Page 37 of Blood of Wolves

Just as he waited now, the weight of things unsaid heavy across the span of mattress that separated them.

Náli sighed. “Just say it.”

The bed creaked softly as Mattias straightened. “Say what, my lord?”

My lord. Gods, but he hated that.Say my name!he wanted to shout.Talk to me like we’re both men and not this servant-master horseshit anymore.

But that wasn’t the way their relationship ever had, or ever could work. So he said, “I know you want to tell me ‘I told you so,’ or call me a fool.” He flapped a limp hand. “You can. Proceed.” He chose to blame the way his cheeks warmed on the tea and the fire, which he faced again, allowing himself the barest glance at his captain from the corner of his eye.

When Mattias’s lashes lowered, and he glanced down at his hands, fingers laced together in his lap – strong, capable, sword-wielding hands, big and callused and dangerous, clasped now together like those of a scolded child, Náli hated it – and didn’t answer, Náli pressed on, anger rushing in to cover up his mounting distress. It was so much easier to be angry than to be afraid, and vulnerable.

“Go on,” he urged, tone sharp-edged and nasty, he couldn’t seem to help it. “Tell me that I’m reckless and stupid–”

“My lord.”

“Tell me how you warned me, how you were right, and how I’m the idiot who wouldn’t listen.” He turned to face him fully, slopping tea onto his hand, and the furs below. “Tell me how I’m going to die early just like my–”

Mattias’s hand closed around his wrist, and Náli choked off his diatribe with a loud click of teeth meeting.

Náli’s breathing was rough, chest heaving; he felt sweat gathering beneath his clothes. He knew an urge to violence so strong he gritted his teeth against it.

Mattias held his furious gaze with a resigned one of his own, and didn’t shrink away from Náli’s snarl. He said, “No, my lord. You’re neither an idiot, nor exceptionally reckless.” Voice low, and soft, and not at all angry – he sounded sad. Resigned. Nálihatedit.

“I–”

Gently, Mattias interrupted him. “You were right, before, when you said I can’t understand your magic.”

When Náli had called himdumb muscle. He flinched inwardly, and Mattias’s thumb stroked over the heel of his hand.

“I have no magic of my own. I don’t have the first idea what it feels like to have something like that inside yourself.” Another slow sweep of his thumb, purposeful, lingering over the too-fast pulse that beat on the inside of his wrist. “But I do know what your magic does to you, because I see it every day.”

“Mattias…” He meant it as a warning, but all the bite had gone out of his voice.

“When you’re too tired to stand, or you have to sleep for extra hours, or when your hands shake.”

Náli twisted his wrist, and Mattias released him.

“It’s my duty, my honor – myprivilegeto serve you.”

Oh, that wasn’t fair. He shouldn’t have to hear that sort of thing.

“It’s my sole mission in life to protect you. From outside threats, yes. But, sometimes…” His brows knitted, and he looked pained. “Sometimes that means protecting you from yourself.”

That…was true. But it didn’t mean it hurt any less to hear it.

Náli swallowed the insult that boiled up on his tongue, and turned his face away again. “At least you’re honest,” he muttered.

A beat. Mattias said, “I try to be.”

Did he sound regretful? It didn’t matter either way.

“My lord–”

Náli pushed the covers back and stood. Shakily. He gritted his teeth as his knees wobbled.

“My lord!” Mattias caught him – Mattias always caught him – and steadied him until Náli could stand on his own, cheeks on fire with shame and embarrassment. Náli refused to look up at his face, not when his own was undoubtedly red, and that was when he noticed what he was wearing. Or, rather, what he wasn’t wearing.

His boots had been removed, which was understandable. No one tucked anyone into bed with muddy boots on. But his trousers had been stripped off as well. And his tunic. He stood in a loose shirt, thick wool socks, and, thankfully, a pair of drawers – all of it clean, and soft. On his next inhale, he smelled lavender, and it wasn’t coming from the tea he’d hastily set aside, but wafting up from his own skin. The skin of his chest – glimpsed through the loose laces of his shirt – was soft and free of the inevitable sweat and grime of travel.

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