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To say Gilmael’s timing was off when he came home the following day for a two-week visit was an egregious understatement. Zykriel did not know whether to welcome his twin’s company or throttle him for showing up at a most inopportune moment. To complicate matters, Gilmael had invited Imri Viraz and his son Mishar to join him. Even more astounding Imri had accepted the invitation.
Was this the same Deir Gilmael had spent their university years feuding with?
“I thought you’d be happy to see me,” Gilmael complained after he saw Imri and Mishar to their adjoining rooms two apartments down the hall from his.
“I would have been had yesterday not happened,” Zykriel replied.
Gilmael’s eyes widened. “What happened yesterday?”
Zykriel did not bother with words. “Mind to mind,” he tersely said.
The exchange of thoughts took litte more time than to draw a few deep breaths. Gilmael stared at him in shock.
“Qristan is here? Why didn’t you inform me?”
“Wherefore? So you could abandon your duties and come home to coddle me? Everything was fine until we discovered the Shidaras’ scheme and Davian’s complicity in it.”
Gilmael huffed. “Is the scoundrel still here? I dearly want to give him a good thrashing before he leaves.”
“Nay, he was sent off at daybreak. Neither Aba nor Ama would have been able to resist killing him otherwise. Truth be told, I was sorely tempted to dispose of him and bury his corpse where no one would ever find it,” Zykriel admitted.
“I’d have tossed it into a garbage pit and left it to rot. Have you informed Rohyr?”
“Aba dispatched a letter yestereve. The courier won’t have reached Rikara yet.”
“Why a letter? Mind-speech would have been swifter.”
“None of us had the heart or energy for it.”
“But what about Qristan?” Gilmael asked. “Why didn’t you send him on his way too? After all the evil he and his family have done you, why would you want him anywhere near you?”
“I can’t paint them all with the same brush,” Zykriel pointed out. “The evil done me was by Eulan and Diarmin. There’s no evidence Qristan knew what was afoot. He may have been thoughtless and cruel at times, but that doesn’t make him evil.”
“And therefore merits him another chance?” Gilmael shook his head. “I don’t know whether to admire you or despair of you coming to your senses. Speaking of which, how is it I didn’t sense your distress? The distance between us is no longer too great.”
“Mayhap you’ve been distracted by certain company. Don’t try and pretend with me, brother. You’re warming the sheets with Imri, aren’t you?” Zykriel had the satisfaction of seeing color bloom in his brother’s cheeks. “So how did he go from being your sworn enemy to sharing your bed?”
Gilmael looked chagrined. “I don’t really know how to explain it. Suffice to say I’ve owned myself too quick to pass judgment on him.”
“That would be sufficient were you newfound friends. But lovers? You have much explaining to do.”
Before Gilmael could reply the Virazes came out of their chambers just moments before Qristan exited his at the other end of the corridor. As they approached from opposite directions, Zykriel looked at his twin, noting they shared the same discomfort at the prospect of introducing their respective partners. Estranged in Zykriel’s case and completely unlooked-for in Gilmael’s.
“This isn’t how I imagined my spouse and whoever you’d taken up with meeting for the first time,” Zykriel muttered.
Imri’s eyes widened fractionally when he learned who Qristan was while Qristan regarded Imri with poorly concealed curiosity. Zykriel supposed Gilmael’s rakehell reputation had made a lasting impression on his mate.
“Mish wants to explore a bit,” Imri informed Gilmael after an awkward pause. “If that’s all right with you.”
“But of course,” Gilmael replied, beaming warmly at the silver-haired mite who looked up at him and Zykriel in open fascination “Anything you wish.”
“You’re twins,” Mishar said in a hushed voice.
“That we are.”
“I’ve never seen twins before. You really look the same. Except for your hair,” the tot shyly added.
Gilmael chuckled. “It’s how folk are able to tell us apart, poppet.”
Zykriel regarded his brother with some amazement. Save for the babes of their wedded cousins, Gilmael had never shown much interest in children. They could not provide intelligent discourse and so he largely ignored them. Now here he was indulging his erstwhile foe’s son with such affection a stranger could mistake him for the child’s other parent. And using endearments to boot.
