Page 80 of Dark Sun (Wicked Lovely 6)

Niall had been pacing through the house like he only did when he was trying to wrestle with emotions. For all that the Dark Court fed on emotion—the darker sort—Niall still had an excess of discomfort with that part of himself. Now that Irial had him in the study, he’d hoped to redirect that emotional madness toward something mutually rewarding, but now he was wondering if going to the fight ring would have been wiser. Niall was partial to fists to resolve his thoughts.

As if he heard Irial’s thoughts, Niall curled his hands into fists at his side. “You cannot expect me to turn around and—”

“Bend to my will?” Irial interrupted.

“Your son tried tokillanother regent,” Niall repeated. “Hehatesyou.”

“Make him your heir, love. It’s not like you have to hand him the court. It’s a token, a way to say we accept him, that we want him in our court.” Irial caught Niall’s hand as he passed by. “Have I ever asked for—”

“You ask for everything.” Niall tugged away and sighed. “All the fucking time, Irial.”

“Dark Court,” Irial said simply, settling back into the cushions to preen a little. The frustration in Niall’s voice had been accompanied by his hands unfolding.

Distracted after all.

Niall flopped onto the divan, absurdly beautiful in his temper, and conveniently between the liquor and Irial.

Irial waited to see if Niall was going to do anything.

He offered his glass to Niall, an offering that was not refused this time.

“Can I think about it?” Niall said. “If I agree to that, will you let it go until I—”

“It’s your court,” Irial said. “I’m a guest in your h—”

Nial snorted. “It’s your home, too, but itismy court now.”

As if it was too much to allow himself to do more, Niall looked at Irial before adding, “I want peace in our home. No matter what I decide. I wantyouhere. You and Leslie are my life. I won’t invite Urian here, even though he’s your son, if he is a threat to either of you.”

“That’s all I ask. Consider it.”

Niall nodded, and then he closed his eyes. Head thrown back, slouched on the sofa like every temptation Irial had ever had to resist.

“Like art,” he murmured.

Then Irial made sure his hand landed on Niall’s thigh—high enough to be an invitation but not so high as to be presumptuous--as he reached for the second glass. For all the years of loving Niall, Irial never let himself forget that Niall was a gift, a fleeting gift at that, and he could vanish easily the next time Irial fucked up too badly.

“No art,” Niall grumbled.

He pulled Irial over him and kissed him. With Irial, Niall kissed the same way he fought—like he wanted to bruise him. The taste of peat smoke on his tongue was as close to heaven as a nightmare could be. Irial was certain of it.

And he wanted more of it.

But the cold chill over his skin made him look over his shoulder. One of the cadaverous Scrimshaw Sisters glided into the room with her usual macabre beauty.

Slowly, careful not to hint at shame or imply rejection, Irial moved off Niall’s lap and sat beside him. Niall was not as at ease with the violence of how he loved. To be extra clear, Irial took Niall’s hand in his.

Ethereal and vaguely terrifying, the Scrimshaw Sisters were typically Winter Court, but a few had left for the Dark Court when the Winter Queen took a consort they hated.

“Knock first,” Irial reminded her. It wouldn’t work, but it was always good to at least pretend that he encouraged the Scrimshaw Sisters to follow the rules.

She leaned down and knocked several books to the floor.

“Something like that,” Irial muttered. He might be at ease with a lot of things, but the way she stared at his teeth when he talked made him want to be rude. Most faeries would be looking at his bare chest or now too-tight trousers, but that was not of interest to the Scrimshaw Sisters.

“What?” Niall half-snarled, hand tightening on Irial’s.

She dropped a piece of shroud on the table, and then drifted away. Irial looked at it while Niall was still glaring at the departing faery.

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