Obéissance
Guy had procrastinated, and it was going to cost him.
The Sheriff had warned him. Aggravatingly, the Sheriff had been right about a lot of things, most of which he wanted to avoid thinking about.
He believed he had more time. Time to plan exactly how he was going to mollify the Prince before he came to Nottingham. But John apparently wanted to reconnoiter with his man before his visit. So in the dead of night, in the midst of fitful dreams, he had been forcefully collected by the Black Elite. His destination—miles further into the night—the Prince's tent.
The first time he had been brought before Prince John, hardly a month ago now, he was met with an almost unearthly disdain. It was only because he did not expect to survive that the Prince allowed him to do just that. His honesty won him life that day.
This time, as he was again dumped before John, he was met by a cool anger, and worse, the breathy sigh of disappointment.
He remained on his knees, neck stiff as if awaiting the headsman's ax. His eyes fixated on a spot on the rug between the Prince's booted feet.
"Do you love me, Gisborne?" John asked, his voice regal, yet slightly nasal.
"Of course, sire," he replied in a shattered breath. The Sheriff had advised him to treat John like the embodiment of a god if he wanted to keep breathing.
The god was indeed displeased, but with the Sheriff more than with him. And in gratitude for all Vaisey's poisonous advice, he had agreed to put a knife in his back. He had not expected to pin his failure to kill Hood onto Vaisey, but if Prince John was willing to do so, who was he to deny him? In return, John hinted he could become sheriff in Vaisey's place. It was a second chance, which, by rights, he did not deserve.
But that was not all the Prince wanted of him.
"You will do this for me, Gisborne, because you love me." The Prince's hands captured his face, gentle but firm. The heat from the brazier next to him suddenly became overwhelming, and his breath caught in his chest. He swallowed, then remembered how to form words.
"Yes sire."
John grinned like a golden fox. "Then show me. Now." The command was sensual, and absolute.
His mind raced to think how to accomplish that. What exactly did one do with a god, besides grovel at his feet, which he was already doing? Unhelpfully, he recalled the Sheriff's words. Be creative. Several things entered his mind, and he blinked, trying to think of something that did not involve the royal anatomy.
Surely John did not really desire him, having been dragged along and tossed before him like a common criminal. The Prince was dressed in the finest of cloth and velvet, his boots of the most supple leather, while he felt like a scrounging beggar in comparison. But no man had ever looked at him like this. Vaisey always sought to dominate him, and even in his fleetingly fond moments, the Sheriff's gaze was suffused with condescension. But the Prince's dominion over him was unquestionable. It was his right to give or take his life. John gazed at him as a huntsman would look at his favorite hound. He felt wanted in a way that both flattered him, and made him feel ill. All the warnings Vaisey had given about the Prince's temper were nudged aside as the sovereign's eyes lingered on his mouth.
John's head tilted slightly, green eyes locking once again with his own. He felt fingertips curling around the corner of his jaw, tracing along the line of his artery. The pulsing blood was so easily spilled, but John chose to caress instead of kill.
The Prince was obviously expecting him to do something. He could not have felt more awkward, but he willed his hand not to shake, bringing it up to touch John's own. It grazed against warm metal—a gold ring, the stone and its setting probably worth more than most of Nottingham. He tried desperately not to tense, waiting to see if it was the wrong move.
John's smile remained as it had been, but his brow raised a fraction. Encouragement? With effort, he kept his uncertainty at bay. He had thrown himself into risky situations before, but this eclipsed them all.
The god demanded obéissance, and he would not fail him this night. Trying to summon a passion he did not feel, he brushed his other hand along the Prince's gently bearded jaw, and committed himself to the task.