He cleared his throat to draw Gilmael’s attention. “Why don’t you show them around, Gil? Qristan and I will see you at dinner.”
Gilmael glanced at him in surprise over his seeming appropriation of Qristan’s company. Qristan looked just as startled. Since yesterday’s events, Zykriel had not spoken to him beyond a few cursory greetings. Indeed, he’d avoided his mate as much as possible.
As soon as the three were out of earshot, he headed for his apartment.
“Zykriel?”
He stopped and glanced over his shoulder. Qristan did not conceal his disappointment.
“Are you going to continue avoiding me?” he quietly asked.
Zykriel shrugged. “Not in front of them.”
He turned away and walked on. He did not look back lest the desolate expression Qristan was most probably wearing eroded his resolve and he headed back to offer comfort.
He was not ready to face him.
Nearly a sennight later, he still was not ready. But after much prodding from his parents he steeled himself to discuss the situation with his mate.
He asked Qristan to accompany him when he paid a visit to the shoemaker in Syvonna. Since ordinarily, he would have the Deir come to Calanthe House, he hoped Qristan would deduce that he wished to speak with him away from the all too curious household.
Qristan waited silently while Zykriel made his order for new riding boots and the shoemaker took the required measurements. Only afterward, when they had repaired to a nearby tea-house and the owner left to prepare their refreshments did he broach Zykriel’s reason for inviting him along.
“I know circumstances have made matters awkward between us. Do you wish for me to leave?”
His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed his apprehension the answer would be in the affirmative.
Zykriel sighed. “Verily, I don’t know what to think or feel about our situation.” He pursed his lips. “I should desire your departure given how your continued presence disturbs my peace. Yet I find no pleasure in the thought of you leaving never to return. If you leave now, you won’t return, will you?”
Qristan shook his head. “Aba will forbid me; forcibly if I attempt to come back after having been rebuffed. It would strike at his pride that a Shidara should be rejected. I barely managed to get away for this sojourn as it is.”
“Because of my departure without taking leave of him?”
“Among other things. It offended him greatly.”
Zykriel snorted. “He truly thought he deserved the courtesy after everything he and your brother put me through? Your sire’s pride is more swollen than the Azira after heavy rains.”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“Or was he protecting Davian’s interests in order to keep his part of their bargain?”
It was Qristan’s turn to snort. “Aba couldn’t care less about that idiotic compact. Think you he would esteem a lowly Medavian retainer over a wealthy highbred outlander? He only said so to convince Davian to take the risk. He oft said before we were wed that you were a coup and that we ought to make good use of your close kinship to Rohyr.” He grimaced. “I didn’t know he and Diarmin had already planned their invasion of Bavia regardless of whom I chose to wed. Strange this may sound to one who has his sovereign’s full confidence, but only Diarmin is privy to all of Aba’s decisions.”
Their tea and crumpets arrived and they waited for the server to leave before resuming the conversation.
Zykriel used the pause to study his spouse long and carefully. He’d continued to harbor doubts about his innocence regarding his abduction and the resulting assault on the Bavian capital. But he could descry naught but shame in Qristan’s pinched features.
He truly had not known much more about his sire and older brother’s plans than their intention to use his marriage to their advantage. Since that was par for the course with political unions, he would not have suspected more perfidious scheming.
“Is it because Diarmin always implemented his schemes without question?”
Qristan huffed humorlessly. “Many of his schemes were Diarmin’s to begin with. They’re of like mind and ambition and see Lioval and myself as means to further their purposes. It’s the real reason Lioval is such a wastrel. By placing his reliability in doubt he avoids being used as a pawn.”
“So he plays the unpredictable rebel. What about you?”
Qristan worried his lower lip. “You accused me of putting my brother’s orders ahead of your well-being,” he hesitantly said. “I won’t deny it ... but I’d like to explain my slowness to go to your rescue in Bavia.”
Admittedly curious, Zykriel gestured for him to continue.
