Page 45 of Blood of Wolves

But that was the thing: it would be duty. Perhaps they could find happiness, down the line, even love…but he’d seen the way she looked at his brother. If he offered for her, and got between them, that wouldn’t be fair to any of the three of them.

Already, he was turning loose of the idea of wedding her. It was for the best, truly. That left him free to throw himself into this war as he should, and left Rune with a sweet, quiet soul to temper his recklessness.

It didn’t mean it didn’t sting, though.

A knock sounded at his door – a sequence of knocks. Two hard and sharp…followed by a sloppy flurry of softer ones, all of which seemed to be somehow sliding down the outside of the door. He got up to answer it, frowning, not at all prepared for the sight that awaited him on the other side.

Náli stood slumping sideways, one shoulder resting heavily against the doorframe, his whole, lean body lax in a way Leif had never seen before, save when he was passed out – and this was not that. Hair unbound, shirt unlaced beneath a hastily-thrown on fur mantle, Náli didn’t look pale, clammy, and sick – but flushed, drowsy-eyed, and smirking. He held the neck of an uncorked bottle loosely in one hand, and his gaze, hooded and glassy, traveled slowly all the way down Leif’s body, to his sock-clad toes, and back up again. A smile broke crookedly across his lips.

Leif blinked. “Hello.”

“Hellooooo,” Náli returned, voice purring and soft-edged. He executed another up-and-down perusal of his person and Leif felt a little…underdressed, suddenly. “Are you going to invite me in, your grace, or leave me cold in the hallway?”

“Um,” Leif said, elegantly, and then opened the door wider.

Náli pushed off the doorway with effort – only to trip crossing the threshold.

“Whoa.” Leif caught him by the arm and righted him. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Enough.” With his free hand, Náli gave a flapping gesture that would have been crisp and dismissive under better circumstances; now it resembled an injured bird struggling to take to the air.

“Enough for what? You’re supposed to leave in the morning, at first light.”

“Yes, yes.” Náli flapped his hand again, turned, wobbled, and fell back so he was slouched on the edge of the bed. “Wouldn’t want to keephis lordshipwaiting.”

This was…not good. This was, in fact,bad.

The door was still open, so Leif eased it shut, lest someone hear Náli’s wine-loud voice.

When the latch clicked, Náli said, “Ooh, yes, wonderful idea. Privacy,” and a single finger-stroke of fear trailed down Leif’s spine.

He turned back slowly, and found Náli reclined with a hand propped behind him on the mattress, wine bottle threatening to slip from the lax fingers of the other. Blurred as it was by drink, it took Leif a moment to recognize that the look being sent his way was a smirk.

He took a measured breath and tried to decide the best course of action.

A decision made for him when Náli tipped his head, loose hair sliding across his shoulders, and said, “See something you like?”

Gods.

Leif sighed. “Náli, what are you doing?”

Náli gestured clumsily to his own person with the bottle; ruby droplets slopped from the opened mouth of it and landed on the fur coverlet. “Isn’t it obvious?” His smirk became a leer; his lashes fluttered, and Leif didn’t know if it was purposeful, or the effect of too much drink. “I’m….sssee – seduccccing. You.” He hiccupped.

Well, that answered that. Leif quickly found that his initial jolt of fear was being replaced by pity, and tried to keep it from his voice. “I see. And why are you doing that?”

“Because” – he swayed, righted himself, and his gaze turned reflexive as he searched for the words – “because you – ha! Because you like me,” he finished, triumphant. “Oliver said so.”

“I do like you.”

“Well…” With the slow care of the truly drunk, he leaned sideways to set the wine bottle on the chest at the foot of the bed, then patted the empty span of mattress beside him, his look a glassy invitation.

“I like you – but not like that.”

It took a comical amount of time for the words to sink in, and then he pushed his lower lip out in a dramatic pout. “What?” Leif thought he aimed for his usual cutting tone, but managed only to sound young and forlorn, instead: a child denied a sweet.

Leif sighed, and crossed to sit beside him, leaving a healthy foot of space between them. A mistake, it proved, because the moment he was settled, Náli swung a leg over his thighs so he straddled his lap.

“Shit.” Leif caught him by the waist, when he wobbled, and Náli’s hands slapped down on his shoulders, squeezing tight, fingertips digging into muscle through cloth.

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