Page 15 of The Warrior and the Monk

"May I?" Wilder asked. At Anders's nod, he dipped a finger into the jar.

The honey was darker and thinner than he expected, running smoothly as he lifted his hand. He watched it drip back into the jar before popping his finger into his mouth.

A soft moan escaped him. Wilder’s eyes fluttered shut as the honey melted on his tongue. It was unlike anything he’d ever tasted. The monastery’s honey had been reserved for medicine or the wealthy, far beyond his reach. But this—this was sweet, almost impossibly so, with a floral richness that lingered long after he swallowed. It was warm and smooth, coating his throat in a way that felt both indulgent and comforting.

Wilder licked his lips, savoring the last traces. "Thank you, my lord," he murmured, his voice filled with genuine gratitude.

Anders made a strangled noise in response. Wilder looked up to find him busying himself with the ingredients, his movements quick and almost frantic. His ears, Wilder noticed, were redder than the firelight alone could account for.

Wilder smiled to himself, a strange warmth blooming in his chest that had nothing to do with the honey or the hearth.

After washing his hands, Wilder joined Anders at the table. The inviting spread of ingredients gleamed in the flickering firelight, and he couldn’t help his curiosity. “What are we making?” he asked, though the answer seemed obvious. Something sweet, something decadent—surely something with honey at its heart. A bread, perhaps? Or a pie? Whatever it was,the promise of it stirred more eagerness in Wilder than anything else Anders had taught him to prepare.

Anders gestured to the butter and flour first, and they set to work on a dough. Under Anders’s guidance, Wilder learned to cut the butter into the flour using his fingers, squeezing the cold, firm lumps until the mixture resembled coarse breadcrumbs. Each motion felt oddly meditative, the rhythm of it grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. When the texture was right, Anders measured out a trickle of cold water, just enough to bring the dough together into a pliable ball.

“Like this?” Wilder asked, holding up his misshapen tart shell, its edges uneven.

Anders chuckled softly, taking it from him. With deft hands, he smoothed the dough into something neater, pressing it into a shallow pan. They didn’t have a proper oven, but Anders showed Wilder how to bake the tart shell using the hearth. The pan went onto the fire, covered with an overturned bowl to trap the heat.

While the fire worked its magic on the crust, they began the filling. Anders cracked the eggs into a bowl, his movements precise and practiced. Wilder whisked them together, adding the milk as Anders poured it in a steady stream. Then came the honey.

Wilder’s eyes widened as Anders ladled in what felt like an impossible amount. “That much?” he exclaimed, watching the golden liquid swirl into the mixture.

Anders only nodded, a small smile playing at his lips.

Once the filling was ready, Wilder leaned over the tart shell, carefully lifting the bowl to peek. It had started to brown, the edges crisp and golden. With Anders’s nod of approval, Wilder poured the filling into the shell. He moved slowly, watching the mixture settle like liquid sunlight before covering the pan again.

“How long will it take?” Wilder asked, brushing flour from his hands.

Anders crouched by the hearth and nudged an ember with his boot. It glowed faintly before dying out. Wilder frowned at the cryptic gesture, then realized Anders meant the tart would be done when the hearth cooled.

“That long?” Wilder groaned, glancing at the fire as if willing it to speed up. The sheer extravagance of the recipe—the ingredients, the effort, the waiting—left him restless. He poked at the flames with a stick, the sweet, warming aroma teasing him as it thickened in the air.

He stole glances at Anders, who was seated at the table, sharpening a small knife. Wilder’s thoughts wandered as they often did when there was quiet. How did Anders know this recipe? Who had taught it to him? And with whom had he shared such a dish? The longhouse, with its ample space, suggested it had once been full of people. Family, perhaps? A wife? Children? Anders had not spoken of them, nor had anyone come to visit since Wilder’s arrival.

Why had Anders chosen to share something so rich and indulgent withhim, of all people?

At last, Anders uncovered the tart and brought it to the table. Wilder gasped. It was beautiful, its crust golden brown and its filling smooth, firm, and glossy—the vibrant yellow-orange of sunrise. He reached out tentatively to touch it, marveling at how it held its shape.

Anders huffed a laugh, retrieving a knife. He cut two wedges, placing the larger portion in front of Wilder.

“Thank you, my lord!” Wilder cried. If Anders hadn’t handed him a spoon, he might have eaten it with his fingers.

The first bite was heaven. The crust was flaky and buttery, the custard luxuriously thick and sweet with honey. It was unlike anything Wilder had ever tasted. He couldn’tsuppress a laugh as he licked his lips. “It’s delicious,” he said. “It’s very good, Anders.”

Anders’s smile widened, his delight evident. They ate in companionable silence, exchanging glances and soft smiles. Wilder felt a rare warmth in his chest—a sense of shared accomplishment and simple joy.

He had been so engrossed in the moment that he didn’t notice Anders leaning closer until their lips met.

The kiss was sudden, soft at first but deepening quickly. Wilder froze, his mind blanking at the shock of it. Anders’s lips were warm, and his tongue brushed against Wilder’s, lingering where crumbs of tart had been moments before. The sound Anders made—a low, desperate moan—sent a jolt through Wilder’s body. It was a sound Wilder had heard before, muffled through walls, but now it was here, raw and unmistakable.

Anders’s hand gripped Wilder’s side, sliding to his ribs, his fingers pressing firmly. The scent of sweat and smoke mingled with the honey on Anders’s breath, overwhelming Wilder’s senses.

He trembled, his breath hitching as he made a soft, pleading noise against Anders’s mouth. His pulse raced, panic and confusion rising in equal measure.

Anders tightened his hold, his mouth more insistent.

The realization hit Wilder like a thunderclap. This wasn’t just a kiss. This wasn’t something shared between equals. This was something he hadn’t consented to. The memory of those mocking voices came back to him, the men who had jeered at Anders in town, asking if he was a good man, a good lord.

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