Nyx can't quite hide his wince at Laurent's stern tone and icy look. How much is he allowed to reveal of Auguste's orders? The King hadn't told him to keep everything close to his chest, but Nyx had never been particularly good at games of words and omission. Better to fall deaf and mute and take whatever consequences fall his way than to betray his liege's directives.

But this is Laurent asking him, and beneath the clear note of command there's a faint tinge of bewilderment, unhappiness in the stiffness of his spine and in the wariness in his eyes that Nyx can't help but want to soothe away. Even if it's not his place.

"Let's just say, Your Highness, that I have clear instructions to keep myself on a very short leash when it comes to your..." How the hell is he supposed to put this? "...virtue."

Nope, that wasn't it. When Nyx puts it that way, he sounds positively nefarious. Still, too late now to take it back, so he just plows on forward, trying to mask the moment's awkwardness with a crooked smile that hangs wicked and weary on his lips.

"Consider me your overly protective guard dog, Your Highness." Just then, he happens to meet the gaze of one of the nobles lingering upon the edge of the dance floor, glaring daggers in their direction-- specifically in Nyx's direction. Nyx flashes the woman a lazy smile, unoffensive and perfectly pleased, just barely manages to quash a sigh as she scowls. "Woof."