Page 9 of Corin and the Courtier
Appearing to be a total thoughtless asshole would have to be his penance for being far, far worse than that.
Aster’s face, already too pale except for the black shadows beneath his eyes—fuck, Corin was a monster after all—went a shade whiter, and he bit his lip, brows drawing together in a frown.
“I’m sorry, Corin,” he said, so softly that it felt like a punch to the gut. Belinda had been right, and it had nothing to do with his scales or wings or claws or her disfigured lover. “I’m sorry for that and for—for everything. For coming here. I know you never wanted to see any of us again, and I know you didn’t want anything to do with the court, and my troubles are bringing that to your doorstep, in a certain sense, anyway. And please call me Aster, too,” he added in a rush, his cheeks flushing a pretty rose-pink. Perhaps that would be the color of the roses that had lent him his scent. God, what a nonsensical idea. “I may not be Lord Anything anymore, either, now that I’ve run away. I’m probably disowned.”
His voice trailed off into something barely above a whisper, and he cast his eyes down, blinking as if to prevent tears from falling.
That was more than a punch to the gut. That was a full-force kick from a dragon’s hind leg. Someone needed to take care of this lad, badly. And it couldn’t be Corin. It couldn’t possibly. He could barely take care of himself, and besides, he bloody well didn’t want to. He’d already promised once to spend the rest of his life caring for one of that fucking family, and look how that had turned out. Aster might look innocent, but he probably had the same rot at his core as his sister.
And then Aster cleared his throat and lifted his chin. His eyes glistened, bright blue made even brighter, but he held Corin’s gaze steadily and even tried to smile, a sad little quirk of the lips. “Again, forgive me. I’m still not myself. Ignore my foolishness.”
Those eyes. That voice. That sweet scent. Corin could drown in them.
His heart gave another agonizingly guilty twist. Courage in any form showed a man’s character, and despite what so many believed, courage could be far more difficult off the battlefield than on it. Aster might look like Belinda and he might have come here for reasons that made Corin want to throw him out the window.
But he was so young, so alone, and trying so hard to be brave.
“There’s nothing to forgive, Aster,” Corin said, surprising himself by how close he came to really meaning it. And if his voice dipped a little lower on Aster’s name, well. No human would be able to hear that over the aggressive crackle of the fire. “Sit. Eat. Get warm. I’ve been without company for so long that I’ve turned into a beast.” He tried a smile on for size, hoping it didn’t look too feral, and felt a strange lightening in his chest when Aster’s lips curled up a little more in response. “But I’m expecting that explanation. You said you might’ve brought the court to my doorstep, in a sense. That’ll be literally true when they come looking for you.”
Aster sighed, nodded, and pushed off the doorjamb, coming all the way into the room at last, as if Corin had finally made him feel welcome enough to step over the threshold. “Of course I’ll explain,” he said. “But I don’t think they’ll look for me here. This is the last place anyone would look for me.”
Corin disagreed completely that no one would look for him here; even if they didn’t come this way expecting to find Aster with Corin, they’d ask in the village and end up here by process of elimination.
But arguing about it wouldn’t serve any purpose, and he wouldn’t get anything sensible out of Aster until he’d eaten and woken up a bit. Corin waved a hand at the food and took a seat on one of the chairs he’d pulled up. That proved to be a sufficient invitation. Aster dropped down onto one of his own, piled half a loaf of bread with cheese and beets, and tore into it like a starving wolf. While hungry himself, Corin ate more slowly, making sure Aster had his fill. After all, he could always change forms and devour the rest of that haunch of pig he had out in the shed.
Besides, the flicker of the firelight on Aster’s gleaming hair and on his face, which was slowly regaining color as he ate, proved distracting enough to keep Corin from feeling the force of his hunger. The hall did have open, unglazed windows high up in the walls, but he’d closed the shutters to keep out the snow. Even if they’d been open there wouldn’t have been much light on such a stormy day. It left Aster looking like something out of a fairy tale.
