“Precisely,” Petur said. “Now rest up while I go find where that damn healer has wandered off to.” He pressed a kiss to Deyvid’s mouth, hideous breath and all, then got to his feet and left the room at a brisk pace.
Deyvid stared at the closed door and resolved to heal as fast and as well as he could. The sooner he was able to get a handle on who Symon Parador was, the better.
Chapter seventeen
Petur
Deyvid healed regrettably fast. Not that Petur was sorry to see his lover well and whole again, riding his horses without a wince and firing his bow without the momentary hesitation that came from the tug of a scarred and overly stressed muscle. All that was well and good, but invariably—inevitably—it meant that the time that had belonged to just the two of them was almost at an end.
To think, Petur reflected bitterly as he watched Deyvid apply a fresh coat of marlroot dye to his skin, taking it from the palest gray to a healthy nut brown, that there had been a time in his life where he’d thought it might always be the two of them. To look back on how naive he’d been … it was almost too painful to contemplate. Deyvid had always been far more realistic than him, but Petur hadn’t wanted to hear it.
At least Deyvid wasn’t rubbing it in, unlike Tania, who’d been both obliquely and directly making references to Petur’s upcoming marriage every moment they were in the same room together.
“When Prince Symon comes—”
“Upon your fiancé’s arrival—”
“I dare say that after your wedding—”
And so on and so forth, until Petur’s better nature was strained to the point of fracture, and he had to excuse himself from his sister’s presence in order to stop a fight from breaking out. It wasn’t like he could win that fight either. Not if he wanted to keep Deyvid with him. The three of them were in a precarious détente, the kind he once would have relished breaking. But now, well … if putting up with his sister’s smugness was her price for Deyvid’s presence in his life, Petur would pay it, over and over.
“‘You’re glowering.”
“Nonsense,” Petur said automatically, defending himself by rote. “‘I never glower. It promotes lines.”
“And yet there it is upon your face,” Deyvid replied easily, brushing a warm washcloth over his limbs to remove the residue from the dye. Petur watched him work, eyes lingering on the raised, jagged scar tissue on his right hip, the latest in a long line of scars Deyvid had accumulated on behalf of the Alloui family. He shuddered and moved his eyes back up to Deyvid’s face.
“‘Hmm. You missed a spot,” Petur said, pressing to his feet and moving over to the table beside the bath where Deyvid was working. He dipped the dye cloth in the thick liquid, then raised it up to Deyvid’s face. “Close your eyes.” Deyvid did, so obedient and trusting that Petur’s heart clenched as he wiped the edge of the cloth over Deyvid’s eyelids, careful not to let the liquid seep into the corners of his eyes. He touched up the shell of his ears, the point of his jaw, and finally rubbed it across the back of his neck.
“‘There,” he said once he’d cleaned up his handiwork.
Deyvid gingerly opened his eyes, then relaxed when no stinging occurred. “What do you think?” he asked with a curve of his lips. “Do I look like a real Riyalian now?”
Petur’s heart clenched in his chest as he considered the question. It was meant to be lighthearted, fanciful, nothing but a little tease, and yet … “No,” he said hoarsely, “‘No, you don’t. No matter what you wear, or how you change your skin, you look like exactly who you are. I would never want you any different.”
Petur wasn’t earnest very often, and he knew such a display of emotionalism would have Deyvid wondering what was wrong with him. He surged forward, cutting off the concern with a harsh press of their lips together. Deyvid’s hands rose steadily to curl around his shoulders, one of them tangling in the hair at the base of his neck while the other pulled him tighter. Ten years, and their kisses still held the same passion, the same intensity they’d always had. Ten years, and Petur couldn’t imagine anyone better suited to him than the man he held in his arms.
“I want you,” he gasped between kisses. “Deyvid, I want you.”
“You have me,” Deyvid assured him. “I’m here, I’m yours. I’malwaysyours.” He meant it, Petur knew, and it hurt his heart to know that he couldn’t give Deyvid the same confirmation anymore. Like it or not, once Prince Symon came to Delomar, Petur would have to share himself: his presence and patience if not his heart. He needed the man who would be his husband towantto work with him, and that meant giving him things that Petur wished could only belong to Deyvid.
“Fuck me,” he said breathlessly.
Deyvid’s brow furrowed, not from distaste but from surprise. “‘Are you sure?” he asked, and Petur understood. This wasn’t a request he made very often, not when they were so fond of it the other way around, but …
“You’re going to be riding for days on end,” he said, keeping his tone as light as possible, “whereas I’m going to be doing nothing but stalking the palace grounds, looking for threats that might not even exist. I want this,” he added sincerely. “I want to feel you with me even when you’re gone.”
Deyvid’s eyes softened, and he pressed one more tender kiss to Petur’s lips before saying, “Get on the bed, then.” Petur went, and after a moment, Deyvid followed, a glass jar of a thick, familiar unguent already caught up in his hand.
“I appreciate your preparedness,” Petur joked as he stripped off his clothes.
“Hopefulness,” Deyvid corrected him.
“You never have to simply hope, you can always just ask.” As if Petur would deny the man he loved anything.
“Hmm.” Deyvid, already nude, stalked over to where Petur was lying back on the bed, a smile curving his lips. “But there’s something to be said for spontaneity.”
“Spontaneity, yes, delays, no,” Petur snapped. “I tell you I want to be fucked, and you stand there staring at me like I’m some kind of—mmm.” He had to swallow the rest of his complaint as Deyvid stretched across him, bare skin pressed together in a smooth, sensual glide as they embraced.
