Page 23 of Edge of the Wild

Erik brought the scent of snow and pine in with him; Oliver felt the touch of cold, nighttime air when their sleeves brushed.

Thank gods, Oliver thought, sagging, as he watched the king survey the room and pin his gaze on his wilting sister.

Tessa’s shoulders slumped in an obvious echo.

“Rev,” Erik said, resting a hand on Revna’s shoulder. “Go to bed.”

She shook her head, biting hard at her lip, eyes glassy. “No. He needs me.”

“He needs rest, and so do you. Come on.” His voice was unbearably gentle, as was his touch, as he lifted her up out of her chair, and swung her effortlessly up into his arms.

“No,” Revna protested – but weakly. And before Erik turned and carried her from the room, she buried her face in the front of his tunic, and her body trembled with silent sobs.

Astrid – whey-faced and exhausted herself – hurried to her feet and followed them out.

Tessa stood and turned to offer a tired smile. One that quickly crumbled, and her eyes filled with tears.

Oliver stepped forward and folded her into a hug; she sagged against him, a puppet with cut strings. He stroked her hair. “Tess, you should go to bed, too.”

“I know,” she sniffled.

Hilda stood, tucking her knitting away in an apron pocket. “Come along, my lady. Thyra and Bestla will come to sit with the prince tonight, and Olaf said he would return soon, remember?”

Tessa nodded again, and pulled back, wiping her eyes. She allowed the maid to put an arm around her and guide her toward the door – but she paused, and glanced back over her shoulder at Rune. A lingering, anguished look the nature of which couldn’t be mistaken.

If Rune died, Oliver thought, darkly, then Tessa would marry Leif, and probably they would be happy. But Rune would always be the ghost in the room. The what-might-have-been.

When they were gone, he stood a moment longer, watching Rune’s shallow breathing, wanting to do something, knowing that he could do nothing but wait, same as the rest of them.

Olaf entered, Thyra and Bestla in tow, and Oliver slipped out silently.

Erik stood in the center of the common room, alone, absently twirling one of his rings around his finger. His gaze was fixed somewhere in the middle distance. He looked lost.

Oliver hesitated a moment, because there was only so much he could say, and he’d said it all already.I’m sorry; he’s strong; he’ll pull through this. Benign, meaningless words that could not, in and of themselves, convey true comfort. Voicing them again felt redundant and insufficient.

But then Erik lifted his head, and met his gaze, and Oliver was reminded that it wasn’t, and never was about the words themselves, but about the sentiments that led a person to say them, over and over, even if they never proved true.

Oliver closed the distance between them, and, without hesitating, slipped his arms inside Erik’s heavy leather coat so he could embrace him, the two of them pressed chest-to-chest, velvet-to-velvet. He didn’t sayI’m sorry, but he clutched at the back of Erik’s tunic, and pressed his face against his strong shoulder, and held him…until Erik let out a deep breath and softened against him, muscles unclenching.

A large hand curved around the back of Oliver’s skull, long fingers threading through his curls; the smooth, skin-heated metal of jeweled rings brushed his scalp. It was a gentle, nearly-reverent touch, but Oliver could feel the faint vibrations of disquiet: the nervous energy born of a king’s sense of helplessness in the face of impending tragedy.

“You should rest, too,” Oliver said.

“Even if I’m not sleepy?” Erik asked, voice a low murmur.

“Especially then.”

~*~

It was probably wrong, after having spent the last three hours holding vigil over a young man fighting for his life, to feel so good now.

Oliver pressed his face into the pillow to muffle the sounds he couldn’t keep from making, the little gasps and groans that built in his throat. Each one, no matter how quiet, was accompanied by a squeeze of Erik’s fingers on his hips; by a low curse; by a forceful thrust.

It had started quietly, Oliver pulling away from the embrace, finally, and leading Erik to his chambers. But once there, once the door was shut, Erik had set about devouring him. Oliver had felt every bit of his pent-up frustration: in the stroke of his hands, and the press of his tongue. Even now he shuddered, and Oliver couldn’t have said if it was from pleasure alone.

The next thrust pushed him up the mattress, and his mouth opened against the linen pillowcase; the sound that left his lips could only be called a whine, high and needy. Erik was sobig, and he was hitting him injustthe right spot, and Oliver pushed back against him, more wanton than he’d ever been. Sex had never been like this: as indulgent as dessert, and as necessary as breathing at the same time.

“Sweetheart,” Erik murmured, voice a low, rough rasp. “Love, that’s sogood.”

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