He sat up straight and said, “Oliver, what is this? Where is this coming from?”
Rather than answer, Oliver resumed pacing, hands at his sides this time, using his thumbs to crack each finger with a sequence of nervous flicks. “Is the war winnable?”
Erik was beginning to wish he’d poured himself a cup of wine before beginning this conversation. He’d thought a little squeezing and petting would turn Oliver in his arms and that they’d be half-undressed and stretched out on the sleeping pallet by now. Instead, his head was spinning. “Is the… every war iswinnable.”
Oliver sent him a dark look. “Don’t playstupid. It doesn’t suit you.”
“What would you have me say? That I’ve led my entire nation to war, but I don’t think we can win?”
Oliver spun toward him, brows drawn. “Did you?”
“No.” He was more than a little stung. “I’m not Náli. I’m not some—some cocksure child who thinks he’s invincible.”
“Náli is actually quite frightened and morbid all the time.”
“You know what I mean, Oliver,” Erik growled, half expecting Oliver to recoil.
He didn’t.
“This isn’t my first war,” Erik continued. “I’ve seen battle. I lost my father the last time I faced the Sels, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Oliver’s eyes flashed, a bright spark of anger that Erik was glad to see, because it washim. The bowed-up, easily-infuriated man Erik had thought he knew so well, but who’d been replaced by a withdrawn, brooding facsimile of late.
Then he realized his mistake.
Through gritted teeth, Oliver bit out, “Seeing as how the Sels killedeveryman in my family, no, I haven’t forgotten.”
In the silence that followed, Erik could hear both their breathing; competing rhythms.
He slumped back; the chair creaked in an ominous way, but held. He softened his voice, with an effort. “Come here.”
Oliver glared at him, biting at the inside of his cheek.
“Ollie. Come here.”
“Is that an order, Your Majesty?”
“Yes.” Erik beckoned with two fingers.
Oliver’s first step toward him was reluctant, his head kicked back, his jaw set at a mulish angle. But each step he took across the rug melted him a little more, so that when he reached Erik, he slumped down to straddle his lap and pressed his face into Erik’s throat with a deep, shuddering breath.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, lips tickling Erik’s skin.
“I am, too.”
Oliver wriggled around, so he was lying against Erik’s chest more comfortably, and though he did so without any lascivious intent, the movement stirred Erik’s blood nonetheless.
Erik stroked his back, marveling at the sinews there… and relishing the way he could physically feel the tension bleed out of him.
“I’m sorry,” Oliver repeated in a small, uncharacteristic voice.
Erik stroked his hair, fingers careful over the braids. “So you’ve said.”
“I never thought…” Oliver started, and then pressed his face deeper into the collar of Erik’s tunic.
Erik held him tighter. “Never thought what, love?”
Oliver hesitated so long that Erik thought he meant not to answer. But then he said, “That I would go to war.”