“I’m more my sire’s soldier than his son. I told you before, whatever nurturing we knew was from Ama. After he was exiled, there was no more of that. Aba’s word is law and we were taught to uphold it; to obey him always. I never really learned to gainsay him.” He regarded Zykriel with equal parts wonder and regret. “That changed when you came. I started to change. Do you recall when I apologized for the addition of that codicil to our marriage contract?”
Zykriel nodded. “He was annoyed.”
“Nay, he was irate.” Qristan blew his breath out. “He gave me a tongue-lashing as soon as we reached my quarters. It was the first time either of us could recall me disobeying him and he didn’t like it.”
Zykriel stared at him. “For something as trifling as that?”
“To you it’s trifling, but to Aba it was akin to a crack in a dam that would give way eventually.”
“He feared you’d learn to stand your ground against him.”
“Aye.”
“Those trips with him around Medav—were they occasions for him to browbeat you into renewed submission?”
Qristan looked away and nodded.
“Small wonder you kept changing your demeanor toward me,” Zykriel muttered. “It was frustrating to put it mildly. What about your departure from the attack on Glamis? How did he take it?”
“Not well at all. I know I moved too late, but my sire never expected me to move thusly at all. He’d only just reprimanded me for allowing you to influence me overmuch. Of course, Diarmin was furious, but as Master Seydon correctly surmised, he didn’t dare refuse me in front of witnesses. It would have tarnished his reputation. He reported my insubordination when we got back to Elana. Had you not broken with me first, Aba would have treated me to one of his tirades. But as he’d come to see you as a threat to his control over me, your departure was a relief and calmed him enough to merely chastise me.”
“Sweet Veres.”
Now that he’d learned of Qristan’s upbringing not to mention the abusive treatment by his sire, Zykriel was getting a clearer picture of the situation and a better understanding of the Deir he’d married. Not that it could make up for his misery or eradicate his mistrust so easily—Qristan’s actions while comprehensible were still inexcusable. But at least Zykriel’s confusion lessened and so did his bone-deep resentment.
“I believe you.”
Qristan stared at him. “Does this bode well for our marriage?” he softly ventured.
“Not quite,” Zykriel replied as kindly as he could. “I hope you understand. I can’t bring myself to trust you just yet. Not fully in any case.”
“But?”
“But I’m amenable to suspending outright hostilities between us. Or rather my hostility toward you,” he amended. “My avoidance of you for instance.”
“For very good reasons.” Qristan gazed down at his clasped hands atop the table. “Dare I hope you’ll forgive me eventually?”
“I can’t say just yet,” Zykriel honestly said. “It still hurts, Qris.”
Qristan looked up quickly at the familiar address. “Will you permit me to court you anew?” he asked.
“You never courted me to begin with,” Zykriel pointed out a little tartly
“Nay,” Qristan admitted. “We didn’t give you much of a choice.”
They sipped their tea and ate the crumpets in silence for the next few minutes. Qristan spoke once more.
“I asked you how I could make amends. Perhaps I should have asked if you would allow me to.”
Zykriel nodded. “It would have been more considerate.” He stared into the amber depths of his half-finished tea. “I will never return to Medav.”
“Understandable.”
“If you want anything to come of your attempts to mend matters between us...”
Qristan’s quick intake of breath told him he knew what was required of him. “You wish for me to live here in Losshen.”
“To make Losshen your home, yes.”
“And become a citizen of Ylandre?”
Zykriel shrugged. “If you desire it when the time comes.”
“When, not if?”
“It’s the preferred goal, isn’t it?”
“It is.” Qristan smiled slightly. “Thank you for giving me this chance.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Zykriel cautioned. “I’m leery of anything more than civil relations between us. It will be a long time before I truly trust you again.”
Qristan’s smile slowly faded. “I didn’t mean to presume. I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted.” Zykriel rose to his feet. It was time to end their talk. Before he made more concessions than his fractured emotions could handle. “Let’s go. I need to purchase a few things for Ama.”
He wanted to kick himself for feeling he had to give a reason to bring their conversation to a close.
––––––––
Gilmael may have been furious with Qristan for the pain he’d caused his twin. But once he took the time to observe his law-brother, some of his ire dissipated.
