Page 63 of Edge of the Wild

Oliver felt hot, but not feverish; felt bold, but not unsteady. He feltsure: of himself, of what he wanted, of the moment. “I don’t want gentle.” Whatever his face did, it caused Erik’s to smooth with surprise.

“What do you want?”

He couldn’t put it into words, not now.

Ties were unlaced, dressing gowns shed, and left to puddle on the rug. Erik found the vial of oil in their bags, and, when Oliver stood, shivering, on the carpet, caught him by the face and reeled him into his warmth, his strength, and kissed him.

“Still with me?” he murmured.

Oliver still felt sure – didn’t know how he’d gotten lost there, a moment – and he nodded. “Please.”

Erik stretched out again, let him straddle his hips; stretched him open with oiled fingers while Oliver dug blunt nails into his stomach, shaking, relishing it, hair falling forward so that all he saw was a gleam of red, and the want of Erik’s eyes, just below him. That first moment, when Oliver sank down on his cock, took his breath. He’d wanted this,neededit, after he’d gone wandering, after he’d flown. He felt possessed – but also in possession, the way Erik’s head pressed back, his throat straining as he hissed, and gripped Oliver’s hips, and still, waiting for Oliver to move first. At his mercy.

This was so very different than anything he’d ever experienced before. Sex had always been a desperate, seeking, unanswered straining of two separate people with only a passing shared goal. This, with Erik, was a joining, was mutual. Oliver could feel desire – a belonging – in each huge breath beneath him, in each squeeze of fingertips and grunt of strained breath. This moment saidI know you.

It was too much.

Oliver closed his eyes as he rolled his hips, lost to the overwhelming weight of sensation and knowledge. It was so very good – and in his mind’s eye, he saw the clouds again, the North unrolled beneath him like a quilt stitched of beautiful white banners. His eyes burned, and he dimly registered the hot track of a tear slipping down his cheek.

“Gods,” Erik murmured, “love.” The mattress shifted – and then Erik was sitting up, was putting arms around him, holding him, helping to lift him, driving his pace. Lips and beard teased his throat; hands petted his waist, his chest; held his nape and supported a suddenly-weak neck.

Oliver melted. He was flying, flying, but Erik had him; Erik wouldn’t let a bad thing touch him.

“I love you,” he heard himself say, words pressed to a sweat-damp temple. “I never thought…Gods, I love you. So much.”

The gentle press of Erik’s teeth at his throat sent him over the edge, and everything was white, and blue, and wonderful.

8

The farther north you went, the lower and quicker the sunrises. Leif stood on the parapet of Redcliff’s bleeding walls and watched the first candle flame of sunrise flicker to life along the horizon, a warm flush against a bank of gray clouds, framed by low foothills. He hadn’t slept well, and was sore and tense because of it, headache building behind his eyes.

In a little while, he would go down to breakfast, fill his belly with something hot, and see what Uncle wanted to do about last night’s strange threat. For his own part, he liked Askr’s idea of taking the fight to their enemies: why should a king and all his lords hurry and hide like deer running from wolves? Why not make a stand? He knew why, practically – but there were moments when practicality set his teeth on edge.

The thump of the door and the scrape of a boot over ice-slick stone warned him of someone’s approach. Náli drew up beside him, wind lifting his pale hair like streamers. One glimpse of his face proved he hadn’t slept much either.

Leif said, “I’d tell you you look half-dead, but that might be a compliment, I don’t know.”

A flicker of a smile. “Hm. Trust me when I say that it does pain me to admit that there might be a shred of cleverness in you, Torstanson…”

Leif rolled his eyes. Sickly or not, Náli was still very much his annoying self.

“…but you aren’t far off the mark.” He breathed an unsteady sigh. “It always takes me a moment, after I go walking, to find my way back. A good night’s sleep usually does the trick. But this time…” He shook his head. “I still feel as if I have one foot on the other side, even now, standing here with you. It’spullingat me.”

Leif had never fully understood Náli’s powers, but that sounded more than a little alarming. “Has that ever happened before?”

“No. Never.” His throat moved in a painful-looking way when he swallowed. “There is magic here. Out there. Whether the shaman we saw that night is truly a skinwalker remains to be seen: but heispowerful. I think he’s keeping me like this.”

Leif rested a hand on the stone ledge and turned to face him fully; stared at his elegant profile. “Can’t you shake him off?”

“Not so far.” It was said lightly, but his voice shook.

“Have you…I don’t know. Tried communicating with him?”

“I haven’t dared.” A thin laugh escaped him, and, after, he clapped a hand over his mouth, stifling it. Then his arm fell, as if it was too much effort to hold it up. After a shuddering breath, he said, “Vagn says I need to abandon the festival and return home. That being back in the Fault Lands will soothe me. But…” He turned to Leif, finally, and the fear on his face left Leif wanting to take a step back. He didn’t, but only just. “I don’t want to.” A whisper snatched by the wind. “I don’t want to be neck-deep in the dead when I can’t pull myself out of the pit.”

Leif felt his brows go up. “Shit. I mean, well – don’t go back. Not until you have to.” He put a hand on Náli’s shoulder because it was what Uncle always did to him, to brace and encourage him. “We can look after you here.”

Náli stared at him a long moment, then he blinked, and his face became a mask of polite revulsion. “Yes. How noble of you.” He reached to brush Leif’s hand away – Leif let it fall with a spike of anger at having been dismissed – and said, “But I assure you, I can manage quite on my own.”

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