He resembled Belinda both more and less than Corin had originally thought. More, in that he’d always thought Aster rather plain and was now forced to revise that opinion, and less in that he’d never spent enough time with him to see his individuality.
The shutters didn’t keep out the draft, of course, and every now and then a particularly violent gust rattled them and whistled through their cracks, sweeping down into the room to make the fire dance and flutter the ancient, moth-eaten tapestry on the opposite wall. The small fort had originally been built as a watchtower, and then used as a base for bandits who preyed on small caravans going over the nearby pass. It had eventually fallen into the possession of Corin’s great-uncle, who’d used it as a sort of hunting lodge. He’d been the one to put up the ugly hanging of a great gold dragon carrying off a stag.
But he’d grown old enough that he stayed mostly at home, and Corin had appropriated the place, with Great-Uncle Ivar’s blessing, as his refuge from the humiliation and violence that had marked the end of his life at court. In fact, Corin’s family had rejoiced when he asked permission to come here. They’d made it clear that they hoped he’d finally given up his foolish obsession with human swords and spears and armor and chosen to take a more draconic path in life.
Ironic, given how embarrassed his family had been as he grew and showed far more physically draconic traits than his peers. His cousins, except for Fiora, had whispered and laughed and called him a primitive beast.
Perhaps he’d chosen to live among humans in part to prove he could.
But whatever his reasons, he’d grown to love his life as a knight, and he couldn’t choose what he loved, what he hoarded. One couldn’t change one’s nature, after all, and he’d have thought other dragons would understand if anyone would—but he’d kept his mouth shut. Why argue about it all over again? His family hadn’t quite disowned him the first time. Maybe he could keep it that way.
And now Aster had come here to escape a humiliating situation involving a faithless betrothed just as Corin had, with an equally disapproving family lurking in the background.
He set the rind of his piece of cheese down onto the plank he’d used as a makeshift serving platter, no longer hungry after all. Aster had slowed down at last, having polished off most of the bread and cheese and, to Corin’s surprise, almost all of the beets. At least now they’d both smell like pickles.
And suddenly his mental perspective shifted, as if he’d taken a huge step off to the side and viewed the two of them sitting by the fire as an outside observer might. Sitting there in his inside-out bread-crumb-strewn tunic with his pink lips dyed even pinker from the beets, Aster had become another refugee from the civilized world—another man, plain and simple, with nowhere else to go.
And they both smelled like pickles.
Corin realized, when Aster looked up sharply with startled eyes, that he’d started to laugh.
“I’m sorry,” he said, still grinning. “But it struck me all of a sudden what a pair we are. All covered in crumbs and beet juice and not a clean shirt to be had in the whole ramshackle place.”
His merriment faded as Aster didn’t laugh with him, simply sitting frozen and staring at him, eyes wider and wider.
“What?” he demanded, self-conscious and fighting the urge to twitch. Did he look even more unkempt than he’d thought? Or maybe he’d completely misjudged Aster’s sense of humor. It wouldn’t be the first time. Belinda had never even cracked a smile when he tried to joke. Perhaps she and her brother had that in common.
“Oh,” Aster said after a long moment. “I hadn’t heard you laugh in so long.” His natural color had come back with the warmth of the fire and the meal, but now his cheeks flooded with pink, the same color Belinda had…well, honestly, she’d probably used rouge. “Um. I’m sorry, I’m still worn out from the journey.”
They’d barely spoken above a dozen words to one another before last night, meeting a few times at the Cezanne family townhouse in the capital and a few more at court or at various parties and balls. There’d always been so many other things to claim Corin’s attention. Mostly Belinda, since she’d never appreciated it when his focus wavered. And then once, perhaps, Corin had attempted to correct his form when he’d been sparring with another gentleman at the palace training yard. When had Aster heard him laugh in the first place?
