Without his usual mask of careful control, he looks impossibly young. Vulnerable in a way that makes something protective and fierce unfurl in my chest.
I can see the edge of the scarring on his arm where it rests against me, angry raised welts that speak of pain I can’t even imagine. The sight of them makes my jaw clench. Whatever happened to him, whoever did that to him, Iwant to find them and... well, probably something that would horrify my more civilised self.
Instinctively, I know it wasn’t an accident. It was violence, and the horrendous truth of that is something I can feel in my bones.
Dyfri shifts slightly in his sleep, a small sound escaping his lips that might be distress. Without thinking, I tighten my arms around him, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head.
“Shhh,” I whisper. “You’re safe.”
His breathing settles again, the tension leaving his body as he melts back into sleep.
I lie there for another few minutes, just holding him, trying to reconcile this peaceful, trusting version of Dyfri with the defensive, sarcastic man I’ve come to know. And what about the version of Dyfri I saw earlier? All hunched over, desperate and suffering in the freezing cold shower, water glistening over his naked body?
The wounded look he gave me through a curtain of his wet hair, had hurt me more than any accident on the rugby field ever did. He was expecting me to hurt him, not to help, and he was too defeated to fight.
And then, when I had helped… oh Lord save me. The way he leant back into my embrace. The feel of him in my hand.
The way he stayed so silent when I wanted nothing more than to hear him cry out in pleasure.
Fucking hell.
All versions of Dyfri are real, I’m beginning to understand. The question is which one will he let me see when he wakes up?
As if summoned by my thoughts, Dyfri stirs. I feel the moment he becomes aware of our position, his body going rigid for just a second before he carefully, slowly, extracts himself from my arms.
“Good morning,” I say quietly, not wanting to startle him.
He sits up, running a hand through his dishevelled hair, not quite meeting my eyes. “How long was I asleep?”
“Not long. An hour, maybe.”
He nods, still not looking at me directly. The careful mask is already sliding back into place, but I can see the cracks in it now. The way his fingers tremble slightly as he fiddles with his hair. The flush high on his cheekbones.
“I should...” he starts, then stops, apparently not sure how to finish the sentence.
“Have breakfast?” I suggest gently.
Relief flickers across his features. “Yes. Breakfast would be... sensible.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting across from each other at the breakfast table, and the atmosphere is charged with something I can’t quite name. Awareness, maybe. Or the memory of skin against skin, of Dyfri’s wordless and unspoken admission that no one had ever held him before.
He’s back in his human glamour, perfectly groomed in another impossibly well-fitted outfit, this time charcoal trousers and a cream jumper. Effortlessly stylish, but I can see the signs of strain now. The way he holds hisshoulders just a little too straight. The careful precision of his movements as he butters his toast.
“Sleep well?” I ask, then immediately want to kick myself. What a stupid thing to say.
“Well enough,” he says, not looking up from his breakfast.
We fall into silence, but it’s different from the awkward quiet of previous mornings. There’s an undercurrent of something almost electric, like the air before a thunderstorm.
I’m trying to work out how to navigate this new territory when my phone buzzes. Then buzzes again. And again.
“Sorry,” I mutter, glancing at the screen. Three missed calls from Dad’s private secretary, two from the Foreign Office, and a string of increasingly urgent text messages.
“Problem?” Dyfri asks, and I don’t think I’m imagining the concern in his voice.
I scan the messages quickly, my heart sinking. “Diplomatic crisis, apparently. The Scottish Parliament is threatening to vote on independence again unless we can guarantee that the fey alliance includes provisions for Scottish autonomy.”
Dyfri’s eyebrows rise. “And that’s a problem because?”
