“What do I want?” Wayland hesitated. “I want to give you something of myself. Something I do not even know if I have in me to give.”
Then he slid his palm from Idris’s cheek along the clean-shaven side of his head, cupped his nape, and kissed him.
It was a tentative, perilous thing. The softest brush of Idris’s mouth on his, a faint exhale as the other man sighed. The taste of his lips shoved away the last of Wayland’s restraint—the lingering flavors of earthy mushrooms and sharp berry liquor and woodsmoke clinging to his mouth like perfume. Desire pummeled through Wayland, hot and harsh, tightening the muscles of his stomach as he pulled Idris closer. It had been so long, and hewantedhim—wanted to press him to the dirt, to shred his clothes until he was bared and begging—
With careful, painful effort, Wayland mastered himself. He pulled back before his tongue could slide between Idris’s lips and delve between his teeth. Dropped his hands before they could find all the places that made the other man moan. Rocked away before his body could override his mind.
“Perfect,” Wayland reiterated, one last time, before rising and crossing back to his side of the fire, where Hog was curled up looking cross. He nudged her over, shoving away the nagging feeling that he was making a foolish—or at least unnecessary—blunder. What harm could there be in giving in to their shared desire?
No. Idris deserved better than that. He deserved more than being a warm body in the dark, a fleeting pleasure to patch the screaming horror of the void. He deserved care, forethought. Time and attention.
Wayland wondered whether he, too, didn’t deserve a little bit more than he’d ever bothered to allow himself.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Fia
Finan’s hooves clopped loudly on the rain-washed cobblestones as we moved swiftly but carefully through the village. The houses and shops were shuttered against the storm—only a few bobbing lanterns illuminated the street in the falling dusk. Irian and I drew our hoods far over our faces, but there was no one to watch us pass.
A faint strain of music steered us toward the village green, where a single rangy-looking goat grazed amid the downpour. The inn was dilapidated and small, but well lit. The smells of roasted meat and woodsmoke wafted from the open door; the stable block had a sturdy roof to keep the rain off Finan’s back. The faded sign creaking to and fro above the door saidThe Stone and Clover.
I sighed. “I don’t like this idea.”
“I like it more with each passing moment.” Irian gave the air a speculative sniff, even as his lips slid sideways. “What now? Do we call out for the proprietor to invite us in?”
I stared askance at the formidable Gentry warrior. “Irian, do they not have inns in Tír na nÓg?”
“Certainly not.” I couldn’t tell whether he was teasing me. “The laws of hospitality demand any home be open to any traveler or guest, no matter how mean or grand, provided they abide by the rules of the house.”
“You just… let strangers stay in your home whenever they ask?”
“Providedthey ask.” Irian’s smile took on a wolfish glint. “Don’t worry, mo chroí. Few strangers have lasted out the night in my home. And fewer still have wheedled their way into my bed.”
A hint of warmth touched my rain-chilled cheeks. “I did warn you I was a horrendous houseguest.” I stuck out my tongue at him, then shivered. “Gods, Irian, it’s too cold to flirt. If we’re going inside, let’s go.”
I looped Finan’s reins around the gatepost and loped up the path to the entryway. Only to find the door blocked by a stout, imposing woman in middle age, with frizzing ginger hair and a round face etched with laugh lines and frown lines alike. She eyed Finan—he was far too fine an animal to grace this rural village—before glowering at me and Irian, hidden beneath our hoods, and crossing her brawny arms over her chest.
Fortunately, I’d discovered a little cache of silver coins in Finan’s saddlebags—a gift through time from an obnoxiously rich and forgetful golden-haired princeling. I drew out three coins and hoped this woman spoke the language humans loved best: money. I flashed the first piece of silver in the lamplight.
“For the horse. Rub him down, water him, and feed him grain if you have it.” I held up the second coin. “For a room and a meal and two cups of ale.” I brandished the third and saw the woman’s eyes gleam with greed. “For you. For your trouble. And your silence.”
The innkeeper hesitated a bare second longer before scooping the coins from my glove and stepping aside.
The inn was dim and smoky. A rough-hewn bar sat along one wall, stacked with tankards and barrels and ringed with wobbly looking stools. A few patrons—mostly men—nursed cups and chatted with the barman, a ruddy youth who looked to be theinnkeeper’s son. Tables for two and four were crammed close together, though few were occupied. Beside a generous hearth on the other wall, a single elderly fiddler picked out a simple tune. No one seemed to be listening, let alone dancing.
A cold finger of unease trailed my already frigid back. On a cold, damp evening a place like this ought to be packed. Patrons should have been clamoring for ale at the bar; children playing games beneath the tables; food and drink circulating as pipers and fiddlers made music. This place was all but deserted.
I pointed Irian to a table in the shadow of a beam in the farthest corner of the tavern, where we’d be able to keep an eye on the door but no one could get a good eyeful of us.
“Go sit down,” I commanded, stern. “And don’t talk to anyone. I’ll go order us some drinks.”
He cut me an ironic little bow. “Lady wife.”
He prowled toward the back of the tavern, and every single eye in the establishment followed his progress, watching as he lowered his towering height onto a bench, settled back against the shadowed wall, and propped his impossibly long legs on a neighboring chair. The hilt of the Sky-Sword poking from beneath his cloak did not go unnoticed.
You could have heard a pin drop.
I cleared my throat and let my fist fall onto the bar. The red-cheeked young man jumped, spinning toward me with only slightly less trepidation than he’d been watching Irian with.
