The Night Court

Chapter Four

Smoke curled away from the pipe and danced in the air like tangling snakes. Mikolaj hung his head off the back of the chair, he felt the blood pour into his brain, he watched Stefan through the fog. Stefan stood before his mirror, combing his hair with one hand and pinching bundles of powder to smooth over his gums with the other.

He wore almost nothing. High blue stockings squeezed pale thighs, satin underclothes sitting low on his waist. Stefan's exposed belly free of any tangles of his hair. His arms and back covered by a loose, translucent robe.

Stefan gazed into his reflection, and he snorted at Mikolaj in the corner. "You're floating, Miko. Don't fly away."

Smoke surrounded him like raising water. He let it wash over him. Choke him. Fill and surround him until he really did feel like he was flying away. Lifted away from the chair and taken to a whole other plane of existence. Outside, carriages lined the streets. Important people pressed against the main entrance of The Night Court like hungry animals. Their events were not to be missed. They were unveiling their southern king for the public to see, and anyone who'd been at the auction was eager to get a taste of Zych's bastard.

And Lord Wiech would be there.

For him.

"Be honest with me," Mikolaj slurred. His head felt so full. His vision swirled. "Do you think Marian is good looking?"

Handsome?

Pretty?

Worth more visech than him?

Mikolaj hadn't seen him since the auction, but sometimes it felt as if grey eyes burned at his back. He couldn't wipe his smirk or malevolent glint from his memory, or the healing tattoo on his upper thigh. The thrown away palace. A sullied title. It weighed heavy on his mind. Or perhaps that was all the blood in his head.

"He's not my type." Stefan leaned close to the mirror, puckering his lips as his eyes glazed over. Always more sultry than attractive. Something about Stefan caught the eye. The way he moved. The fullness of his lips. Those permanent, half-lidded, bedroom eyes.

"If he was your type, then."

"But he isn't."

"If you had to pay for it. Who would you choose?"

Stefan turned, looking smug as he slung his arm over the back of his chair. "Between him and you, you mean? My, Mikolaj, I thought you liked the competition."

"He's no competition."

"When I first came here, you hated me. Don't like it when someone else is pretty?" Pretty? Stefan was not pretty. He was short and slender but his hips flared to wide curves so people could marvel at how his ass was too big for his size.

Mikolaj picked his head up. The room spun violently, his stomach flopping with it. If his stomach wasn't empty he was sure he'd be vomiting all over Stefan's floor. "I don't compete," he spat. "This isn't my game."

"Oh, then why did you hate me?"

"You were annoying." The world wouldn't stay still. Mikolaj wobbled away from the chair.

Annoying? Or because he said things? What things? Mikolaj's vision wouldn't stop swirling. His heart was beating faster, faster than it likely should. Yes. Stefan used to say things about the Highlands. Mikolaj was proud of his heritage. Born out of the snow, cut from the mountain rocks. A Highlander to the bone.

Stefan snorted in laughter. "He's sexy, by the way," he said. "If you're into Riemthais."

"Is that why he isn't your type?" He swayed back and forth, trying to find the door, trying to find something to ground him.