The stench hit me first. Sweat, incense, and the now unmistakable scent of sex. I nearly gagged, thankfully my years of proper etiquette training helped to keep my face neutral.
The king stood with his back to me, one hand on his hip, wearing nothing but a pair of ankle-length trousers.
'Do not look. Do not look. Do not...'
I looked.
Bronze skin. Broad shoulders. Long black hair falling down his spine like spilled ink. A waist so trim it was almost unfair to the entire human race, and below that... well. Let's just say his backside could put most women's to shame.
I swallowed. The gulp sounded like a cannon going off in the silence, but he didn't seem to notice.
Then I remembered two things. One: I was a man now, so admiring another man's build was, technically, a normal thing to do. Right? And two: this man could end my life with a wave of his hand, and that was not a figure of speech, so it could be excused as nervousness.
Fine. I will admit to admiring him, the way one admires a tiger. From a very safe distance, with a lot of respect, and a strong desire to remain uneaten.
And it wasn't hard to see why he looked that way. From what I'd heard, he had been raised on battlefields since before he turned ten. That kind of upbringing would certainly leave its marks.
His shoulders sagged just a little. It was quite a regular sight lately. His partners ran out of energy long before he ran out of desire, and that was where my duties changed. I went from silent guard to midnight bath attendant.
With cold water. Every. Single. Night.
I had asked, once, very carefully, whether we couldn't at least warm it a little. He had looked at me as though I'd suggested setting the palace on fire, and I had never asked again.
He raised his arms, and I sprang into action. I fetched his coat and slipped it over his shoulders, straightening every fold while holding my breath, avoiding eye contact, avoiding skin contact, and absolutely, definitely not letting my gaze wander to his abdomen.
Then I stepped back, eyes on the floor, and waited.
He walked. I followed five paces behind, like a shadow that had made a lot of poor decisions.
The bathhouse doors were made of dark, heavy wood that probably cost more than my entire village-worth of pride. I slipped in behind him and closed them softly.
He lifted his arms again. My signal.
I walked around him and began to undress him, one layer at a time. The coat, then the belt. And when we reached the very last piece of clothing, I'll admit my hands trembled. I unfastened the belt, loosened the trousers, and let them fall, then bent down to gather them up while staring in every direction except the one that mattered.
I wished for the earth to crack open and swallow me whole. The earth, unhelpfully, declined.
And the worst part? I now owned the very same equipment. That did not make this easier. If anything, it made it worse. I knew exactly what he had, exactly what I had, and exactly how unfair it would be to compare.
You see, the first time I'd had to do this, I nearly lost my mind. In my old life, the most I had ever seen of a man was a V-line and a pair of thighs at the beach, and even that had caused my face to turn a shade of red that made me resemble a ripe tomato. I had a résumé full of accomplishments. Debate captain. Dean's list. Not one line of it had prepared me for this particular job description.
And now I was expected to serve one this intimately?
I'd tried to leave his trousers on that first night. I almost got away with it, too. But then His Majesty pointed out, in a very calm voice, that they were indeed supposed to come off as well.
There was no escape after that. I had tried exactly one more clever trick since, a strategically placed towel, and he had looked at it, looked at me, and said nothing at all, which was somehow worse than being scolded.
One of my main goals was to avoid trouble, so I surrendered and did my duties exactly as the original owner of this body would have. Naturally. Calmly. Without a single sign that I was screaming 'Bloody Hell!!!' on the inside.
I quickly straightened, ready to flee outside and wait in the corridor like a civilized coward, when his voice boomed through the room.
"Help me wash my back."
I nearly leapt out of my skin.
He rarely spoke to me directly, and honestly? I was grateful. Every time he did, I could feel the breath of a guillotine on the back of my neck.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
I set his clothes aside, picked up the cloth with hands that were absolutely not shaking, and waited for him to step into the bath. Then I followed him up the stone steps and knelt at the edge.
His back was right in front of me. Wide, scarred in places, and warm with steam. I counted the scars without meaning to: one long pale line across the left shoulder blade, a puckered mark lower down, near his ribs, and a scatter of smaller ones I couldn't begin to guess the story behind. Each one, I supposed, was a battle I would never hear about from a man who apparently communicated primarily in grunts and orders.
'Just wash it', I told myself. 'It's a back. Everyone has one. You've seen backs before.'
I dipped the cloth into the water and reached forward. My hand found his shoulder, and beneath my palm I felt his muscle shift like something alive and dangerous, patiently waiting to remember it was dangerous at all.
Somewhere in the heavens, I'm certain a god was laughing, and I hoped, fervently, that whichever one it was would choke on the joke and die, if possible.