senses leave him.
Strolling toward him in royal finery was the prince. The man with his dark hair fixed as close as it could be in the current fashion, well-fitting clothes that showed off all his lean muscle, and the light tan that was said to come from his mother's side, all made Rafe weak in his spine. And those dark as night eyes didn't help any of Rafe's nerves, not when their focus was solely on him and none of the court or common folk who tried to flock around him.
Rafe's instinct to run was overcome by his instinct to see how this would go. He was planning on leaving, yet he deserved to know what his deceptions meant to the prince. Though why a single man's opinion, no matter the station he held, should matter, Rafe would not admit to himself. He would be leaving soon. He had decided.
All those decisions flew from his mind as soon as the prince took his hand, pulled it up, and bent at the waist to leave a lingering kiss that scorched through Rafe, leaving him burnt out and raw. Everything felt magnified: his breath stretched his skin to an exquisitely torturous degree; his sight was sharper, taking in the curve of the prince's eyelashes as he looked up at him through their length; his breath shallower as he inhaled the air, swearing he could taste the prince's cologne. And he called himself every kind of fool for being so affected. He knew what it was sending his nerves tingling, knew why his sister had dashed away like a young schoolgirl playing matchmaker.
He was falling for the prince, and he was letting himself.
Rafe pulled his hand away and bowed low, shame staining his cheeks at the rumors he already knew were beginning to circulate. "It's an honor to have the prince attend my sister's wedding."
"Please," the prince whispered, a long, calloused finger tucking under Rafe's chin, "call me by my name. And do not bow to me. Rise."
Rafe looked up at the prince—at Trint—and rose, compelled to, if for no other reason than there was a slight pressure from that lone finger. Sadness filtered from that touch and the small downturn of Trint's lips. Rafe didn't want to be the cause of that look, didn't want to bring the man before him, the one who Rafe knew had been in his dream so many months ago and shadowed his waking world, any pain. He reached up, hesitant, and took that finger in his hand. Slowly, so slowly he thought the world might just leave him, he slipped his fingers in between Trint's own, intertwining them before so many people.
That stray thought had Rafe jerking back, but Trint wouldn't let him go, and there was warmth in that gaze when Rafe dragged his own from their hands. An answering warmth filled Rafe, and he felt a small, hopeful smile stretch his face.
"Captain."
Rafe winced at the title. He'd told his men he wouldn't be the captain of any of the ships, merely a passenger. But some of the men wouldn't hear of it, claiming he'd saved them from lives turning toward desperate, to the point that several of them were a step away from committing crimes.
He pulled back then, embarrassed and flustered, as he turned toward one of his captains. "Yes?" They knew where he was, but they were supposed to handle the day without him. It was his sister's wedding.
"The wedding gift." His captain held out a wrapped box.
Rafe could have smacked himself for not remembering it. He gingerly took the box, cradling it close as he smiled at the captain. "Thank you." He laughed. "I'd be skinned alive if this had been forgotten."
The man smiled at him, winking in understanding. "I'll see you tomorrow, Captain, to go over the details of the trip bright and early."
Rafe nodded, tension filling him as he waited for his captain to disappear from the garden then turned back to Trint. "Can't believe I forgot it," he said as he lifted the box, trying to break the silence that had descended.
"What trip?" Trint stepped in close, crowding Rafe against a wall.
"Uh…" He swallowed, looking at all the people who were
Strolling toward him in royal finery was the prince. The man with his dark hair fixed as close as it could be in the current fashion, well-fitting clothes that showed off all his lean muscle, and the light tan that was said to come from his mother's side, all made Rafe weak in his spine. And those dark as night eyes didn't help any of Rafe's nerves, not when their focus was solely on him and none of the court or common folk who tried to flock around him.
Rafe's instinct to run was overcome by his instinct to see how this would go. He was planning on leaving, yet he deserved to know what his deceptions meant to the prince. Though why a single man's opinion, no matter the station he held, should matter, Rafe would not admit to himself. He would be leaving soon. He had decided.
All those decisions flew from his mind as soon as the prince took his hand, pulled it up, and bent at the waist to leave a lingering kiss that scorched through Rafe, leaving him burnt out and raw. Everything felt magnified: his breath stretched his skin to an exquisitely torturous degree; his sight was sharper, taking in the curve of the prince's eyelashes as he looked up at him through their length; his breath shallower as he inhaled the air, swearing he could taste the prince's cologne. And he called himself every kind of fool for being so affected. He knew what it was sending his nerves tingling, knew why his sister had dashed away like a young schoolgirl playing matchmaker.
He was falling for the prince, and he was letting himself.
Rafe pulled his hand away and bowed low, shame staining his cheeks at the rumors he already knew were beginning to circulate. "It's an honor to have the prince attend my sister's wedding."
"Please," the prince whispered, a long, calloused finger tucking under Rafe's chin, "call me by my name. And do not bow to me. Rise."
Rafe looked up at the prince—at Trint—and rose, compelled to, if for no other reason than there was a slight pressure from that lone finger. Sadness filtered from that touch and the small downturn of Trint's lips. Rafe didn't want to be the cause of that look, didn't want to bring the man before him, the one who Rafe knew had been in his dream so many months ago and shadowed his waking world, any pain. He reached up, hesitant, and took that finger in his hand. Slowly, so slowly he thought the world might just leave him, he slipped his fingers in between Trint's own, intertwining them before so many people.
That stray thought had Rafe jerking back, but Trint wouldn't let him go, and there was warmth in that gaze when Rafe dragged his own from their hands. An answering warmth filled Rafe, and he felt a small, hopeful smile stretch his face.
"Captain."
Rafe winced at the title. He'd told his men he wouldn't be the captain of any of the ships, merely a passenger. But some of the men wouldn't hear of it, claiming he'd saved them from lives turning toward desperate, to the point that several of them were a step away from committing crimes.
He pulled back then, embarrassed and flustered, as he turned toward one of his captains. "Yes?" They knew where he was, but they were supposed to handle the day without him. It was his sister's wedding.
"The wedding gift." His captain held out a wrapped box.
Rafe could have smacked himself for not remembering it. He gingerly took the box, cradling it close as he smiled at the captain. "Thank you." He laughed. "I'd be skinned alive if this had been forgotten."
The man smiled at him, winking in understanding. "I'll see you tomorrow, Captain, to go over the details of the trip bright and early."
Rafe nodded, tension filling him as he waited for his captain to disappear from the garden then turned back to Trint. "Can't believe I forgot it," he said as he lifted the box, trying to break the silence that had descended.
"What trip?" Trint stepped in close, crowding Rafe against a wall.
"Uh…" He swallowed, looking at all the people who were
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