Page 59 of Edge of the Wild

Ragnar’s grin spread, disbelieving now, mocking. “Gods, you stubborn sod. What are you afraid of? That he’ll tame himself a dragon and fly away from you? After all, what could your bed have to offer that’s better than that sort of freedom and power?”

“Ragnar–”

“He could return home, and be celebrated. Toasted as a hero and a magician, too. They’d probably even legitimize him, and then he could be the Duke of–”

Erik surged to his feet, leaned forward, and snatched Ragnar by the front of his tunic, pulling him in so their noses nearly touched. “Understand, cousin, that Lord Askr only extends his hospitality to you and your men because I asked him to. I can have you thrown out into the cold to fend for yourself at a moment’s notice.Do notprovoke me.Do nottalk about Oliver.”

Ragnar’s grin had fled.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Erik released him, roughly, and left the hall. He waved off several invitations and inquiries. Shook his head at Birger when he made to follow.

At the top of a small, private spiral staircase, he found the guest suite reserved for important visitors – royal visitors, in this case. And he found Oliver in a chair by the fire, nearly hidden beneath a heaping pile of furs and blankets. All that was visible was his nose, his eyes – gleaming dangerous as a wildcat’s in the fire and candlelight – and one curl of ruddy hair that lay against his forehead.

Erik bit back his initial laugh.

Two servants were bearing away the wooden tub and a pile of wet linen. “He’s had a bath, and some tea, and some wine, Your Majesty,” the one with the linen said. “And we’ve applied all of the blankets.”

“I can see that,” he replied, mildly. “Thank you, I’m sure it was very helpful. Can you have a supper tray sent up for him?”

“Yes, right away, Your Majesty.”

When they were gone, Oliver shrugged, sending furs and blankets tumbling off his head and shoulders to puddle around his waist in the chair. Beneath, he wore the velvet dressing gown that had once been Erik’s, and which Erik now loved seeing him wear. He said, “I am roasting alive.”

Erik let his laugh out, unchecked. “Better than freezing to death.” He crossed the room, ignoring Oliver’s glare, and pressed fingertips to his neck; his skin was warm from being bundled up, but not feverish. Then he plucked the stray curl off his forehead, smoothed it back, and checked there as well, with the whole of his palm. Again: warm, but not burning.

“For the record,” Oliver said in his driest voice. “I don’t enjoy being treated this way.”

“Like someone important?” Erik asked, withdrawing his hand, and taking the chair opposite. The fire had been built up high, and it was, in fact, too warm on the side of his own face.

“Like a child.” Oliver unwound fur from his arms and huffed a sigh. He ran a hand through his hair, curls springing up in wild profusion. His braids, Erik noted, had come undone.

As if sensing his thoughts, his little ping of regret that must have shone on his face, and in his gaze, where it rested on the loose hair behind his ears, Oliver said, “I took the beads out so they wouldn’t be lost in the bath.” He fished into the pocket of his gown and offered them for show, glittering in his palm. “Will you redo them?”

Such a little request, but it filled Erik’s chest with warmth. “Gladly.” There was a low footstool close to the hearth, and he hooked it with his toe and dragged it over; positioned it between his feet at the base of the chair. He accepted the beads, and watched, transfixed, as Oliver stood, and shed the rest of his wrappings, left only in the too-big gown that showed his sharp collarbones, velvet pooling above his bare, delicate feet.

“You don’t have to look at me like that,” Oliver said, cheeks flushing a shade deeper before he turned his back and folded down onto the stool.

“Like what?” Erik asked, smiling. He sat forward and raked his fingers through auburn curls longer than they’d been a month ago; just long enough to hold braids. Oliver’s hair was glossier and slipperier than his own; it slid like silk through his fingers.

“Like…” Oliver fidgeted, and didn’t finish.

“Like” – Erik leaned in closer, so he could smell soap, and clean skin; so his lips and beard could tickle at Oliver’s ear until he fidgeted some more – “you’re beautiful?”

That earned another sigh.

“You could try to argue the opposite, but it’s an argument you won’t win.”

Silent, Oliver lifted his hand, offering a comb and the stoppered bottle of oil that Erik used on his own hair.

“Thank you.”

Erik had always found the act of braiding to be as enjoyable as having his own hair braided. It took concentration, and dexterity, but no great or trying thought. His mind was free to wander – though it usually fixed on the emotion and meaning behind whatever plait he was weaving. Love and pride for his nephews, when he braided them up as princes. The same, full of old memory, on the rare occasions that Revna plonked down in front of him and asked him to, in her own words, do her the honor. The beads she wore then were different than the royal beads her maid braided into her hair every morning – the beads of a beloved sister and confidante.

Now, as he oiled and sectioned out Oliver’s curls, he was filled with bright affection – an affection that deepened, and warmed, and became more permanent every day. It was layered in with the sharpness of want in his belly, and admiration; a strong urge to protect, and defend, and make happy. And with a love that he had admitted with all but words: none of his people could look at Oliver and question whether he was loved, but in deference to the ways that Oliver still flinched away from devotion, on occasion, he hadn’t said so aloud. He should, he thought, kicking himself a little. Because his feelings were as complex, as intertwined, and as fiery as the braid that he fastened with three jeweled beads: ones that announced their wearer as lover, mate, and royal consort.

---