The next night, when Rafe attended dinner, any attempt to catch his eye failed, and when I tried to tempt him with a trick, he dismissed me with a flick of his hand. The next night was the same, and the next… He watched, presumably gathering information on his imposter. But I'd overstayed.
My return home was overdue. Whoever Rafe believed worked against him— this assailant who had killed the queen—they could get to me. And it wouldn't be a beating.
I'd lose another finger, or worse.
I'd been safe while I'd danced to the Court of Pain's tune, but that was no longer the case. If the killer was brazen enough to kill a queen, then he or she wouldn't hesitate to kill me.
After another evening's entertainment, I sought Rafe in his chambers. A knock at the door yielded silence. The prince had a knack for disappearing. He didn't go into town, I knew that much. Then, he was likely at his secret cove.
It was the only place he could go where nobody knew to follow. Except me.
I retraced our steps from that night, using the servants' corridors to arrive at the library, and hurried down the book aisles.
Muttered cursing and the rhythmic clanging of bouncing balls sounded from the back of the room. I might have ignored it, had I not recognized the prince's voice.
I snuck behind a bookcase aisle, parted the books on the shelf, and peered through at a prince attempting to juggle.
He threw the balls, managing to cycle them in the air for several seconds, but just when it seemed he'd gotten the flow, a ball skipped from his fingers, and the rest went tumbling, springing off nearby bookcases. From his messy hair and disheveled attire, he'd been here a while. Probably since leaving the dining hall.
He picked up the balls, muttered some rallying words, and tried again. His skin glistened, damp from perspiration. He had the muscle enough to swing a sword with gusto, but apparently, he'd met his match in three balls.
The balls escaped him again. One rolled under my bookcase and came to a halt next to the toe of my boot.
"Who's there?"
I picked up the ball and ventured around the end of the bookcase.
He flicked his damp hair back and straightened. "How long have you been watching?"
I tossed him the ball, and he snatched it out of the air. "Long enough to know my position as court jester is not in jeopardy. At least not from a juggling prince."
"You could help," he sneered, "instead of gloating." He swept a sleeve across his cheek, dislodging the hair stuck to his skin.
He'd continue to fight those balls all night if I let him. And he would master them. He wasn't the sort to easily give up.
"I'll help if you tell me what you know of your suspected imposter."
"I can't do that." He tossed a ball, then the next, but by the time he'd launched the third, he was already playing catch-up with the first. Two escaped his grasp. He snatched one back, but the other bounced free. He swore and flung his head back with an exasperated sigh. "How did you do it?"
I picked up the two escaped balls and sauntered over. "I'll show you." "Not this, the trick with the King of Hearts? How did you know which card was mine? And how did you get it in your boot?"
"Well, I left a King of Hearts in your room, so it seems likely you'd pick the same from the deck."
"No." He grinned, but the smile was a skin over frustration. "I didn't see the deck before I chose that card. I couldn't know what card I'd pick. So, how did you do it?"
What was he angry about? The fact he couldn't juggle, the fact I'd tricked him, or something else?
I circled behind him. His damp shirt clung to his smooth back, leaving little to the imagination. It was all too easy to imagine licking up his spine and making him arch for more… Would he fight me between the sheets too? I hoped so.
"Rafe, you don't really want to know how it's done."
"But I do." He glanced over his shoulder, a glare spearing into me.
I stepped close, against his body, gathered the two juggling balls in my right hand, and reached around his waist to hand them over. "The magic is not in the trick." He took the balls, freeing my hand. I laid it gently on his hip, testing for any resistance. "The magic is in the feeling."
"Magic doesn't exist."
"Wrong again. Magic is the surprise, the wonder, amazement. This world is dark enough, it needs a little magic to light the way."
He turned his head, and now my mouth was at his ear and my hands on his hips, our bodies once more pressed close. Butterflies danced low, stuttering my breath. I didn't know Rafe, not who he truly was behind his thin acts. I'd tried to put the pieces of his puzzle together, but most didn't fit.
He didn't know me, either. We were two strangers, both playing games, but I liked our games, and so did he. So here we were, the prince and the fool, standing far too close where anyone might stumble upon us, my breath at his ear, my touch branding his skin, while his heart raced and his blood quickened.
"Tell me how it was done, Levi," he said again, voice gruff with the order.
He couldn't stand not knowing, or rather, he knew it to be lies, and that infuriated him—my prince of hearts, wearing his heart on his sleeve. "No."
If he knew, he'd think he'd won, but deep inside, he'd lose the magic. It was better just to believe.
"Fine. Don't tell me. But teach me how to juggle."
"That, I can do." I slid my hands along his warm forearms—his sleeves rolled up—over his wrists, to his hands. "You need to be ahead of the balls, not behind them." My chin brushed his jaw, scratching over rough stubble. "Master them or they will master you."
"They're just balls." Rafe chucked.
"Respect the balls."
He laughed, then caught my raised eyebrow in his over-the-shoulder glance. "You're serious."
"Do you want to learn or not?"
He sobered and shifted on his feet, for which I had the fortunate pleasure of having his ass rub my crotch.
"Fine." He raised the balls again. "Master the balls," he repeated.