So forlorn and lost did Qristan appear that he could not help feeling some pity for him despite continuing to question Zykriel’s refusal to end his marriage. Compassion made him treat Qristan with civility and even kindness, even as his pragmatism stoked skepticism regarding his brother’s choices. However, he’d learned not to interfere overmuch in Zykriel’s business. And in any case, there was much to distract him.
He’d decided to be discreet lest he set tongues wagging. His parents and the estate folk would eventually guess his reasons for inviting Imri and his son to Calanthe House. But he preferred to delay the inevitable and not scandalize everyone more than Zykriel’s situation already had.
To this end, he gave Imri and Mishar adjoining rooms a few doors away from his suite. Simple enough to slip unseen into Imri’s room when everyone else had retired to theirs. And since Mishar was already accustomed to seeing his sire in intimate company with him, the child took their sharing one bed for granted and made no fuss if he sought entry into Imri’s chamber and was told to wait while they made themselves decent.
The third night of their stay Imri made an unexpected move. Gilmael entered his lover’s quarters to find him seated at the small corner table contemplating a flute glass filled with a bluish liquid.
Mirash, his brain supplied as he stood on the threshold. Imri flashed him a small lopsided smile.
“Are you sure?” Gilmael cautiously asked.
Imri looked at the glass again and then nodded. Without further ado, he downed the contents, frowning slightly afterward.
“It’s not to your taste, I take it,” Gilmael murmured as he approached him.
“I don’t think it’s to anyone’s taste. It’s unpleasantly sweet.”
Gilmael briefly chuckled. “I suppose it’s the only way the apothecaries can render it palatable.” He took the glass and set it down on the table before pulling Imri to his feet. He gazed at him searchingly. “Are you sure?” he asked yet again.
Imri slid his hands under his robe and smoothed his palms down his flanks. “I wouldn’t have taken it otherwise,” he said and sealed their mouths together.
They shed their robes in quick order. Gilmael wasted no time walking Imri backwards to the bed and pressing him into the snowy sheets. They necessarily extended their foreplay to give the mirash time to take effect. Gilmael did not mind. He would be able to fully indulge a recently discovered propensity.
He pushed Imri’s thighs wide apart and hungrily plied his tongue on the tiny opening behind his seed pouch, readying him in the process for genital penetration. It was not something he’d been fond of doing previously though he had done so to ensure his partners knew as much pleasure as he. But with Imri, it was something he’d come to enjoy. Something he sought.
As the direct stimulation turned his body, Imri’s sac retracted enough to expose his sheath now glistening with the lubrication necessary for comfortable penetration. Still Gilmael continued to devour him, until he wrung an orgasm out of his lover.
Imri gazed at him. “What-what about you?” he panted as he fought to catch his breath.
Gilmael grinned. “I’ll have my turn, never fear.”
With that, he resumed his nether plundering. Imri softly cried out and reached down to clutch at his shoulders.
“Gil, mercy!”
When Gilmael gave no sign of complying, Imri forced himself up on one elbow and cupped his lover’s face in a shaking hand.
“Please,” he whispered. “Take me now.”
The way he said it, his voice breaking with pure need, tore down Gilamel’s resolve. He rose on his knees and wedged his hips between Imri’s thighs. In one smooth thrust, he sank into glorious heat, a part of him exulting when the vestigial membrane inside Imri’s sheath gave way.
He continued to thrust into him, noting the changes in his features as he submitted to his willing ravishment. Of a sudden, he desired more active participation by his lover. He grasped him by the hips and rolled them both over, keeping Imri impaled on his shaft. Imri gasped, startled by their change in position.
Gilmael smirked. “Ride me. Let’s see how well you keep your seat.”
Imri shook his head. “Rogue. Let’s see who breaks first.”
He proceeded to prove his mettle, lowering himself repeatedly onto Gilmael’s shaft at a pace guaranteed to bring them both to swift and explosive completion. So ably did he perform that Gilmael found himself in turn blurting, “Mercy!”
They climaxed, one after another, with Imri making good on his challenge to drive Gilmael to release first. Afterward, he lifted himself off Gilmael’s spent shaft and dropped down beside him.
