Page 9 of The Warrior and the Monk

Two gifts in one day—a fine tunic and a comb. Wilder glanced toward the chickens, scratching contentedly at the ground, and then back to Anders, who seemed momentarily pleased with himself despite his apparent discomfort. Perhaps he wasn’t doing as poorly with his chores—and his role here—as he’d thought.

???

Avery now ruled a flock she could call her own. Five new hens and a rooster had joined her in the yard, settling into their pen at the far end of the dwelling. True to her nature, Avery approached the newcomers with the same no-nonsense demeanor she applied to all things—with mild irritation that quickly gave way to domination. Wilder couldn’t help but laugh as she strutted about, clucking commands with an air of absolute authority. The other hens, and even the rooster, seemed to fall inline almost immediately, following her in a haphazard parade as though she were a queen and they her loyal court.

“She’s made them her retinue,” Wilder remarked, leaning on the edge of the fence to watch the unfolding drama. Avery pecked at the ground, finding a particularly interesting bit of seed, only to squawk indignantly as one of the younger hens ventured too close. The poor creature scrambled back to safety with a panicked flutter, much to Wilder’s amusement.

The flock brought more than entertainment, though. Six fresh eggs each day—more than enough to liven up their meals. Wilder had already begun planning the possibilities: generous portions of scrambled eggs, fluffy and golden; rich flatbreads layered with melted cheese and topped with soft, poached eggs; or hearty stews enriched with yolks that turned the broth into something luxuriously creamy. The thought alone made his mouth water.

And there was another prospect that made him smile: if the rooster proved as charming as he was boastful, they might soon hear the tiny chirps of new life. Wilder pictured the yard bustling with tiny, downy chicks darting about like little golden puffs of dandelion seeds. The image filled him with a sense of warmth, a contentment that had been elusive for much of his life.

The chickens had become a surprising but welcome addition to the house, their presence breathing life into the quiet homestead. Wilder found himself checking on them often, scattering seed or simply observing their antics. They cheered him immensely. And, it seemed, Anders too. Every time Wilder looked up from the coop, grinning at Avery’s antics or marveling at the shiny, speckled eggs nestled in the straw, Anders was watching him. He never said much, but the soft smile on his face spoke volumes.

Wilder noticed it most when they were together near the flock. Anders would lean against the fence or stand just behind him, always at ease in his silent way. The gentle curve of his lips, the light in his eyes—it made Wilder’s chest feel warm in a way he couldn’t quite explain. Perhaps it was pride in their shared work, or perhaps it was something deeper.

???

A strange noise woke him.

Wilder huddled in his bed of furs, unwilling to open his eyes. Had there been a noise at all, or had he dreamed it? There were certainly different sounds here. The waves at the monastery had been a relentless, constant crash against the shore. Here, the river was nearly silent; it was the owls and the crickets that conversed late into the night. But that hadn't been what had stirred him from sleep. Finally, with great reluctance, he peered out into the darkness. The fire was out, its ashes cold. He blinked.

There it was, that noise again.

Some sort of animal? A fox or a wolf, searching for the hens, sleeping at the other end of the house? He and Anders needed to—wait, where was Anders? Wilder searched for his form on the other side of the hearth and saw nothing but rumpled furs. Had he already gone to find whatever it was?

A low grunt from beyond the entryway. That was definitely Anders. Wilder rose onto his elbows, listening intently. What was going on? Was someone out there with him? Were they fighting? Did Anders need help? What was—

Suddenly, Anders began to pant, his breath heavy and wet. There was the rustle of fabric, the jostling of a belt, and a slick, slapping sound.

Oh.

Wilder's face burned as he realized just exactly what the noise was.

Anders was pleasuring himself.

Why? was Wilder's panicked first thought. He quickly dismissed it. Why wouldn't he? It was none of his business to wonder about Anders's habits. No matter what they were. And at least he'd had the decency to step outside while attending to his needs.

Wilder shifted uncomfortably in the bed of furs, trying and failing to block out the sounds, and trying and failing not to imagine what Anders looked like while he touched himself. He was such a large man. Twice Wilder's size. Surely that meant he was—proportional everywhere? Wilder thought of his broad, massive shoulders, his muscled forearms, his biceps, his calves, his thighs, and blushed further when he wondered about what hung between them. Anders had thick, dark curls, and his chest was hairy as well. Did that mean—?

The thought of Anders's naked body made him flush with more than mortification. Arousal spread through his body like a stain. The man who had captured Wilder and brought him to this place was—stroking himself just outside the house and Wilder was aroused at the image he held in his mind's eye. Anders, completely bare, one fist wrapped around his hard cock, teasing and stroking it, mouth open, lips wet, as he leaned against the wall of the longhouse.

He didn't need to imagine his moans.

Wilder rolled onto his belly and covered himself with his furs. They only somewhat muffled the utterly sinful noises Anders was making. He tried, ridiculously, to drown out the rest by singing hymns in his head.

Blasphemous as it was to admit, Anders was much more enthralling. The low pitch of his moans, the breathiness of his gasps, the wet, steady rhythm of his hand. Wilder thought,distantly, of lust, and of celibacy, and how once they had been nothing but distant concepts to him. Passion and desire, especially ones of the body, were to strictly avoided. That had never been an issue for Wilder before. None of the monks inspired any particular sort of daydreams. They were just men, most old enough to be his grandfather.

Anders was—also a man, yes, but he was a man that Wilder had never known could exist. God had created the earth, the sea, the sky, and all the creatures that lived in those places, humans included, but it seemed to Wilder that Anders had been sculpted differently. Even among the other warriors, Anders stood out. He was taller than they were, larger, stronger, but more alert, more aware of his surroundings, and—kinder, Wilder thought. More sensitive. Was that a natural inclination, he wondered, or had that been something learned, when he lost the ability to speak?

Another moan, more ragged, more desperate, jarred Wilder from his thoughts. Anders had not been rendered completely silent, and, for all that he seemed to focus on the maintenance of the longhouse, neither was he without his own desires. Surely he wanted companionship. Surely he wanted pleasure. He had to be lonely, living with only a man who didn't speak the same language and a flock of chickens. Wilder certainly was.

Wilder jumped as Anders groaned as if in pain. He'd—finished.

Careful but familiar footsteps drew closer to the hearth. If the fire had still been lit, what would he have seen? Anders, naked and sweaty, chest heaving, cock spent, as he slipped back underneath his furs?

Wilder fell asleep with great unease, concerned at this new discovery that Anders sought pleasure and satisfaction of the body.

That Anders wanted.

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