Page 41 of Honeythorn
Milan saw Lord Raphael’s face, stunned as if he had been shot right through the chest, before sleep dragged him down again.
Finally, the world around him solidified. Light streamed through the open curtains. The sky was blue outside, an irony.
Lord Raphael remained in the chair, a rough beard on his jaw, looking unwashed and exhausted even in sleep. Milan could smell him from the bed, although a similar scent was probably coming from him, too.
Milan watched him for a while, numb. He did not know what to make of Dr. Kensington’s assurances. In a strange way, it made sense. Lord Raphael’s inconsistent behaviour, the reputation he seemed to hold, so at odds with how he treated Milan. But mere ignorance did not explain everything.
If Lord Raphael had not been trying to kill him, or at least make Milan malleable by wasting him away, then why the gloves? Why the insistence in never touching?
Milan was lost in thought when Lord Raphael stirred awake. Milan twitched, fear jolting through him, but he made sure not to let it show. All was unsure now, and he couldn’t give Lord Raphael any more power.
As soon as Lord Raphael saw Milan looking back, he jolted upright. “You’re awake,” he said, sounding surprised. “Do you want some water?”
Milan nodded, propping himself up to accept the glass with a shaking hand. He felt awful, but still much better than the day after his heat.
“I…I think I have much explaining to do,” Lord Raphael said softly once Milan had handed the glass back.
Milan ignored him. “May I wash?”
“Yes! Yes, of course. Let me ring the bell. They’ll prepare a bath for you.”
“For you, too. I’m sure we can stay apart for a few minutes.”
“All right.”
As much of a relief as cleaning away the sweat of sickness and remnants of slick was, the activity was excruciating. Milan felt nothing but bitterness at how good it felt to have Lord Raphael’s hand in his again. His skin was soft and warm from the bath, his hold tight and sure.
It was enraging.
“Here—they have changed your sheets. We’ll go back to—”
“No. I cannot stay in that bed anymore. Let’s go to the library. Please.”
“Are you sure? The walk—”
“It’ll be fine.”
Lord Raphael didn’t look happy about it, but he acquiesced. The walk to the library was slow but manageable with Lord Raphael by Milan’s side. It was still a reprieve to finally collapse onto one of the couches, Lord Raphael sitting much more carefully beside him.
It dawned on Milan that, apart from journeys in the crawler, his husband and he had never sat side-by-side before. He would have laughed at the thought if it hadn’t been so depressing.
Milan turned his head to look at him. “What is your plot, then? To extend my suffering? To play with your food? You can speak frankly now that the doctor isn’t here.” Milan did not know why Lord Raphael looked so devastated at his words. Milan felt nothing at all.
“Milan. I cannot tell you how sorry I am that…I do not know how you could ever believe me, but I did not know that your sickness was due to the bond. That it was due to me.”
“Tell me your side of the story, then, if you have one, because I cannot fathom why you would so object to a simple touch of hands each night if it wasn’t to harm me. Whatever you say, youknewthe bond was suffering. You wanted it that way.”
“Yes. I wanted it that way,” Lord Raphael confessed. Milan sat up. He hadn’t expected that.
“Then you admit it.”
“That, yes—please, I will tell you every truth, but I did not know the bond would harm you this way.”
“Thenwhy? You have been bonded before—youknowwhat a healthy bond feels like!”
Lord Raphael flinched.
“Yes, I have been bonded before,” Lord Raphael said quietly.
