Camden put Nicolo’s hand on the box over the latch. He spoke again in Latin, the tone of an incantation, and there was a soft buzz along Nicolo’s hand and up his arm.
“What was that?” he asked, curious.
“I conveyed ownership of the item to you. It will open now. Go ahead.”
Camden let go, leaving Nicolo’s hand on the box.
He carefully opened the latch and lifted the lid.
He stilled, hand on the lid, gazing down in wonder and some disbelief.
It was a sword, pristine, flawless, unmarked by time or use. Just under three feet long, double-edged, with a sharp point. It had a simple crucifix hand guard and a short ricasso within the guard, allowing for an advanced grip.
“Una spada da lato,” he murmured in Italian, letting go of the lid to lightly run his fingers along the hilt and guard, feeling a soft hum of energy. His experienced gaze took in the maker’s mark under the guard on the blade, and if his heart was capable of beating it would be skipping along in excitement and awe–Francesco Missaglia had been one of the most celebrated armorers and sword smiths in the 1500s. To have a Missaglia blade was an impossible dream, but he was standing in front of one now.
It was an Italian side sword, popular during the latter half of the 16th century, and a weapon that was a direct precursor of the rapier that came a century later. It was a dueling sword, meant for everyday wear for self-defense and settling matters of honor in duels.
He had worn one once, for many years, a long time ago. That sword was lost to the depredations of time and use, reduced to scrap metal centuries earlier. It was a glaring hole in his collection.
“How did…” He paused and took a deep breath. “How did you know?”
“Achilles helped me pick it out.” Camden shrugged one shoulder. “I also recognized the sword forms you used last night, even fighting with a baton. I’m no sword fighter, but I know one when I see one. I’ve studied a lot of European sword forms so I could more effectively sell the swords we have in the shop. I pieced that together with what you told me of your time period when you were Turned, and the location. It was an easy assumption to make.”
Camden paid him that much attention? He listened and watched and cared about what he learned. Nicolo was in trouble; he wanted more from Camden than a few dates and some kisses. The sword in front of him was a testament to Camden’s care and consideration.
“How is it so pristine?” He was afraid to lift it from the velvet cushions it rested upon, hand hovering over the blade. He wanted to lift it free very badly, but caution had him hesitating. The blade was as old as he was, and possibly quite delicate.
Camden grinned. “Magic.” He gestured to the sword, stepping back several feet. “The spells on the blade come from the maker—the blade will never chip, break, warp, or grow dull. The metals will never corrode, rust, or decay. The sword can still get dirty, and I’d wipe it down after use, but nothing will harm the integrity of the sword, not even time.” Camden waved his hands at the sword. “It’s safe to touch, to use. Go on, pick it up. See how it feels.”
Nicolo shed his coat and scarf, laying them on the table beside the box. He slid off his suit jacket and did the same, rolling his shoulders to loosen his stance and clothing before reaching for the hilt.
The sword fit perfectly in his hand. Barely two pounds, it felt light as a feather to his enhanced strength. He backed away fromthe table and Camden, old habits rising to the fore as he settled into an easy guard stance, testing the balance of the sword. He went through a basic attack form, feet silent on the concrete flooring, the subtlewhooshof sharp steel through the air the only sound he made as he followed old patterns.
Camden watched him with wide eyes and the heat of attraction in his gaze. Nicolo tried to curtail his vanity but part of him preened under the appreciative gaze of a beautiful man. He stopped, came out of the form, and gently returned the sword to its box.
“Did you like it—” Camden squeaked when Nicolo gently took him by the shoulders and leaned down for a kiss. Camden hummed in delight and wrapped his arms around Nicolo’s neck, kissing him back with fervor.
Chapter
Five
Camden
Nicolo kissed like a master of seduction, and Camden loved it. He kissed back with enthusiasm. He gave a brief thought to Nicolo’s fangs, but he forgot all about the danger in the next second, too lost in the kiss to care.
For a brief moment he was off his feet, and then his ass met the table, and Nicolo stepped between his thighs, strong arms holding him close. He welcomed Nicolo and spread his thighs wider, then wrapped his legs around that sexy lean waist and held on for all he was worth.
He broke the kiss to breathe, gasping for air, lips wet, whole body tingling. Nicolo pressed their foreheads together, eyes burning red, though his fangs weren’t down. Camden appreciated the caution—there was no way he wanted to accidentally poison Nicolo with his blood. He had no idea what to do if that happened.
Camden was breathing hard, and he refused to let go of Nicolo’s shoulders, fingers tight on his fine cotton shirt.
“I think you like the sword?” Camden finally gasped out, exhilarated from the kiss.
“I love it, tesoro, and I appreciate the thought and care that went into choosing it,” Nicolo replied softly, hands rubbing along Camden’s sides and waist, massaging and pressing firmly. He wanted more of those hands on him, but they were at his workplace and he had no idea how Achilles would react if they had sex in the storage room. He didn’t want to push the limits of their friendship, but it was hard. “Camden, my treasure, will you do me the honor of dating me? I promise it’s not just for the pretty sword. You are worth more than any piece of my past. Let me court you, please.”
Camden met Nicolo’s eyes, which were like banked embers in a dark hearth, red and fierce with his heightened emotions.
“Court me?” Camden asked, charmed by the old-fashioned term. It spoke of embraces during moonlit nights in lush gardens, climbing balconies for illicit rendezvous, and scandalous dancing in ballrooms. He wanted all of that—or at least the modern equivalent. “Oh yes, please. I’d love that.”
