Page 108 of Blood of Wolves

“If the rest of that sentence is: find you a suitable lady of your own to wed, I beg of you not to finish it.”

“Whyever not?”

He sent her a frown, because she knew better, was smarter than this. “Because I’m not interested,” he said, tone final.

“Not interested…in ladies?”

“Mother.” A growl tickled the back of his throat, and he managed to squelch it, barely. “I’m not interested in anything like that. In marriage, or romance, or…any of it.”

Her brows drew together. “Leif, you’re the heir–”

“How can I be?” His voice had abiteto it, now, one he struggled to temper. “I’ve been groomed to succeed Uncle my whole life, and now I’m this–” He gestured to himself, helpless.

“That doesn’t matter,” she rushed to assure, stepping in close, gripping his forearm. “If it was done with magic then there’s a chance it can be undone. We’ll find a way to reverse it.”

“And if we can’t?”

“Then, it still won’t matter, because–” The rest of her sentence choked off, as he let the wolf bleed through to the forefront: nails turning to sharp claws, growl pulsing in the air around them; he felt his eyes shift, and the tingle in his gums that meant his teeth were elongating into fangs. He lifted his lip to let her see. Then dragged it all back – with no small amount of effort. Sweat popped out on his brow, and he dashed it away with the back of his free hand; even if she was staring, Revna hadn’t let go of him, was still his mother, still cared.

That hurt worse than outright rejection.

“Rune will marry Tessa,” he said, when his throat felt human again. “He can serve as heir, and, when Uncle is gone, king.” He ducked away from her touch, and her hand reached for him. “I’ll find other ways of being useful.”

“Leif!” she called after him, as he turned away.

He kept walking.

~*~

Oliver hadn’t intended to fall asleep; had decided to wait until Erik was out and then slip from beneath his arm, and return to the main floors of the palace. There were hundreds of things to do, and for his own part, the Sel camp and fleet needed to be thoroughly searched – from the safety of dragon-back, ideally. Erik would want to interview the captured general himself, but there were countless bits of intel that the rest of them could gather while the king got some much-needed rest.

But Erik’s arm was heavy, his whole body more so as he’d slowly wormed his way into lying half on top of Oliver; pair the heat of him with the softness of a real mattress, the warmth of a fire, and four walls, and the knowledge that they were safe for the moment – and the exhaustion of the journey crashed over Oliver all at once, dragging him under.

He woke sometime later to dim, slanted light falling through the gap in the shutters; and to large fingers petting through his hair, a beard tickling at his throat.

“Mm.” His eyelids weighed more than Percy. “Wha’ time izzit?”

Erik hummed a return greeting, the sound echoing through Oliver’s throat and buzzing all the way down to his stomach, which squirmed pleasantly and went a long way toward waking him fully. “Nearly suppertime, I’d expect.”

“Hm.” He was hungry, come to think of it. But Erik nuzzled into the join of his shoulder and neck, tugging at the edge of his tunic to get to skin, so food could wait. “I suppose we should see about getting you a bath,” he said, halfheartedly. He blinked his eyes to clear the last of the grit, just in time to see Erik push up onto his arms and hover over him, filling his entire field of vision. Even sleep-creased and road-weary, he was breathtakingly lovely.

“Do I smell that terrible?” he asked, a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth.

“You smell like the outdoors. And like clean sweat. I rather like it.”

Erik’s grin stretched, a little feral –eager.

Oh, Oliver had missed that grin.

Erik kissed him – not with the fraught, anguished energy of earlier, out on the ridge, when Erik had kissed him like he was afraid he wouldn’t see him alive again; that homecoming kiss that was like being able to breathe properly for the first time. Achingly tender. Oliver had never expected to feel about anyone the way he felt about Erik. He was quietly proud of the way he’d held up, during their uncertain separation, but seeing him tall in the saddle, feeling the cold, soft grip of his gloves on his face, had nearly been his undoing.

But this kiss was none of those things. Only heat, and want, colored with the trust and love they’d built between them. Oliver wound dark braids around his hands and held his lover close as the kiss deepened; as Erik’s hands started to wander.

They were still too tired for anything acrobatic. Tunics were pushed up, trousers unlaced, and they rutted against one another like schoolboys, panting into each other’s mouths, fingers digging bruises.

After, Erik flopped down beside him, and then hauled him up to lie on his chest. When he’d caught his breath, he said, “What room is this?”

Oliver snorted against his sweat-sticky collarbone. “How typical. The rich man doesn’t even know all the rooms of his house.”

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