Alaric knew he should say something cutting back, but blood hammered in his temples. And lower. His gaze driftedto Halden’s hips—straddling him, pressing him down—and to that hand at his throat, possessive and strong. The heavy, relentless pressure of another body made his breathing shallow. But it wasn’t just another body. It was the Upstart, a lightning bolt of brilliance in an otherwise boring existence, and Alaric’s body trembled with a heat that pulsed in his groin, betraying him.
This was no simple sparring match. It was a collision of wills—and bodies—and Halden’s thumb, ghosting along Alaric’s pulse point, was sparking wildfire beneath his skin. A maddening sensation filled him, and lower, Alaric’s groin throbbed with insolent insistence.
Halden froze as he sensed the stirring beneath him. His fierce gaze darted downward, widened in shock, then snapped back to Alaric’s face. Still, he didn’t shift.
Alaric slowed his breathing, chest rising and falling with deliberate control. Perhaps any other man would have felt shame, but Alaric was a creature of court; you learn quickly, in such a place, how to recognise a kindred spirit. The tension crackling between them wasn’t just resentment, nor grudging respect.
And Halden wasn’t moving. Not one inch. That refusal to recoil told Alaric exactly who he was. A slow, arrogant smile curved Alaric’s lip.
He watched Halden’s hips twitch, saw the unmistakable bulge straining at his breeches. Delight bloomed in Alaric’s chest. He felt Halden’s weight shift, the taut shoulders, the spark of awareness flaring in those green eyes. Was the Upstart ashamed of his own body?
Whether Halden could admit it or not, Alaric recognised his hunger. Halden was a man who wanted another man for the pure pleasure of conquest. Halden's eyes were wide, pupils blown with desire, and the hard lengthpressing through his breeches against Alaric's hip betrayed him completely. Gods, what a revelation—the Upstart might actually match him in bed as fiercely as he had in the lists. The thought made Alaric's breath catch, an unfamiliar flutter of anticipation beneath his practiced composure.
A slow, calculating smile curved Alaric’s lips. Halden sat up straighter at the sight, a flicker of comprehension flaring in those verdant eyes.
“My tent,” Alaric rasped, voice low and certain. “Tonight. Once the grounds lie silent. You can work out all your anger with me another way.”
Halden’s pupils dilated. His grip tightened for an infinitesimal instant, a real, learned rage wanting to choke the life out of Alaric for the suggestion. Alaric’s heart raced at the thrill, at the sudden crushing pressure. But Halden quickly snatched his hand away. Alaric tentatively raised a leather glove to his neck.
Interesting indeed.
They lingered, locked in that frozen tableau, staring at one another until the dominance between them blurred beyond recognition. Alaric could no longer tell who was in control.
Finally, Halden broke away. He rolled free and vaulted to his feet, moving with the same urgency with which he’d felled Alaric in the first place. He didn’t glance back; his retreating form was all rigid lines and simmering tension, and Alaric loved it.
When the Upstart had scurried off, Alaric lay still for a long moment, tasting the phantom weight of Halden’s body imprinted on his skin. His breathing steadied, though the fire in his veins refused to die. When he finally rose and reclaimed his sword, his hands were steady; every part of him had been trained for such restraint.
But inside, something had fractured. A barrier had crumbled, and his insides flared with eager hope, with promise.
What might it be like to be taken to bed by someone who truly desired him? Not the simpering courtiers with their every gasp calculated to please him, but someone who would challenge him thrust for thrust.
To match a man on the field was one thing, and to match that same man in bed another. Wouldn’t it be delicious, Alaric wondered, to find a man that might challenge him in both regards?
The thought left him aching for nightfall.
7
HAL
Any sane man would not have left his tent that night.
So why, then, was Hal skirting across the dark tournament crowds like some common thief?
Sweat prickled at his hairline despite the cool night air, and his heart hammered against his chest, and no matter how loudly he called himself a fool and an idiot, Hal the Upstart did not stop walking.
He’d left Perrin sleeping. The boy had been exhausted from the day’s work and had barely managed to eat before collapsing onto his pallet. He’d had every intention of joining his squire until he took to bed himself, and his idiot cock kept twitching at the memory of the Nameless Knight pinned beneath him. He hadn’t consciously made the decision. It was his body’s will. Hal had waited until the squire’s breathing deepened and steadied, then slipped out without a word.
Now, Hal stopped ten feet from the tent’s entrance. A muscle jumped in his jaw. His legs tensed, ready to flee backto his own tent. Surely that was the only way he could face Ser Alaric the Nameless tomorrow with his pride intact.
This was stupid. Reckless. He should be resting, should be focused, should be doing anything except walking toward a tent in the dead of night because some aristocratic bastard had looked at him with those silver eyes and said,“my tent, tonight”,like it was already decided.
But even now, heat was flooding him at the memory of Alaric craning to look at him. At the phantom sensation of Alaric’s warm torso pressing against Hal’s inner thighs. His cock hardened without sense, from the memory alone, and Hal pressed his forehead into his hand. Damn his body. Damn his desire. Damn it all to Hell.
The flap opened.
Alaric stood in the entrance, backlit by a single candle burning somewhere in the tent’s interior. He was shirtless again, which distracted Hal fiercely, and his face was mostly shadow. But his eyes caught what little light there was and reflected it back—silver and knowing and entirely too satisfied. He’d been waiting. He'd known Hal would come.
“I was starting to think,” Alaric said softly, “you’d lost your nerve.”