Gilmael looked at him with a lusty grin. “You bested me there, I won’t deny it. Nor will I deny myself the great pleasure of being bested thusly from hereon. I don’t recall the like in all my years.”
Imri smiled back lazily. “That pleases me. You always see to my pleasure so it’s only fair I return the favor.”
“Hardly a mere favor,” Gilmael murmured. “Thank you, Im.”
“For what?”
“For this. It was an honor and one I didn’t think you would deem me worthy of.”
Imri’s gaze softened. “I wonder at myself too,” he admitted. “You should be the last person in Aisen to gain this surrender. But then I remember how much you’ve changed since those contentious days. Truth be told I lusted after you even when I loathed you,” he added with a small laugh. “And now I like you as well.”
Gilmael marveled at Imri’s courage in revealing such things to him. It put him to shame when one considered what thoughts and feelings he’d repressed all these years. Yea, even since their university days. Worried that Imri might notice his sudden pensiveness he hastily set his troubled musings aside.
“You wanted me even then? You hid it well. I never guessed.”
“Well, I didn’t want you to guess.”
“Of course you didn’t. We stared daggers at each other when we weren’t bickering over who knew what.”
Imri pursed his lips. “That’s the absurdity of it all, isn’t it? We quarreled over everything and nothing. We quarreled for the sake of it.” He lay back and stared at the ceiling. “The folly of youth.”
Gilmael ran his knuckles down one ivory cheek. “Let’s not tarnish what we have with unpleasant memories.”
Imri glanced at him. “What do we have? Mind you, I’m not trying to pressure you into some half-hearted declaration. But I would like to know what this...” He waved a hand between them. “...means to you.”
It was Gilmael’s turn to purse his lips and think deeply. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “Save that I want it to last as long as possible. Which has never been the case with my previous affairs. I hope that’s enough for you?”
Imri did not miss the uncertainty with which he ended his statement. He looked at Gilmael thoughtfully. And then he smiled and leaned over to kiss him.
“Given your reputation, it’s enough,” he murmured. He lay back and flashed him a saucy grin. “Now, my lord, what say you prove your much vaunted ability to spring back into action sooner than most?”
Gilmael growled in response. He set himself to reducing Imri to a writhing, whimpering mass of need and desire. And when Imri’s voice lifted in a spate of sobbed moans and stifled screams, he congratulated himself for a job well done.
––––––––
“You helped him?” Zykriel stared at his father in disbelief.
Ildris snorted. “Since you saw fit to let him stay on, I thought it a kindness not to treat him like an unwelcome pest or worse a prisoner in his own mate’s home. That’s how it’s starting to feel like even to your sire whom you know full well would have preferred you sent him back to Medav along with that dungworm aide of his.”
Zykriel opened his mouth to make a rebuttal but was sidetracked by his father’s words. “Was I treating him so badly as that? What must everyone think of me?”
“You were hurting and understandably spiteful,” Ildris pointed out. “No one thinks ill of you, least of all Qristan.” He shooed his son out of the cold buffet kitchen. “But now that you know, you can no longer be excused for behaving poorly toward him.”
“Ama—”
“I’m not excusing him either. Veres knows it took all my restraint to keep from striking him when I learned how he’d hurt you anew however unwittingly. But I won’t sink so low as to kick him when he’s miserably down and neither would you I think.”
Ildris cocked his head toward the back foyer where Qristan was seen to be studying a painting. He was dressed for a warm sunny day outdoors. Zykriel sighed in defeat. Giving his father a much put upon scowl, he turned and headed for his spouse.
Qristan greeted him with a tentative smile and a timid “good day” which served to roil his innards further. Despite their talk, he’d largely left his mate to fend for himself. He knew Qristan was doing his best not to impose on anyone, even the household staff. Tales had reached him of his spouse going to the kitchens to fetch himself a bite rather than ask a servant to do it or currying his own steed instead of requesting it of the stablehands. Each report had stoked his guilt yet irked him as well.
