His leather jacket comes off first. It weighs heavy in my hands, heavier with the blood tainting it. The beginning of his forearms are exposed—unwounded so far. My fingers run over the skin there, light as a feather in their quest for discovery.
The touch is precise, intimate, like unraveling a present on Christmas morning. Never did I imagine handling the seventh prince like a fragile ornament, not when he's the furthest thing from it, but here we are. Whatever force brought us to this moment has a twisted sense of humor.
Then, comes off Valerius' vest.
"Found anything yet?"
It's a challenge to meet his eyes, but where else do I look? His chest? His shoulder? His hand?
It feels forbidden, somewhat. He's baring himself, not in a flaunting way one would expect from the prince but in a way that leaves him vulnerable—which makes me an intruder.
Valerius has never been vulnerable. Not a moment in Thorn Garden does he let his guard down, always with those iron walls guarding his true intent. Sharing this moment with him feels unearned and considering that he's moving under the influence of a potion, it is.
But perhaps there are some positives to this situation. If I play my cards right, I'll be able to create an advantage for myself—maybe he'll grow truly fond of me.
"You're filthy," I comment with a slight smile. "How can I find anything when you're covered in this muck?"
He moves away, beckons me with this look.
"Then you should come clean your husband." Valerius challenges. The familiarity is comfortable and rattling at the same time. There's no force in his words, not like the night of our wedding, but the implications remain. Touch.
We move to the bed like a married couple, hands intertwined. I look away when he removes the rest of his clothes.
"This is all yours to bask in, you know." Valerius says, voice softer than I've heard it be in the past.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I turn to face him and almost melt from relief. His skin is tainted by this dark, viscous substance, and it hides what it's supposed to.
I pick up a wet rag from a half-filled bucket. It's clean, sanitized. In case it comes in contact with a wound, it won't cause infections. The water's warm, warm enough to soothe the prince's muscles on first contact.
Valerius sighs in relief. I watch as the rag absorbs the black, freeing him of the substance. Stray droplets travel down and form dark splatters on the floor.
How symbolic. The cruel prince is being washed of his sin.
"You're too kind to me," He sighs. "My own personal angel."
Am I? Lately, the only thing that's been consuming my mind is his downfall. I personally don't consider that kind.
"You don't mean it." I reply, trying to keep the mood playful. There's a truthful layer beneath my words—he really doesn't mean it. Without the influence of a certain concoction, we wouldn't be here right now. He wouldn't be saying these things.
"It's true. You're heaven sent."
I nod, "Then I guess that makes you the steward of hell."
He takes my hand and presses his nose against the palm of if—he resembles an affectionate cat, nuzzling his owner. Valerius' gaze is piercing when he says, "A match that defies the laws of the universe."
My face is burning red or pink or something like that, I'm sure. It's hard not to pull away, so I do. I take my hand back and dip the towel in the warm water.
The rest of the cleaning session is quiet, in a comfortable sense. I find myself entranced, invested in the process of clearing his skin. No wounds yet. No reason to end the peace.
"You're always so deep in thought." Valerius says, eyes narrowing. "I hate it."
"Hate it?"
He moves his left hand near my forehead, knocks at it twice. "I want to take this brain of yours and dissect it."
What is he on about?
I huff, trying to come up with an easy lie, "I was thinking about the hunting trip. It's a waste. I was looking forward to learning a thing or two about tracking down boars."
"Little liar," The prince's voice lowers, accusatory. He's trying to get an answer out of me and he won't stop until he hears something raw. "What is it that you truly seek?"
Unable to give him a response that doesn't reveal my hand, my heart, my intent to kill, I turn my attention to cleaning him. Focus on scrubbing, don't let the soul escape its confines.
When I find a wound, I pull the rag away.
"We should clean this up properly. I'll try asking for materials."
Valerius observes, then says,
"You want my blood."
I almost drop the rag. How do you respond to that? More importantly, how do I stop him from believing it's true when it is?
"Don't worry, you aren't the first and you won't be last." He clarifies.
The prince stands up, retrieves his clothes, and puts them back on. He doesn't so much as flinch when the fabric presses against his wound. It makes me want to berate him—all that talk about finding and dressing a wound only to neglect properly caring for it—but then I realize he's probably experienced worse in the throes of war.
Valerius takes a bow in his hand, observes the quality of the wood, then he smiles at me, "Fortunately, I favor you, so I'll let you take a drop. Come."
His other hand gestures towards the woods.
Judging from the shadows entering from below the tent, the sun is minutes away from setting. That isn't exactly the ideal time to go out. Safe? Barely. Does it put us at a disadvantage? Definitely.
"What are we going to do?" I ask with a racing heart.
He tilts his head, resembling an excited canine. That's definitely not a good sign.
"We're going to hunt."