely in the arms of strangers?” I shoot back.
“Sometimes,” he says quietly.
There’s a long silence. I keep my eyes closed. And then a sudden rattle batters the roof of my house. Rain. It rarely falls here, but when it does it arrives without warning, furious and sudden, dropping with venom and then skirling away again as fast as it came. It leaves white-painted houses and clotheslines stained red with dust that was hanging in the air. In the morning, more redkiveflowers will spring into life, raised from dormancy by the rare moisture. The sound on my roof is like pennies falling on a hard floor. There’s something comforting about hearing it while safe in a warm bed. I have no idea where Florian is looking, whether his eyes are closed too, or maybe he’s staring at the yellow moon or the raindrops on the window, or worse, maybe he’s staring at my face, trying to get a read on mythoughts. Or maybe, if I’m really lucky, he’s already fallen asleep and I won’t have to listen to him anymore.
