Page 24 of Edge of the Wild

His hands left Oliver’s hips. One slid down the center of his back, a possessive stroke that held him in place. The other took hold of his cock.

Already keyed up, hovering at the edge of release, Oliver fell apart in moments. A few more hard thrusts brought Erik to his own end, and he cursed and groaned as he spilled inside him.

Erik sagged against him, after, spent, He draped himself over Oliver’s back, let him feel his heaviness, the wild galloping of his heart where it pounded against Oliver’s ribs. Shaking, still pulsing with release, Oliver couldn’t hold him up, not for long.

Erik pressed a kiss to the back of his neck and then rolled away.

Oliver shifted – well, fell, really, limbs weak from coming – onto his side, and they lay facing one another, trying to catch their breath. Erik’s hair clung to his sweat-damp neck and chest; his skin gleamed bronze in the firelight. Oliver was in the throes of rippling aftershocks, but he managed to shudder all the same. Erik was magnificent in his regalia, seated on his dais, sweeping through these halls. But he was beautiful like this, unguarded and satisfied.

Oliver reached with unsteady fingertips to pluck a strand of hair from Erik’s cheek and tuck it behind his ear. The quick, reflexive smile he got in return was devastating.

All too soon, though, the world beyond the door intruded on the moment. Not in the form of a knock or a call, this time. But, chest still heaving, still gleaming and flushed and no doubt filled with the pleasant murmurings of pleasure, like Oliver, Erik’s expression darkened. He propped up on one arm, temple resting against his knuckles, and a thoughtful groove appeared between his brows.

Oliver’s hand lay on the sheets between them, and Erik turned it over, traced the lines on its palm with his fingertips, mouth tugging down at the corners.

Oliver said, “I’ve realized something.”

Erik’s forefinger skimmed along the width of his palm, and then down to his wrist, playing over the blue tracery of veins there. “Hm?”

“You’re a martyr.”

His hand stilled. His gaze snapped up. His frown deepened. “What? I am not.”

Oliver bit back a smile. “It’s terribly endearing. But always worrying that everything is your fault and that you should have done better is going to put a permanent line here.” He smoothed his thumb between Erik’s black brows, and didn’t tell him that the line already was permanent, though faint when he wasn’t tense.

Erik sighed – but his frown softened, and the line between his brows stayed faint. “That’s kingship, darling. Everything usually is your fault.”

“Even when it isn’t?”

“Especially then.”

Oliver smiled – and saw it echoed – as their previous exchange returned to both of them. Then he wriggled closer, into the ready circle of Erik’s arms, which went around him immediately. He pressed his nose into Erik’s collarbone, and held him in return. “Try to get some sleep. Another long day tomorrow.”

“That’s just it,” Erik said with obvious regret, though Oliver could feel the physical tension bleeding out of him. “They’re all long days.”

~*~

Erik dozed, at least a little. But his mind raced too much to allow him true sleep. When Oliver had drifted off – with the open-mouthed, boneless sleep of the truly exhausted – and the fire had burned down to glowing coals, Erik extricated himself carefully, slipped from bed, donned his dressed gown, and went barefoot from the chamber.

The fire in the common room had been banked, all the candles snuffed. The snow clouds that had rolled in earlier had thickened, and blocked all traces of moonlight. But Erik had been born in this royal suite; he knew ever stone, and corner, and hallway. His fingertips skimmed the edges of the tapestries before he reached Rune’s chamber; he found the door by feel, and let himself silently in.

Here there was light, still. The fire blazed, and Thyra and Bestla sat before it, talking softly and working at needlepoint. The desk had been cleared and then heaped with their tools of the trade: fresh towels, bandages, bowls, knives, and an assortment of vials.

He made a staying motion, when they moved to rise, and took the chair closest to Rune’s bedside.

Olaf stood opposite, one gnarled hand pressed to the boy’s forehead, his gaze sharp as ever in his lined, leathery face as it lifted to meet Erik’s. “The wound is not festering,” he said, in response to Erik’s unasked question. “These things are never certain, but I don’t think there’s been any great damage to his entrails. There was pus, earlier in the day, but the salves seem to be working. I’d like to clean, debride, and stitch the wound, so that it can close fully.”

Erik nodded.

“It’s the fever he’s fighting,” Olaf said with a quick shake of his hand. He shifted his hand to press two fingers to the quick, visible pulse in Rune’s throat. “No matter my efforts, that’s a battle he has to wage on his own.”

A battle in which none of Erik’s skill or experience could be of any use. He couldn’t take up a sword to protect his nephew; couldn’t rally troops and sound horns and slay enemies.

“He’s a strong lad, Erik,” Olaf said.

“So was Herleif.”

“Herleif was a child. Rune is a man. And this fever is not a sickness – these are different circumstances,” Olaf said, his expression kindly when Erik glanced toward it.

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