Marcelo, present day
Why, oh why, with all that was going on, was Marcelo finding it so difficult to focus on anything other than Efren’s fingers as he manipulated his utensils? And Efren’s mouth as he opened it to take bites then slowly chew?
Deliberately slowly chew his food, if Marcelo wasn’t mistaken.
Had Marcelo been obvious in his observations? Were Efren’s actions in response to Marcelo’s interest? Or had Efren purposely drawn Marcelo’s attention in the first place?
Or was Marcelo reading too much into Efren’s simple movements?
Marcelo swallowed a bite of his own and told himself the reason he was so distracted was because the royal family had ceased to talk about the drama going on in the castle since it was their policy not to discuss politics at the table, and there was nothing more to do other than baselessly speculate until they gained more intelligence from the people out making inquiries anyway. Attending to the everyday chitchat between Rolland, Merewina, and Tristan as they attempted to maintain a sense of normalcy didn’t take too much concentration.
Sure, that was all it was. Marcelo’s newfound obsession with another man’s hands and eating process had nothing at all to do with memory flashes of Efren’s unshaven skin rasping tantalizingly around Marcelo’s mouth when they’d kissed in the not-dream. Marcelo stilled his hand that had started toward his mouth to rub a phantom tingle and suppressed a self-depreciating snort.
“You are each enamored with the other.” Once again, Erich’s words echoed through Marcelo’s mind, and despite everyone’s assurances that Marcelo had previously conducted himself in some kind of brave, heroic manner, regret churned in his belly that he hadn’t had the courage to open his eyes during that kiss.
Or better, to have tossed caution to the wind and embraced the moment…and Efren.
But to be fair to himself, not being able to ascertain how he’d come to be in a stranger’s arms in an unknown place was what had been so terrifying, rather than the situation itself. Surely thinking one had somehow lost their mind would be spine-chilling to most.
When Merewina’s ill-disguised snicker broke his reverie, Marcelo’s fork slipped from his fingers and landed with a clink that seemed unnaturally loud.
“Really, Efren,” she said, “it’s all I can do not to break all semblance of decorum to toss a sticky bun at you.”
“Do I want to know why?” The deepening lines around Efren’s eyes answered his own question. If Marcelo was reading his husband correctly, he already knew why, yet had no objection to hearing his sister’s explanation.
Marcelo turned his gaze to Merewina.
Her eyes narrowed at her brother. “You are utterly merciless.”
Efren’s eyes widened theatrically. “Me?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. You are shameless, teasing poor Marcelo like that.”
Marcelo’s face warmed. Yet a thrill coursed through his veins. He’d been right about Efren’s actions, and just as Erich had said, this handsome and powerful man was also drawn to him.
Efren’s lips quirked into a smile that curled Marcelo’s toes. “Dear sister, I assure you—” he winked at Marcelo “—I’m detecting no displeasure from my lovely young husband.”
Marcelo’s cheeks had to be flaming red, they felt so hot, but he held Efren’s gaze, and his own lips twitched into a sheepish grin.
Merewina’s laugh tinkled merrily. “My biggest worry this morning was that the two of you would never regain the depths of caring you’d shared, nor that amazingly sweet—bordering on nauseating—way you beheld each other with such adoration and longing.” She rolled her eyes—apparently one of her favorite gestures. “The teasing is new, but clearly my concern was premature. You barely know each other, yet you’re both already doing it again.”
“Indeed.” Tristan nodded. “If ever there were two people who were meant for each other, I think it’s the two of you.”
Marcelo cleared his throat. “Now that I’ve recovered from the initial shock, and notwithstanding the ongoing concern of how and why the Forget-Me-Not was administered—” he swallowed and again stared into Efren’s eyes, because he would become that brave person everyone seemed to think he was “—you are correct. I am…not displeased with my new life and…husband.”
Efren’s smile stretched across his face and reflected in his eyes. “But I do owe you an apology.” He cast his gaze around the table. “I owe everyone an apology.”
The others remained respectfully silent, but more than a few eyebrows raised inquiringly.
“Please understand, in my own memory, just yesterday I was moping about with a heavy heart while dreading my upcoming journey and nuptials. I’d had my whole life, since the tender age of five, to accept my fate, and I would have never shirked my duty to bring peace to the realm, but…”
Efren took one of Marcelo’s hands in his. “As I’m sure you couldn’t help but notice this morning, I enjoy the company of men. In fact, I prefer it by far. But alas, sharing my life with someone I was both physically attracted to, as I know I am to the lovely young man I woke up with this morning—” he gave Marcelo’s hand a gentle squeeze “—and respect and admire, a condition I’ve been assured I feel toward the husband I don’t remember, and already see hints as to why I felt that way, was a dream I hadn’t dared to indulge.”
Efren brought Marcelo’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the inside of the wrist, and a delicious warmth radiated up Marcelo’s arm from that spot. “So despite the seriousness of this morning’s drama, I cannot suppress my giddiness upon learning of the turn my life has taken as regards my personal dreams and desires.”
Marcelo grinned and returned Efren’s hand squeeze. “You don’t need to apologize for that. I, too, am beginning to see the upside to living my life here with you in Zioneven.”
“I am happy to hear that, because that dream wouldn’t translate to reality unless my husband returned those feelings.” Efren stared into Marcelo’s eyes with an intensity that should have seemed overmuch for the short time they had, at least in their own memories, known each other, but somehow it fit. Perhaps learning that they’d already been in love affected Efren as much as it calmed Marcelo’s worries. “The apology I owe you is because my joy comes at the expense of your sister, and I am deeply sorry for the loss of that innocent life.”
“Oh. Yes.” Marcelo stared at the remaining bites of sausage on his plate. The royal family probably thought he was heartless since he wasn’t visibly grieving for his sister. His twin sister. If they’d experienced a similar loss, their grief would eclipse what he was feeling over Marcela’s death.
But Marcelo’s family had never shared such a personal, informal closeness as this. Beyond his sister having been his early childhood playmate, they’d long been little more than acquaintances who shared meals at a long formal table. In his mind, he’d been mere weeks from the expectation of never seeing her again when she was to marry and relocate to Zioneven.
Certainly, his heart was heavy with sadness knowing Marcela’s life had ended rather than that she’d moved to another realm, but no more so than he would have felt had they been talking about any of the myriad peers or ambassadors the royal family had often dined with. He felt closer to Erich than to any of his blood relatives.
Queen Consort Ellyn delicately cleared her throat. “My dear boy, you needn’t worry. We fully understand the dynamics of your upbringing in Sheburat and the ensuing complicated feelings you have with your family. We make no negative judgment on your nature.”
“Of course not!” Merewina vigorously shook her head. “Dear Marcelo, you’re one of the most empathic souls I’ve ever met.”
Efren patted the hand he still held, and added, “Although I have yet to reacquire first-hand knowledge of your full nature, I trust the word of our ambassadors who reported the same, and I absolutely trust the entreaties of my family based upon their own first-hand experience. Think no more of it.”
Marcelo stared into Efren’s kind eyes and expelled a breath of relief. As if to affirm Efren’s last statement, someone knocked three times on the door.
“Enter,” King Alnod said, and a servant opened the door and announced Denis Byrd and Stevyn Wythers.
“Ah, good. What news have you from town,” King Alnod asked after the door had shut behind the two men, and they were once more alone in a room conspicuously absent of the expected contingent of servants.
Marcelo straightened, still wonder-struck by the mere fact that he was to be included in the upcoming discussion.