B100 Clo and imperial Grand?
The Emperor doesn’t say “pet” or “new toy” or anything that you’re called in newspapers, he just says “chief executioner under imperial order”, or “Clorad”. He has you tag along because you’ve been promoted (?) into being his bodyguard.
He’s asked you how you feel about him, and you’ve said “I would die for you.” Because you would, of course. That’s your job.
Beyond that, you can keep your feelings to yourself. You don’t let his eyes or the closeness of his hand and thigh when you sit with him in the royal buggy cloud your judgement, not until you’re alone, already thinking about the stately twists of his horns, the sharpness of his jaw and eyes. You’d fall for him if you weren’t careful.
You like the way he says your name when he asks you to do something. You like when he puts his hand on your shoulder and directs you. You like when he laughs and leans on you to take up more of the seat when he’s enjoying himself.
He’s said he likes to watch you train and spar. He appreciates the way you give orders to the rest of the guard. He picked you, personally.
“What do you think of me?” He asks, leaning over you, his breath sweet with the party food. The coat closet is empty, and you’re clutching his coat to your chest. “Do you like me?”
Your ears twitch. “Y-yes, of course, Emperor. I would die for you.” He’s close. You could almost touch him. “I care for you.” Shut up. “I enjoy talking to you. I like you, my Emperor.” Shut up, Clorad.
He’s expressionless, silent, and you’re sure he’ll laugh at you. A guard falling for a royal? Is this some kind of comedy? “Kurloz.”
“What?” You ask, looking up sharply. Always look at the Emperor when he speaks.
He clears his throat. “My name. Call me Kurloz when we’re alone.” His voice is softer than you usually hear it. “Would you have dinner with me?” His hand rests on your shoulder, and he leans closer, voice dropping to almost a whisper. “You can say no.”
His hand cups your cheek and you kiss him first. You can’t wait, you want to, and he just holds your chin up, wraps an arm around your waist. It’s not the frantic thing that you imagine sometimes, when you’re hive and lonely. He’s slow, gentle, taking queues from you and purring, though only just. You might pass out. Your arms settle over his shoulders, and you drop his coat, but someone knocks and the moment is gone.
You snap back from him, embarrassed and tasting Tyrian lipstick, and he bends to get his coat, calling out that he’s ready to leave. You follow him silently, your lips tingling and your pusher too fast, and he holds your hand in the car home.
