Chapter 38: Borrowed

Chapter 38: Chapter 38: Borrowed

The bathroom door opened before Nero had finished pretending he was not listening for it.

Sebastian stepped into the bedroom with one towel secured low around his hips and another draped over his shoulders, both white and far too clean against the faint marks of exhaustion still visible across his skin. His hair had darkened almost to black beneath the water and curled slightly at the ends where it rested against his shoulders, while the last traces of steam followed him through the doorway and disappeared into the cooler air of the cabin.

Nero looked at his face.

Only his face.

He had spent twenty-five years developing extraordinary control over his pheromones, his expression, his body language, and nearly every involuntary reaction a person might use against him.

Apparently all of that training had finally found its true purpose.

Sebastian stopped near the end of the bed and rubbed the towel over his hair.

"You can shower now."

Nero nodded once.

"Thank you."

"You’re still covered in blood."

Nero glanced down.

He had changed out of the ruined shirt but had not yet washed the dried blood from his chest, where dark smears remained along his collarbone and abdomen. He had pulled on a clean pair of black trousers while waiting, though he had not bothered with anything else.

Sebastian looked at him without particular interest.

That was insulting.

Probably beneficial, but insulting.

"My turn, then," Nero said.

"Yes."

Sebastian continued drying his hair.

Nero very deliberately did not look lower than his shoulders.

Pride mattered.

He had waited seven years. He could survive another few minutes without allowing Sebastian to discover exactly how much damage one towel and wet hair were currently doing to his restraint.

Sebastian glanced toward the wardrobe.

"Where are my clothes?"

Nero paused.

"Your what?"

"My clothes."

"You didn’t bring any."

"I noticed."

Nero looked toward the built-in wardrobe occupying almost an entire wall of the bedroom.

"You can wear mine."

Sebastian stopped rubbing his hair.

His face flattened.

Nero nearly smiled.

"No."

"There are plenty."

"I am not wearing your clothes."

Nero let out a sigh. "Sebastian, almost nothing in there has been worn. The ceremonial pieces are the exception, and even those are professionally cleaned after every use."

Sebastian lowered the towel from his hair.

For several seconds, he simply stared at Nero.

"Almost nothing?"

Nero glanced toward the wardrobe as though the answer were obvious. "I generally wear things once."

Sebastian’s expression became completely flat.

Nero knew that look.

It usually preceded criticism.

"Once."

"Yes."

"You own an aircraft wardrobe full of clothing you intend to wear once."

"That makes it sound excessive."

"It is excessive."

"It is organized."

"That is not the problem."

Nero folded his arms, then reconsidered when dried blood pulled unpleasantly against the skin near his ribs. "The ceremonial garments are reused."

Sebastian looked toward the wardrobe. "How environmentally responsible of you."

"They take months to make."

"Ah. There it is."

"The embroidery alone on some of them requires several artisans."

"And therefore those survive the great Nero Altera single-use purge."

"I don’t throw everything away."

"What happens to it?"

"Some pieces are archived. Most are donated, auctioned, returned to designers, or redistributed through the royal household."

Sebastian considered that.

It apparently reduced the crime from unforgivable to merely irritating.

"Still absurd."

"This from the man currently wearing nothing but two towels because he objects to free clothing."

"I object to wearing your clothing."

Nero’s gaze almost dropped.

He stopped it with the sort of discipline usually required for diplomatic negotiations involving nuclear states.

Sebastian’s towel sat low enough on his hips that Nero could see the hard lines of his abdomen and the fading marks left by years of military service, while damp strands of dark hair clung to his shoulders and collarbones.

Nero looked at his eyes.

Green. Perfectly safe territory... Mostly.

"You have three options," Nero said. "Wear my clothes, continue wearing that towel, or ask Hale whether he can acquire an entire wardrobe somewhere above the clouds."

Sebastian rubbed the towel over his hair again.

"I dislike all three."

"I’m especially comfortable with the second."

The towel stopped moving.

Nero smiled pleasantly.

Sebastian stared at him.

"That was deliberate."

"Entirely."

"Nero."

"I’m going to shower."

"Excellent decision."

Nero turned toward the bathroom before Sebastian could notice precisely how excellent he considered it.

Behind him, a wardrobe door opened.

Then another.

Silence followed.

Nero reached the bathroom threshold before Sebastian spoke again.

"Nero."

He looked back.

Sebastian stood before the open wardrobe, one hand still holding the towel around his hips while the other rested against a row of immaculate shirts.

"What?"

"These are actually new."

"I told you."

Sebastian pulled one black shirt forward by its hanger and inspected the collar. "All of them?"

"Probably."

"You don’t know?"

"I don’t inventory my own clothes."

"That might be the first normal thing you’ve said today."

Nero leaned one shoulder against the doorframe.

"There may be two or three things I wore previously because I liked them enough to keep."

Sebastian looked suspiciously deeper into the wardrobe.

"The ceremonial mantle is at the far end. Don’t touch it unless you want Hale to have an aneurysm."

That earned Nero a look.

"Now I want to touch it."

"I know."

Sebastian moved toward the section Nero had indicated, apparently out of spite.

Nero smiled.

The ceremonial garments were impossible to mistake for everyday clothing. Several long coats and formal mantles occupied their own protected section, stored beneath breathable covers with the Sahan royal insignia embroidered discreetly near the fastening. Even through the translucent material, metallic thread and dense handwork caught the cabin lights.

Sebastian lifted one cover enough to inspect the edge of a black-and-violet coat.

His expression shifted despite himself.

"That embroidery is hand-done."

"Yes."

"All of it?"

"Mostly."

Sebastian examined the intricate pattern running along the cuff, where silver thread disappeared beneath darker violet stitching in designs traditional to the Altera line.

"How long?"

"That one took around seven months."

Sebastian immediately released it.

Nero laughed.

"Afraid now?"

"I have no intention of becoming financially responsible for damaging something that took seven months to sew."

"You’re marrying me. Technically, eventually some of it becomes your problem anyway."

Sebastian’s face flattened again.

"Go shower."

Nero decided retreat was strategically sensible.

He entered the bathroom and closed the door before Sebastian could find a hanger sturdy enough to weaponize.

The moment he disappeared, Sebastian looked back at the wardrobe.

There really was too much.

Casual shirts occupied one section, trousers another, knitwear beneath them, and then jackets arranged by weight and fabric rather than simply color. Most pieces were black, charcoal, cream, deep violet, or shades so muted Sebastian suspected designers had invented elaborate names to avoid admitting they were variations of gray.

Everything looked untouched.

Sebastian selected a soft black T-shirt and checked the inside almost automatically.

No sign of wear.

He moved to the trousers and found a pair of charcoal drawstring pants that seemed considerably less offensive than the tailored options hanging beside them.

Also new.

That should have made wearing them easier.

It did not.

Because somehow they still smelled like Nero.

The fabric had never touched his skin, yet everything inside the wardrobe carried the faint residual trace of his pheromones simply from existing in his private space: warm air, sun-heated grass, the clean sweetness Sebastian had noticed when Nero finally stopped suppressing his natural scent.

Sebastian stared at the shirt in his hands.

This was ridiculous.