Page 82 of Edge of the Wild

“Oh, and I suppose you’ve heard every language,” Oliver said, hotly. “Because you’re the smartest man in the whole world. If you’ll remember correctly, you thought the drakes were extinct, so forgive me if I don’t give ground to your superior knowledge in this instance.”

Erik’s nostrils flared as he took a sharp, audible breath, and, finally, the explosion came. But, again, not at all how Oliver had expected it.

He pushed off from the door in a movement shockingly sinuous for such a large man; stalked forward graceful as a panther, but pulled up before he could reach Oliver – who had reached behind him to grip the table edge, head tipping back to meet his gaze, which was, up close,anythingbut indifferent.

“Did it never cross your mind,” he growled, voice low and vicious, “that the thing might eat you? That you could have died?”

Oliver was reminded, in this moment, of the day he’d first met Erik. Of the indolent and disinterested king on his throne, with his crooked finger, and his chilly stare. He’d marveled at his own nerve, at that first dinner, that he’d bitten back so fiercely, that he’d challenged Erik.

This was different. He wasn’t afraid, now, not as he had been then. Didn’t think that Erik might have him thrown out into the snow; wasn’t afraid he’d be struck down, like he had that day in the training yard –pick it up– when Erik had tried to humiliate him.

This was worse, because now, the cold dread in his belly spoke of a different fear: the fear of being set aside. Of being unloved.

I love you, he’d confessed, in his drugged delirium, and Erik hadn’t said it back. Might never love him, now.

But Oliver had never been one to go down without a fight, stupidly stubborn until the end. “What about you?” he shot back. “You were facing it down with a sword – you looked awfully read to be eaten yourself.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“Because I was ready for it!”

Oliver felt his brows go up. “You were ready to die?”

“I always am,” Erik snarled, turned, presented his shoulder, and stalked toward the hearth. He stood there a long moment, back rigid, staring into the flames.

Oliver waited, and waited – waited for the line of his spine to relax, for his shoulders to drop; for some measure of now-familiar softness to steal over him. But it didn’t.

Finally, Oliver said, “You’realwaysready to die?”

“I’m not some soft Southern lord,” Erik spat. “I don’t expect more of my men than I do of myself.”

Oliver wanted to roll his eyes – and to scream. “This again? Was this about honor?” When Erik didn’t respond, he walked closer, so he stood facing Erik’s stern, fire-bathed profile; his jaw was clenched, muscle and tendon standing taut in his throat. “Are you suggesting I – I don’t know – unmanned you tonight? You would have rather had a dragon under an enemy’s spell rip you to bits than let me interfere?” That wasn’t a fair question, and he knew it, but his own pride was stinging, too.

Again, he didn’t think Erik would answer. But after a moment, a muscle in his cheek leaped, and he said, “I told you to stay inside.”

The breath left Oliver’s lungs on a huff of disbelieving laughter. “Are – are you serious? Do you actually…you told me to stay, and I should have stayed?”

“Yes.”

Oliver nodded. “All right. Yes – all right. That makes sense.” He went to the door and stepped back into his boots.

“Where are you going?”

“To get drunk,Your Majesty. Unless I’m being told tostay, again, like a bloody dog.” When no answer came – thankfully, for once – he stomped out into the hall, and slammed the door behind him. The satisfaction of the noise was fleeting. By the time he reached the head of the spiral stairs, he was hyperventilating.

He stopped a moment, pressed his back to the wall, and tried to catch his breath.

This was only an argument, he told himself. Both of them would calm down, and they could stammer out apologies, and they could be stronger going forward after this.

But he’d never been a part of a pair; never had anything like a true relationship, a romantic partnership. And a large part of him now, beneath the anger and frustration, worried that this was not an argument, but a breaking-apart.

When he’d gathered himself, he proceeded down, into a hall that contained an informal, and dwindling party of late-night diners. Only a few remained – a group of guards trailing out as he entered – and those sat in small clusters and groups, nursing ale and picking at mostly-empty platters. Oliver spotted Birger and Leif together, and Leif motioned him over.

He settled gratefully onto the bench and accepted the mug of ale slid toward him with a nod of thanks.

“You all right, lad?” Birger asked, gaze sharp with concern.

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