Page 53 of Garden of Poisoned Delights

Zev nodded and turned toward Dragan, seeking contact. Dragan made him finish the water, then put the mug on the bedside table and gathered his trembling mate into his arms. “You’re shaking.”

“Mmm.” Zev pressed up against him, and Dragan wrapped him tight in his arms, as Zev clung to him in a way he only ever needed after their play turned particularly intense. “It was so good, Dragan. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, but you did the work, eh?” Dragan shifted so he was on his back, and Zev climbed on top of him, warm as any pile of furs, a tangle of pointy elbows and knees and sweat-damp hair.

“You did, too,” Zev whispered, loyally, and Dragan could feel him smile against his neck before pressing a kiss there. “Do you want to fuck me?”

Dragan ran a hand down Zev’s back, tangling his fingers in Zev’s long hair. “Always, my wolf. But in the morning, I think. You can wake me up with your mouth on my cock, then ride me, hmm?”

Zev nodded, hair soft against Dragan’s naked chest. “Yes.” He lifted his head and smiled at Dragan, though he was under enough that he couldn’t quite meet Dragan’s eyes. That was all right—Dragan’s dominance was sated, but it appreciated the deference all the same. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. This winter, I will keep you warm and happy.” He tipped Zev’s face up to kiss him. “Filled up, with my cock, my tongue, my fingers, my fist, whatever you need.”

“You,” Zev said, and settled down again, head tucked under Dragan’s chin, cheek resting on Dragan’s chest as if he wanted to hear his heartbeat. “I need you.”

Warmth and contentment settled over him, and Dragan stroked Zev’s back as he slowly fell asleep. He was still roused, and he supposed he could take himself in hand and ease the ache in his cock thinking about what happened…but, no. He would wait for the morning, when Zev would be full of energy and eager to pleasure him, to ride his cock with his hair messy and tangled around his face.

Outside, the snow continued to fall over Lukos, but inside, the home he’d made with his mate was warm and safe, and his wolf was smiling in his sleep.

CHAPTER 10

Kuvar

It was the philosophers who had told Zeno about the fountain.

He liked the philosophers. There were five of them, ranging from Sabino, the youngest at seventeen, to Benedetta, a seventy-five-year-old grandmother of ten who’d once crashed a debate in heels, having charged across town from a wedding when she’d heard her rival was trying to define humanity without her. Her rival, Salvatore, was five years younger than her and lived on her roof. Most of Benedetta’s grandchildren called him grandfather, even if Benedetta swore they were still bitter enemies. Sometimes, when Zeno passed by their favorite cafe after school, he’d stop and listen to them bicker over philosophy and who made the best celebration loaves.

He vaguely knew that they were famous. Sometimes, one of them would go running off to another town or city to lecture people on the meaning of life or cause a riot in a school auditorium somewhere, but to Zeno, they were just a bunch of strange adults who shouted his name when he walked by.

It was Salvatore who caught Zeno this time, grabbing him by the collar as he slipped through Market Street with his bag in his arms.

“We have the wayward scholar again,” Salvatore said, carrying Zeno through the entrance to The Broken Arrow. The Broken Arrow was famous for holding philosophical debates, which sometimes broke into all-out brawls. Unfortunately, no one was fighting that day. The usual suspects were all calmly drinking coffee when Salvatore deposited Zeno at their feet.

Sabino sighed. He had long, black hair braided with ribbons, and he wore two rings on his nose, which made him the most interesting person Zeno had ever met. “You can’t keep running away like this.”

Zeno stared down at his shoes, clutching his bag. “It doesn’t matter. They’re rehoming me, anyway.”

Salvatore raised his brows, and Hannah, the only non-Gerakian philosopher, set down her coffee. She was paler even than the Starian baker in the main square, and Zeno could see her veins through the skin of her hands. “Isn’t that illegal in Gerakia?”

“Should be.” Jude, who’d caused a riot a few weeks ago by arguing that submission was a way to channel the divine, sucked on his teeth. “People get away with it anyway, rich folks who like the idea of children, but not the reality.”

Zeno wanted to point out that the latest foster parents weren’t really rich, but he had a feeling that would start a debate, so he kept quiet.

“But Zeno’s just a little guy,” Sabino said. When Zeno made a face, he shrugged. “Sorry, but you are.”

“I’m seven. Seven’s not little.”

“You ran away at eight,” Benedetta said, pointing at Sabino.

“But you took me in.”

The philosophers all turned to look at Zeno, who sighed heavily.

He knew what would happen next. They’d all whisper and murmur to each other, trying to figure out which one could take him for a few days, and then they’d inevitably send him back where his newest foster parents had decided, against the advice of Zeno’s wonderful schoolteacher, that Zeno being dyslexic meant he was lazy. His teacher didn’t call him lazy. She knew how hard he worked—harder than anyone else in his class—and she’d set him up with a whole new curriculum. The latest fosters wouldn’t have it. He wasn’t supposed to stumble over his words and squint at the page. He was supposed to be perfect.

“...do the paperwork,” Benedetta was saying, when Zeno came out of his funk long enough to realize Salvatore was trying to feed him coffee biscuits. Zeno gnawed on them while the other philosophers huddled together, shooting him furtive looks, and Salvatore sighed and put his feet up on the table.

“What’d you bring this time?” he asked. “You can tell a lot about a person by what they cherish in times of trouble.”

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