His guard visibly balked, his skin paling even more than his natural hue. “What do you—I’m not sure I understand your question, Your Highness.”

“It’s not a trick question. I’m not going to hang you for your answer, so stop gaping at me like a dying fish,” he said, combing his hair back off his forehead. “I’m just curious how healthy he seems to you?”

If anything, Coleman paled even further, his body instinctually shifting back ever so slightly as he slowly blinked at him. A clear warning that Eithan was balancing dangerously close to the fine line he walked.

He mentally chastised himself. He knew better than to hint at such things. Maybe it was his unanswered letters that were driving him to the brink of madness, his desperation growing thicker with every day he received no reply.

Or maybe he’d simply become spoiled from the freedom of being able to vent his thoughts and desires to Gibson, with no consequence, that made him feel less confident in his mask than usual. Whatever it was, he needed to snuff it out.

He pressed his nails into his palms, digging in until his mind cleared. He’d be an idiot to trust Coleman in that way. To trust anyone he couldn’t exact complete and precise control over.

“Never mind. I was just thinking about how precarious of a thing life is. You know how my mind wanders, don’t mind me.”

Coleman nodded, looking like he was about to reply, but Eithan reached for the door, cutting him off.

“No need to wait for me tonight,” he said, smirking over his shoulder. “My father’s not a fan of getting his own hands dirty, so he’s unlikely to kill me over dinner.”

* * *

The table was already set and loaded with steaming dishes when he walked in, Sulian apparently having grown too impatient to wait for him. The man in question sat at the head of the table, dressed in a loose, white tunic that was open at the collar, eyeing Eithan as he entered. His blond hair hung unbound, ending just above his shoulders to frame the same squared jaw they both shared.

Eithan silently took his seat, lifting a finger to the servant standing against the back wall holding a half-full decanter of wine. He'd never been a fan of any form of alcohol, usually abstaining when he went out with his men, but it was unfortunately a necessary taste he’d had to acquire, especially considering his sire’s predilection for it. He eyed Sulian’s drink, the already empty glass a silent confirmation.

“Father,” he said, voice flat as he bowed his head, wishing more than anything he could wipe that gods damn title from his memory.

Sulian tipped his head forward an inch, the only sign he gave of acknowledgement as the servant moved on to refill his glass. Then he slouched back, silently appraising him. Eithan bristled, understanding the gesture as the underhanded insult it was.