He should not feel sympathy for him. He had every right to hold the Shidaras’ perfidy against the entire family. No one should expect him to act the tender loving spouse. And yet, each time he glimpsed Qristan’s misery or espied him trying to stay out of everyone’s way, pity and sorrow and a yearning to take care of him would rear their heads. He wondered if his parents had dropped him on his head in infancy. That might explain why he was being such a soft-hearted fool now.
He was determined to simply return Qristan’s greeting yet found himself saying, “Happy begetting day, Qris.” Whereupon he wished he could smack his face without looking like a lunatic.
Qristan’s smile brightened to a brilliance long absent. “My thanks. I wasn’t sure... I thought you’d decline my request.”
Not with my father aiding and abetting you, Zykriel thought in some exasperation. Ildris had taken over the preparations of the picnic meal for which Qristan had asked permission the day before. Zykriel knew a sumptuous lunch awaited them by the large estate pond.
“It would be churlish of me to ignore you this day,” he murmured as he led the way out of the house.
There was no need to ride. It was a short walk from the back entrance to the gardens and thence the pond which lay just beyond the trio of fountains that dotted the lawn. As they passed the second fountain, Zykriel suddenly sniggered. Qristan glanced at him inquiringly.
He grinned and gestured toward the fountain. “When Gilmael and I were very young, we quarreled over a mammet. During our scuffle we accidentally hurled the doll into yon fountain. It struck the statue before falling into the water. Ignorant pups that we were, we panicked ourselves silly when Aba came upon us. We were terrified he would tan our hides.”
Qristan looked incredulous. “For tossing a mammet into a fountain? That’s rather extreme, don’t you think?”
Zykriel chuckled. “Nay, for damaging the statue. We thought we’d broken off its shaft.”
Puzzled silence met his statement. Qristan stared at the statue of a little girl about to bathe in the waters of the fountain. And then his expression cleared, his eyes widened and he started to guffaw which quickly escalated into a full belly laugh. He only managed to stop laughing when they approached the pond.
Wiping tears from his eyes, he said, “I haven’t laughed so hard in years. Dear me, Lord Calanthe must have frequently felt out of his depth whilst you two were growing up.”
“So he claimed when we were old enough to take responsibility for our tomfoolery.”
Zykriel espied the picnic site. A thick tablecloth had been neatly laid on the grass beneath the eaves of a drooping willow on the water’s edge. There was a large wooden hamper and a basket of fruit atop the cloth.
“Ama said you told him it was once tradition for you to celebrate your begetting day with an outdoor meal,” he ventured.
“It was when my father was still with us,” Qristan explained. “I was the only one born in summer and so he decided it would be a waste of a sunny day not to celebrate the occasion outside. Obviously that stopped when Aba sent him away.”
He spoke with such wistfulness, Zykriel could not find it in himself to remain aloof. He laid a hand on Qristan’s shoulder and comfortingly squeezed it.
“We could make it a tradition here if you like,” he gruffly said before yanking his hand away as if burned.
Qristan looked taken aback but then smiled. “That’s so kind of you. Granted I’ve never seen you be other than kind.”
Zykriel shook his head. “I haven’t been kind these past many days. I’m sorry. That was unworthy of me.”
“Please don’t apologize. I was prepared. I don’t expect you to shed your distrust so quickly.” Qristan motioned for them to sit down. “Come, let’s leave our troubles aside for now and see what your father prepared for us.”
While he dug into the hamper, Zykriel reached out with his mind to check if the servants who’d guarded their meal from pests and scavengers still lingered. But it was clear they’d left when he and Qristan appeared. Confident of their privacy, he helped lay out the food.
“Lord Ildris is very generous,” Qristan said as he eyed the bountiful repast.
Slices of cold tongue and smoked venison sat cheek by jowl with corned ham hock and boiled quintail breast. Crusty bread, hard cheese, pickled vegetables, an assortment of fruits and two honeyberry tartlets rounded off the meal. To wash it it all down, the cook had included a bottle of mead still cool from its stay in the wine cellar. But he’d forgotten to pack cups and so they perforce drank straight from the bottle.
They quickly reduced the feast to scraps save for a few honeyberries. By now they had taken off their tunics, the midday heat being at its height. Realizing how gluttonous they must appear, they looked at each other shamefacedly. But not for long.
