Red Heir - Lisa Henry Page 0,65

handing them over.

They changed in the curtained-off corner of the shop, and when Quinn stepped out in the new outfit, Loth was struck dumb, unable to do anything but stare at the absolutely mouthwatering vision in front of him.

Quinn, in general, was attractive. Quinn dressed in clothing befitting his station was devastating, and every inch the prince. He’d unconsciously straightened his spine and tilted his head back, eyes cool and assessing. Loth had a sudden overwhelming urge to go down on one knee. Or, well, both of them.

Quinn must have mistaken his silence for disapproval. He rubbed a hand over his chin and crossing his arms over his chest defensively, his confident demeanour leaving him all in a rush.

“I look like a scarecrow, don’t I?” He tugged at the waist of his trousers and yes, now he’d pointed it out they were a little loose, but only in a way that made Loth wonder if he could fit a hand down there.

“Overall, I’d say you look completely convincing,” his dad said. “We’ll add a belt, and a cloak will cover a multitude of sins.” He turned to Loth. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“You look marvellous, Quinn,” he said, fighting the urge to crowd Quinn back into the curtained corner, drop to his knees, and either pledge fealty or suck royal cock.

Something of what he was thinking must have shown on his face because Quinn gave him a smirk. “Your turn.”

Loth ducked into the changing area and dressed. Then he took a minute to admire his father’s skilled handiwork: the intricate rows of stitching along the seams, and the gold embroidery thread winding down the front of the doublet in a pattern of swirls and points that added to the richness of the garment. Maybe he should have gone into the family business after all.

Maybe, if he survived all this, he still could.

He was admiring the way the pants fit him, accentuating the curve of his backside nicely, when his dad called out, “Hurry up. Or can’t you fit that fat royal arse into those trousers?”

Loth had never had a fat arse in his life, and they both knew it, but that never stopped his father teasing him about it. It was almost a tradition between them, and it was comforting in its familiarity.

Loth tugged the curtain aside and stalked out, pretending to be offended. “The royal rear is spectacular, thank you very much. I should have you beheaded for suggesting otherwise.”

His dad snorted. “You’d have to go through your mother first. Good luck with that.” He looked Loth over, and his expression softened. “It suits you, son.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Loth spread his hands and turned to Quinn. “Well? Do I look like I’m you?”

Quinn’s mouth was hanging slightly open. “Um, you look…” he stammered, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed, “... wow.” Quinn licked his lips, and Loth wasn’t sure he even knew he was doing it.

Loth allowed himself a moment to preen. He knew he looked good, but it was still nice to have it confirmed. Then he stepped forward and took Quinn’s hand. “It’ll be fine,” he lied. “We have to win—we’re the good guys.”

Quinn squeezed his hand gratefully. “We have to win,” he repeated, and then he said it again with more conviction. “We’re going to win this.”

Maybe he was a better liar than Loth first thought, or maybe he honestly thought they had a chance. Loth so badly wanted that to be true that he allowed himself a moment to imagine it. Maybe Doom would see the error of his ways. Perhaps the palace guard would turn. Maybe Doom would choke on a fishbone at lunch and there’d be no fighting at all. It was a nice thought.

But Loth still tucked his meat cleaver into his belt.

When they went back inside, everyone else was huddled around the table with Mum, eating cake and drinking mugs of tea. Dad had found two deep blue cloaks that did, indeed, hide the fact that their clothes weren’t tailored to them, and the rest of the party looked up and made impressed sounds at the sight of Loth and Quinn in their matching outfits.

“There’s two of them,” Dave said with something like reverence. “They’s both a prince.”

Loth caught sight of his scarf draped over a chair. His dad had made it for him years ago, added what he called the ‘sneaky bastard pockets’ as a joke. More than once Loth had gotten out of difficult situations using what he’d stashed in them.