“How are you feeling?” asked Henry with uncertainty, lifting a hand to scratch the back of his head. On anyone else, it would have been oafish. Hans, however, was too busy lingering on his biceps and wondering if this man had permanently broken his brain. “I, um, made you something. But you might not want it. It’s a remedy. My mum used to make it when I was feeling ill. I thought it might help.”
Hans blinked at the offering; a chipped mug, steaming faintly, its contents the exact shade of green one might associate with pond algae. It smelled like moss and chipped bark.
“…Did she hate you?” Hans asked seriously.
Henry flushed so hard his ears went pink.
“No, you prat! She just… it was always good for fevers and hangovers. It’s mostly nettles and marigolds.”
“Ah,” Hans said solemnly, taking the mug like it was a live grenade that might take his head off at any moment. He could swear something was moving in it. “So, an attempted poisoning. Lovely.”
Henry winced, already retreating.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to drink it-”
“No, I love it, it’s mine, give it,” Hans said quickly, snatching it before Henry could take it back. It was his, damn it. Henry made the hideous concoction for him. From his mother’s handcrafted recipe no less, like the wholesome fucking catch he was. No one ever made anything thoughtful for Hans before. This bogwater was property of Hans Capon now, even if it killed him. “If I die from this swamp tea, be it on your head.” He raised it with a flourish and took the smallest, most tentative sip imaginable and prayed.
Henry lingered close, studying Hans’s face with a quiet, desperate sort of approval that made Hans feel flayed open. This man was going to ruin him.
- Excerpt from Chapter 8 of ‘The Royal Brat and his Long-Suffering Bodyguard’
