Page 48 of Blood of Wolves

Mattias stared morosely down into his cup, an older, harsher, somehow more despondent mirror image of Náli from earlier. Lovelorn fools, the both of them.

One of the others glanced up, noted Leif’s approach, and elbowed Mattias to get his attention.

Mattias lifted his head, expression shifting to something professional between blinks. It was a shift born of long practice, Leif figured.

“Your grace?” Polite – but not friendly.

He’d debated on the walk down, and decided it would be better to get the captain off on his own, rather than announce Náli’s drunken state to the whole Guard at once. “Mattias, can I speak with you a moment?”

The man seated beside him frowned. “The Guard act and think as one. You can speak to all of us, your grace.”

It was no wonder Náli was so prickly, if he’d been raised by these men.

“Mattias,” he insisted, firm, levering a bit of princely authority into his voice.

Mattias traded unreadable glances with the others – then stood, and followed Leif out into the hall.

What is it?An unasked question, but one Leif could feel the energy of bristling between them.

Leif said, “Náli isn’t feeling well. I thought he might want you to attend to him.”

A quick glance proved that Mattias broke character. His step faltered, and his eyes widened. As fast as it had happened, he regained control, but Leif had seen the slip, and it was enough to confirm all his suspicions.

“He’s unwell?” Mattias asked, a faint, underlying scrape of more than professional worry tinging his voice. “What’s wrong?”

“Too much to drink,” Leif said, patting the air between them as they walked, a soothing gesture. “He just needs some water and a few hours of sleep. But…” They’d reached a fork in the hall, and Leif turned back when he realized that Mattias had lagged behind.

The guard had his hands balled into fists, his jaw tight. Subtle signs, but signs of his worry all the same. “My lord is not in his chamber?”

“No. He’s in mine.”

The faint quirk of a brow, the compressing of his lips spoke of a fast, tightly-leashed pulse of despair. A quiet devastation.

Leif felt bad for the man, but he turned and led the way forward, silent. Up short flights of stairs and around sharp corners, in this odd maze of a fortress.

Náli was right where he’d left him, curled up on his side on the borrowed bed, furs tucked over him and the washbasin left on the floor, in case he got sick. He slept with his brows drawn together, face twisted unhappily, snoring in little huffs that stirred the hair that had slipped across his cheek.

Leif stepped aside, and watched.

Watched as Mattias rushed into the room, as if drawn helplessly forward, and then paused, hesitated. Watched as he struggled to control his expression, hands falling open, fingers twitching – wanting to touch. Watched as he approached the bed, finally, and reached to tuck the lock of hair behind Náli’s ear, a tender, almost reverent gesture. “My lord?” he murmured. But, of course, Náli didn’t respond.

Leif took pity on the poor man. “He showed up at my door a little while ago, already deep in his cups, and propositioned me.”

Mattias had sunk down to his knees by the bed, and his head whipped around, scowl not masked, this time. “Hepropositionedyou?”

“Clumsily, I might add,” Leif said.

Mattias’s nostrils flared – but he turned back to his master, hand still hovering by his ear, edge of his thumb ghosting along a smooth cheek. Leifheardhim swallow. “He is of age. He can do as he likes. So long as he–”

“Marries and produces an heir? Yeah, he was ranting about that. Said he was tired of being treated like that was all he was good for.”

Mattias exhaled, and he sounded exhausted with that one breath, his shoulders caving in so that he looked impossibly small.

“I refused him,” Leif said, and tension locked Mattias up tight. His thumb pressed an indentation into a fragile cheek. “I’m not going to take advantage of anyone in that state, for one,” Leif continued. “And I’m not interested in Náli that way besides. Nor is he interested in me.”

Mattias resumed stroking his master’s face, more firmly, surer now.

“It can be difficult,” Leif said, letting all authority bleed out of his voice, because what he was about to say was coming not from the heir of Aeretoll – but from Leif Torstanson, son, brother, nephew. “Being titled. There’s jewels, and keeps, and fine furs, and privileges, to be sure. Common folk always bowing and curtsying to you.

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