When Zykriel reached for a berry, Qristan snickered. Which led to Zykriel gaping at the evidence of his not yet sated appetite. They both dissolved into more laughter.
“I can’t believe I still have room for this,” he muttered. But he popped the berry into his mouth anyway and followed it up with a swig of mead. As he lifted the bottle to his lips, a silverwing fluttered near his ear and he instinctly jerked his head to shoo it away. He scowled when mead trickled down from the corner of his mouth to his chin.
He reached for his napkin but Qristan dabbed at his chin with his own. They stared at each other, startled by the sudden feeling of intimacy between them.
Zykriel was not sure who moved first. He only knew it felt so right when their lips met in a soft, sweet kiss. A moment later, he collected himself and abruptly drew away, his eyes widening in shock.
“That shouldn’t have happened,” he mumbled.
Qristan looked disappointed, but he said, “Aye, it’s too soon. I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault,” Zykriel replied, his voice wobbling somewhat. He became acutely aware of the thinness of Qristan’s shirt; so thin he could see his skin and the small dusky rounds on his chest, their peaks discernible against the silken material. His shaft stirred in response.
He stifled a gasp and scrambled to his feet. “We’d best get back to the house before it grows any hotter,” he managed not to stammer.
Qristan nodded and started to pack up.
“Nay, the servants will take care of that. We—” Zykriel stopped when Qristan looked up at him, eyes gleaming with want. He swallowed and fought to calm his racing heart. “I have to attend to something. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go ahead.”
He snatched up his tunic and briskly strode away. It was only when he reached the back entrance that he realized he had not given Qristan a chance to respond or checked if he had followed. But he could not bring himself to go back and perhaps be betrayed anew by his traitorous body. He hurried on, not slowing his stride until he reached the safety of his rooms. He entered his bathing chamber and splashed cold water on his face over the sink.
As he felt the feverish sensation in his cheeks diminish, he realized how close he’d come to giving in, intoxicated as he’d been by the nearness of his mate and glimpses of his charms.
Undone by a mere chaste kiss.
––––––––
Daybreak’s soft light crept through the balcony windows to drive the night’s shadows away. They caressed Imri’s form, slowly revealing its graceful lines. His features so sweet and fragile in slumber belied his sleekly muscled frame. The most noble of the aristocracy preferred to keep themselves battle ready even in times of peace. Imri was no exception.
Gilmael’s gaze followed the hard angles of his shoulders and the smooth planes of his back that curved slightly into the slopes of his taut buttocks and then branched into his long, limber legs. His gaze returned to Imri’s bottom. His lips curled into a grin as he recalled the snug heat that had gloved his shaft so well last night.
He knew Imri’s body more than any other of the Deir’s previous partners. He gently stroked a sculpted cheek and tucked strands of silvery hair behind one ear. He then ghosted his hand down his lover’s back to alight on his buttocks and caressed the firm mounds affectionately.
“I’m sufficiently recovered from your pounding, Gil.”
Imri was gazing at him, one eyebrow raised in amusement.
“How long have you been awake?”
“Long enough to admire your remarkable restraint.”
Gilmael chuckled. “I don’t care for insensate partners. But now that you’re awake...”
He gripped Imri by the waist and pulled his lover atop him. Their mouths met in a searing kiss that led to a duel of tongues and teeth. With a gasp, Imri broke the kiss and raised himself slightly to settle astride Gilmael’s thighs. He reached between their bodies and grasping their shafts in both hands, stroked them together.
Gilmael hissed as pleasure mounted. He reached down to grip Imri’s hips. He’d discovered quickly that he preferred to finish inside him, the thought of coating his lover’s innards with his seed as potent an aphrodisiac as any love philter.
Imri ceased his maddening caresses and crept up a little higher. He carefully lowered himself onto Gilmael’s shaft. He moaned as he was breached, then groaned in pleasure when he slid down until his bottom met Gilmael’s groin, last night’s oil and semen easing the way.
