“Um,” Arden said, and fidgeted. He glanced over his shoulder quickly, and back at Beckett, telling him without words that Jack was near. “Hello.”
“Your Grace,” Beckett said.
“What…?” Arden fidgeted and dropped his gaze again. “What are you doing here?”
“Imposing,” Beckett said.
“Imposing?” Arden cocked his head.
“I chased Jack here. Probably shouldn’t have, but I got sick of being at Avendene all alone, so. Went off to Sevennis and missed him by a day. Decided to follow him.” He deliberately softened his posture again. His muscles had slowly tightened, one by one, as his subconscious growled at him to get up, go over,take. “Didn’t plan on you knowing I was here.”
Right, that was a misstep, going on the faint droop of Arden’s shoulders. Gods, he was an expressive little thing. “That’s what I meant by me imposing. Coming here when you don’t want me.”
“No,” Arden said loudly, and winced at the volume.
“No?” Beckett prompted.
“I do w-want you. Here.”
“You do?” Beckett wanted to hear it again.
“Yes.”
“That’s good.” At his words, which he hadn’t meant as praise but which Arden could take how he wanted, as far as Beckett was concerned, Arden blushed. “Very good,” Beckett said, delighted as Arden’s pretty rosy cheeks darkened further. “Jack won’t have to yell at me for it, then.”
“He wouldn’t yell at you, surely?”
Beckett raised an eyebrow. “If I did something to upset you again? Better believe he’d give me a right telling off, Your Grace.”
Arden came a step closer without seeming to realise it; it was a short little hop as he lifted a hand and lowered it just as quickly. “Arden,” he said. “You can…please call me Arden.”
“Yes?” Beckett said. “You sure, Your Grace?”
Arden came another step closer. The robin scolded him shrilly from the bushes, darted in front of him to snatch up the last of the scattered crumbs and cheese, and vanished in a flurry.
“Your Grace?” Beckett said.
“Yes. I’m sure. Please call me Arden.”
“Arden,” Beckett said, injecting the word with all the warmth and gentleness at his disposal. All the warmth and gentleness that had been missing the last few times he’d said his name.
When he hadn’t been invited to use it.
Arden did a terrible job of hiding his shiver of delight.
Beckett held out his hand.
Arden’s gaze flicked down to it and back to Beckett’s face.
Beckett flexed his fingers with a hint of command and Arden obediently stepped close enough to slide his hand shyly into Beckett’s.
Beckett’s heart kicked and he fought down the jagged impulse to haul Arden in, snatch him off his feet, roll on top of him, pin him to the ground.
Instead, he lifted Arden’s hand to his lips then at the last minute turned it in his grasp, and pressed his mouth, butterfly light, to the fine, warm skin of Arden’s inner wrist.
Then he did one of the hardest things he’d ever done in his life.
He let go.
