The Duke stood there, the heat rising in the room and Julian cleared his throat.
"Lay him on the bed, Your Grace," he whispered, stepping forward to pull back the heavy blankets on the bed.
The Duke approached the bed and leaned down. It was a clumsy movement, which seemed harder to do than holding a sword. He groaned.
He didn't know how to transition the boy from his shoulder to the mattress without scaring him or waking him. Julian reached out, his hands guiding the Duke's larger, calloused ones. Together, they lowered Lucius onto the pillows.
For a moment, the Duke didn't pull away. He stayed bent over the bed, his face inches from the sleeping boy's.
In the dim firelight, the resemblance was undeniable—the same nose, the same stubborn set of the jaw. But Lucius's face was soft in sleep, free from the shadow of guilt that usually haunted him.