Gilmael marvelled at how much Imri enjoyed being penetrated. He doubted he would be as welcoming should he ever be on the receiving end of another Deir’s shaft. But his lover seemed to enjoy every aspect of fornication and enthusiastically explored how to derive the greatest pleasure from bedplay.
They would be returning to Rikara two days hence. Truth be told, Gilmael was not looking forward to the end of their stay in Losshen. Indeed he hoped the greater intimacy they’d gained during this idyllic holiday would not fade once they were back in the capital.
––––––––
Breakfast the last morning before Gilmael returned to Rikara proved uncomfortable. The tension between Zykriel and Qristan was palpable even to Imri who knew little about their rift or its causes. As a result, what conversation there was felt desultory and stilted. Only Mishar kept up a lighthearted chatter and saved the meal from silence better suited to a funeral. Discreet as ever, Zykriel waited for Imri and his son to leave the breakfast room before speaking.
“I will depart for Rikara tomorrow morn with Gil,” he said, ignoring his twin’s start of surprise. “I’ve been away from the archives too long.”
Though surprised, Desriq nodded and said, “Gil-min, have you ordered the staff in Rikara to ready your brother’s chambers?”
“But I didn’t know—” Gilmael began.
Zykriel cut him off. “I plan to stay in my rooms at the Citadel.”
Gilmael’s eyebrows rose. “Why the Citadel?”
“It will be more convenient since I’ll be in the archives nigh daily.”
Ildris glanced at Qristan who’d lowered his eyes and was now staring at his plate. “But what about—”
“If you’ll excuse me, Ama,” Zykriel smoothly interrupted as he rose to his feet. “I need to make preparations.”
Ildris pursed his lips. Still looking at a downcast Qristan, he asked, “How long will you be away?”
Zykriel shrugged. “I’m not sure. It will depend on the state of the archives.” He started to walk out of the breakfast room. “If they’re up to my standards or not.”
And will you ensure they aren’t to give you an excuse to stay away as long as possible?
Desriq seldom resorted to mind-speech at home. It was enough to make Zykriel pause mid-stride. He shook his head hoping his sire would understand and resolutely walked on.
His hope that Qristan would not question his sudden decision was dashed when his mate came to his rooms while he was packing. Knowing their talk would turn personal, he bade the servants to leave. Qristan waited for the sitting room door to close behind them before entering the bedchamber and surveying the selection of clothing laid on the bed.
“Why would it take so long to sort the archives out? Don’t the archivists keep everything in order?”
“They try, but they’re more researchers than record keepers.” Zykriel picked up a belt. “Absent-minded bookworms, the lot of them. They tend to leave things lying around when I don’t check on them. ”
“I see.” Qristan hesitated then softly asked, “Will you send for me?”
Zykriel tightened his fingers around the belt. “I don’t know.”
There was a weighted pause. “You won’t, will you?”
Guilt smote Zykriel anew. He fought it down and answered with a peevish, “Did you really expect me to?”
The guilt deepened when Qristan shook his head dejectedly.
“You’ll never forgive me,” he murmured in a resigned tone.
Zykriel sighed and rubbed his forehead. His conscience nagged him to clear up one misconception among the many that had badly damaged their marriage.
“I could never withhold forgiveness from someone I’ve learned to care for. But neither has anyone I’ve cared for hurt me so greatly. I never imagined my own mate—” He stopped when Qristan looked away, his features pinched. “It isn’t that I can never forgive you. I just can’t...”
“Can’t trust me,” Qristan finished for him. “You regret what happened the other day.”
Zykriel nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“Nay, I brought this upon myself. You have every right to cast me off. And yet ... you haven’t sent me packing.”
“We are wed.”
“Only in name. And that you haven’t threatened to end. Others would have without a second thought. Verily you’re so much more than I deserve.” Qristan drew a deep steadying breath. “Veres willing I may yet regain your trust and restore what I broke. Mayhap earn the honor to say I do deserve you. I pray you’ll one day come to believe it too.”
When Zykriel did not speak, he managed a sad, crooked smile. “Come what may, I’ll be here,” he whispered.
Rendered mute by his earnestness, Zykriel silently watched Qristan walk out of the room.