Page 72 of Edge of the Wild

He frowned. “Do you think I consider you in any way inferior because I find you pretty?”

Oliver’s jaw worked a moment, and then he shook his head, once; the rose threatened to tumble loose. He adjusted it himself, and twitched a wry grin. “No, I know you don’t.” He sighed, and his grin softened into something truer. “I’m sorry. I never expected…” He gestured between them. “I’m still getting used to things – but I’m not ungrateful. Nor do I doubt you.”

Erik had been born royalty; he’d never anticipated being king one day, but he’d always been a prince, would have commanded a certain level of respect regardless.

All of this was new to Oliver. At moments, like now, his uncertainty came roaring back to the forefront. Erik didn’t know what to do, aside from continue to reassure him; to show him that he was respected, and wanted, and valued.

I love you. Oliver had said those words last night, drug-cooled lips against Erik’s temple. Erik had shuddered, and shivered, and nearly come right then. Love. That was what he felt, he knew; the sort of slow-built, sustainable, devastating love he’d never hoped to have. He would not say it back; would not hold Oliver to a declaration he’d made while he was hallucinating. Those were words best saved for a lucid moment; for a moment when Erik was sure that he wouldn’t spook Oliver into pulling away from him, overwhelmed all over again by the turn his life had taken.

Therewasa confidence he needed to share, though. He took a deep breath. “I wanted to show you the roses. But, also, I wanted to tell you something.”

Oliver stilled, hand at the flower behind his ear, eyes flipping wide. The blush drained out of his face, freckles stark against pale skin. He took a shallow breath. “You do?”

Belatedly, Erik realized what Oliver thought he was about to say.

Too bad he’d already decided about waiting on declarations.

“You remember the prisoner I showed you at Aeres? The Beserkir boy?”

Oliver’s brows lowered; Erik thought he imagined a flicker of disappointment before his expression settled into something serious and businesslike. Attentive. “Yes.”

Erik realized he was spinning one of his rings around on his finger, and forced his hands still. “I interrogated him a second time, after Rune was hurt. I finally got some answers out of him – vague as they were. And then I turned him loose.”

The brows went back up. “Youwhat?”

“I gave him a bag of provisions and set him loose.”

“You…why? He hated you. He wanted to kill you – and possibly every person in Aeretoll, lofty a goal as that is. Erik” – he sounded panicked – “in Drakewell, we keep dangerous prisonersimprisoned.”

“We do, too,” Erik countered. “But I stand by my decision: it was the right one, in this instance.”

Oliver’s look dared him to explain.

Erik reclaimed his arm and started them walking again down the garden path, albeit slowly. He relayed what the young Beserkir had told him, the wild, unwilling gleam of his eyes chilling even now. “He was frightened – but not of me,” Erik said. “Someone had filled his head with hate – with a new kind of hate. The Beserkirs have always loathed us for ourSouthern ways. They see it as an abomination that we choose to live in gilt halls with carpets and tapestries. They have no use for jewels themselves because their only currency is what they can kill, or steal, or use to barter to gain a wife. All our pomp and circumstance in Aeretoll is anathema to them.

“But this boy – this boy hated us for having and not sharing. For not bettering the lives of the Waste clans. As if I withheld what was rightfully theirs, and that a kind king would have shared purely for charity’s sake.”

A quick glance proved that Oliver’s brow had furrowed, and his nostrils flared. “What? Does that mean it’s all a bunch of rot? They’ve been secretly jealous this whole time, and behaving like children? ‘That’s all right, I don’t want your fine living anyway.’”

“No. I don’t think so. They’ve been honest in their contempt for us. But something’s changed. Someone in this boy’s life left him all riled-up and dissatisfied with being a Beserkir. And the answer they gave him, it would seem, was to punish us, rather than reach out for the first time in friendship.”

“Yes, right. Well. I’m still trying to understand why youturned him loose.”

“As a show of good faith. Someone’s convinced the boy I’m a monster who wants to take his ancestral home. He can no longer believe the lies he’s been fed without question.”

“He obviously still believes some of them.”

“This isn’t him. He’s not had time to return home and raise a force to move against us. If these are in fact the Beserkirs, then he might have met up with them, yes. But releasing him didn’t cause this.”

Oliver sighed. “You made a decision, which is your right as king, and you don’t regret it. I’m not sure why you’re telling me about it at this point.”

Erik halted them again; faced him again. “I wish that I had told you earlier.”

“Why? It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

The rose was trying to come loose again; Erik tucked it back. Oliver’s hair was the same silky-soft texture as the petals, and the small gesture eased a fraction of the tension in his face. “Because whether we’re in agreement or not, I never want you to be asked about something and find yourself surprised. You are my partner and helpmeet, and I want you to know everything that’s going on.”

Oliver studied him a moment, then nodded and glanced off across the garden. “I don’t suppose I can argue with that.”

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