“Now that’s done,” he said. “Come out, Skeillir. The man told us there was a woman there, and a human. If we come in, they’ll get hurt.”
Somerset took a deep breath and let it out slowly. There was no way to avoid this fight. He needed to work out what he wanted from it.
“And they won’t be hurt if I come out?” he asked, his voice raised to carry.
Stúfur spread his hands, both empty and relaxed. “I mean, they might,” he said. “But I’ll not make a point of it.”
Somerset tightened his jaw until he felt his molars shift in his gums. The witch laughed again.
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what assholes the Yule Lads are?” she asked softly. “It hasn’t beenthatlong.”
Somerset snorted. “It looks different from the other side,” he shot back at her. Then he turned his attention back out the window. Ket had moved out of sight. That probably meant he planned to circle around and try the front door.
He stepped away from the window and moved his hand from Dylan’s mouth.
“Take the truck.” He took the keys out of his pocket and handed them to Dylan. “Find Gull, my brother. We heal quickly. He won’t be out of commission for much longer.”
“Wait. What?” Dylan fumbled the keys and then tried to hand them back. “I don’t understand. What are you going to do.”
“Keep them busy,” Somerset said. He ignored the attempt to give his keys back and stepped away from Dylan. “They won’t kill me.”
Not yet.
That bit stayed unsaid as Somerset went on. “If I’d not left—if I’d done my job—maybe none of this would have happened. One Santa died under my protection. Another has died because Ididn’tprotect him. That’s a bad enough legacy. I don’t want to be the one who also ends the Saint’s Line entirely. I need you to take the watch and go back to Belling. You can trust Gull. No one else.”
The witch turned to scowl at him. “What haven’t you told me?” she asked. “Your brothers might want your skin for the gelt, they might want to be the one to pick who wears the scarlet, but they all serve the Sleigh. Why don’t you trust Short-Ass and Hook out there with the regalia?”
“Because Gull didn’t,” Somerset said. Some of the Yule Lads got on—Ket and Stúfur were evidence of that—but Gull and Somerset never had. Not even when Somerset had been in good favor with the Courts. The only reason that Gull would run to Somerset was if he had no one else to trust. Besides… “And Wolves can’t fly.”
The witch narrowed her eyes in confusion at that but then ignored it as she focused on the first part of his comment. “A traitor?” she said. “No shortage of them in Winter, but among the Lads?”
Assholes, always. Murderers, thieves, and bastards, frequently. But their loyalty to the Sleigh was unquestioned.
Or it had been.
Dylan shoved a distracted hand through his hair. “Yeah, well, that sucks,” he said. “But you can’t go off and get yourself killed.”
“You’ll be fine,” Somerset told him as he headed to the door. “Gull won’t let anything happen to you. Not while you have the watch.”
Dylan dodged past him and turned around, hands up to block Somerset from the door.
“That’s very comforting,” he said dryly. “Butyou’llstill be dead. I don’t want that.”
Somerset looked down at the hands notquitepressed against his chest. Nice hands and good forearms, well-muscled and dusted with a scruff of fine, dark hair, but that didn’t matter. Somerset could have walked right through Dylan if he wanted.
Instead, he put both hands on Dylan’s shoulder and leaned down to steal a kiss. It was… meant to be a whim, a spur-of-the-moment ‘fuck it.’ As his lips pressed against Dylan’s, however, and hefeltthe soft intake of breath against his mouth, it felt like something else.
He’d wanted to do this for a while, he realized.
Obviously, he’dthoughtabout it before, but only because he wasn’t going to do it. Because it was a bad idea to mix with the mortals. The sort of bad idea that would spread back to the Courts.
But he’d called Dylan ‘mine’earlier, and he’d meant it. That wasn’t something his kin claimed. Things, yes. Weapons and hounds and trinkets. Not people. They weren’t made for—
That train of thought was derailed as Dylan leaned into him, going up onto his toes to chase the kiss as Somerset started to lean back. It was probably for the best, Somerset thought absently as he tightened his grip on Dylan’s shoulders. The last time he’d thought too much about anything, he’d ended up in exile.
Dylan’s breath was warm—almost hot—and his mouth was eager. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Somerset’s jeans and pulled him closer. Winter Court lust was cold and rough, quick lays and bitterness that dragged on for decades. It was heat that spread through Somerset now, though. It seeped into him wherever Dylan touched—his breath, the kiss of his knuckles against Somerset’s stomach—and caught fire under his skin.
It was heady. The pinch of it at his nipples, the heavy, hot weight as it sank down into his balls and lingered there, and the almost pain of it as his cock thickened lazily in his jeans.
