“That,” Griff breathed quietly beside him as they watched Alys lead the troll away, its club forgotten by the fireside, “was some damn good parenting.”
“That,” Mal agreed, knowing full well he would never understand how Alys had the instincts to handle a situation like that without her sword when it was all she had ever been taught, “showed so much more skill than Rhun in any battle he ever fought. Guaranteed.”
Chapter NineteenWho Wants Easy?
Finding themselves alone again and somehow still alive after their brush with what had to be another of the Shadow Queen’s creatures, all Griff could see as he looked at Mal was the night before playing over in his mind. He had seen fireworks. Years of them, ones they’d missed seeing together every Yule, great bursts of color exploding above the treetops or perhaps behind his closed eyelids because he was kissing Mal, and Mal was kissing him back.
The ways they had touched each other in this very place still nearly stole his breath when he thought about it—even if their surroundings had changed, now strewn with broken branches and debris in which they knelt, facing each other.
“Told you I’d come back,” he murmured. “Always will, from now on, even if it hurts. Though hopefully next time I won’t have a troll on my ass.”
“Good,” Mal said lowly, meeting Griff’s eyes. “Because I want you to stay, like I told you. I don’t regret last night either.” There was heat in his voice, a flare of his usual temper, but it sputtered and died as they continued to regard each other. “I wanted to talkto you, but I should have said it better. I’m not trying to push you away again. I’m trying to … give the mule a new name. Let’s call it Prancer from now on, okay?”
He glanced at the poor pack beast at the far edge of the clearing, who was just starting to calm enough to examine a bite of grass. Then he extended a hand to Griff that was still slightly greasy from breakfast.
Cautiously, Griff reached out to lace his fingers through Mal’s, and the thief slowly curled his own against Griff’s as if he meant to keep them there.
“You make damn good eggs, by the way,” Mal murmured, staring at their hands.
Griff smiled, though briefly, with so much on his mind to work through. “So,” he began, “no regrets—you’re certain?” He searched Mal’s eyes as he gave their joined hands a pull toward himself, much as Mal had done the night before. “You didn’t want to kiss me this morning.” He dropped his voice a touch lower, just in case Alys and the troll were still within earshot as he added, “Which was a surprise, considering you didn’t mind any of the other places I was putting my mouth last night.”
Mal followed the summons of that hand, though he didn’t fall into Griff’s lap or against his lips so readily as Griff himself had done the night before. “No regrets,” he repeated easily. “In fact, I”—his lips parted with surprise, as if Griff’s last words were just beginning to register—“didn’t mind that at all, no.”
“Then what is it you wanted to talk to me about that couldn’t wait until after cinnamon buns?” Griff asked, with half a mind to put them over the fire now so they might be ready for Alys’s return. Whatever surprises she might bring back this time—hopefully, no trolls or extra orc heads—would be softened by the sugar.
Mal followed his gaze. “We probably shouldn’t keep having fires like this, at least not once we leave this camp. Not all the orcsout here are as dead or as cute as the one Alys has on that branch, and they’ll be drawn to the flames. We’ve had enough company the past few days as it is, and I’m sure we’ll have more before this is finished.” He leaned back on one hand, the other still joined with Griff’s and resting against his leg. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you why that kiss felt so strange. I haven’t had my whole life to think about you and me—I didn’t even know it was possible—and now I’m trying to let my mind and heart catch up.”
Griff slid his thumb across the back of Mal’s hand, encouraging him to keep talking. This was the Mal he remembered, the one he could share anything with.
Mal glanced down at their hands again, and though he seemed to want to say more, he simply concluded, “I wanted you to understand where I’m at. That’s all.”
Griff gave their hands a squeeze. “It’s quite the opposite for me. I thought about you every day, even in Stormveil. When I went to the ever-blooming meadows, you were there, collecting berries to throw at passersby. When I went to the high lakes, you whispered to me about how the water was cleaner even in Linden. When I walked through the autumn canopies of their woods, you said their colors were dull and faded. The waterfalls were too small, or too noisy. The gardens were overpowering. And the things you said about the castle itself were … memorable. I wasted so much time with phantoms, missing the real you.”
“Elf gardens,” Mal said disdainfully. Griff caught the undercurrent of anger there and knew why without asking: the letters his well-meaning distant cousin had burned. “What did I ever do to those elves, anyway? Bet their flowers smell like the lilac soap from that stall in Linden Market that always made me sick.”
“Oh, that woman uses way too much perfume in those soaps,” Griff laughed, recalling the very scent Mal was describing. “But she makes a decent blueberry pie—remember stealing them off her windowsill while they were cooling? Alys sure charmed thetroll with that old story.” He shook his head, mouth turned up in a slight grin. “We had plenty of fun back then, didn’t we? The three of us and Whiskey, of course.”
Mal hummed thoughtfully. “Sometimes it feels like we’ve had him since we were just pups ourselves, doesn’t it?” Frowning at his own observation, he added, “Actually—now that I think about it—he was there before either of us moved into the cottage, right? He was only a year or two old then, but still, that would make him … uh …”
“Twenty-five, if I’ve got the math right. We’ve still got a few years on him between us,” Griff said with a knowing look.
“But that’s not … I mean he’s just a regular …how?” Mal demanded.
“It should be impossible for an ordinary hound like Whiskey,” Griff explained gently. “But he has the elves’ special healing draft. I have a contact—well, a series of contacts—who make sure it gets to me without attracting any notice. I’ve been giving vials of it to Vic to pour over Whiskey’s evening meals once a month since I returned from Stormveil. Shame it doesn’t work on magical poisons,” he couldn’t help adding.
Mal’s fingers tightened around his. “So he’d die without it? He’d already be gone.”
Griff ran his other hand slowly down Mal’s back, able to guess at least some of what was going through his head. “Yes, but that’s not going to happen. That potion isn’t going anywhere, nor am I. Nor is Whiskey. Nobody’s leaving you.”
Some of the tension left Mal’s posture at that. “So all this time, even when we weren’t talking, you were helping him—for me?”
“For both of us,” Griff confirmed. His throat tightened as he added, “I didn’t want you to lose your other best friend too. I packed two vials of the stuff for this trip too—just in case. More than we should need, but a great defense against most causes of death.”
“Wish you’d tried this hard to look out for mebeforeyou cut me out of your life and disappeared,” Mal muttered, his features hardening as he pulled his hand away from Griff’s.
Just like that, the easy mood growing between them was whisked away on the breeze. “Maybe you didn’t have everything you wanted back then, but you were still my closest, oldest friend. Until you weren’t.” There was a steady current of heat running through his voice again. “Some best fucking friendship.”
Griff swallowed and forced himself to look at Mal even as the other man gazed determinedly at a spot over his shoulder. “I know. I fucked up. I was jealous and insecure, and you have no idea how sorry I am. I have to live with what I did for the rest of my life. Every time I see your scars, I know they’re my fault because I should have been there.”
