Gentle was Griff kissing his nose as Mal hit the right spot to send them both tumbling through the stars all over again.
This night did belong to them, Mal decided once again as they lay tangled together and catching their breath on Griff’s bedroll, Griff’s fingers making a cautious sweep over Mal’s stitches by starlight to make sure they had held.
And this time it was Griff who muttered as the sweat began to dry on their skin, “Stay.”
Mal’s eyes found his, gleaming with alertness, listening.
“Stay right here, with me, tonight.” Griff delivered a hushed plea, draping his good arm again around Mal’s waist with care to avoid his injured side. “You can sleep here; there’s room for two in this bedroll. I want to hold you for as long as I can, just to be sure you’re real, that this is all real. And then …” He took a breath, licked his lips, and added more softly, “Stop drinking yourself to death, and stay with me for as long as fate allows. You didn’t like watching me bleed out—well, that would have at least been a quick death. I don’t like watching you die slowly.”
Mal stiffened for a moment. Then, rather than turning to rest his back against the hollow of Griff’s chest, he rolled onto his good side so that they were face-to-face, his hands rising to cup Griff’s cheeks, as available as he’d ever made himself to anyone.As if he needed to answer further, he brushed his lips over Griff’s in a long, deep kiss.Yes, I want more of this.
Then he let his head slump against the bedroll while he tangled his fingers comfortably in that dark hair, as if this could keep them anchored to each other even when they later passed into the dream world.
“I meant every word,” Griff whispered, and Mal didn’t have to search for the book in the dark to know exactly what he meant.
Mal kissed him gently again, and lapsed into a few minutes of thoughtful silence before he whispered to those emerald eyes still alert in the dark, “Listen, the part about a place for us—where do you live now?”
Griff hesitated. “Well, I was living with Liam. Before. But … I was planning to rent a room at the Wyvern & Wyrm when we returned. Figured I’d have the coin for it then.”
Mal frowned at the slightest reminder of a man who looked a lot like him from certain angles, one whose name he could go the rest of his life without hearing again. He knew about Mayfair’s Most Eligible and Griff’s reputation. Still, Griff had said he wanted to stay. Maybe there was a chance Mal could finally be enough for him.
Drawing a breath to calm himself again, Mal said, “Why not come home instead? To the cottage, with me. I know it’s crowded, but it would just be while you work on building us that castle you wrote about, Mister Foreman.”
Griff grinned. “I love it when you call me that.”
“Good,” Mal breathed over his lips, his tongue darting out to taste Griff again. “Because I’m your client now. And just wait till you hear how I tip.” But his teasing tone didn’t linger. This was serious, and just like when Griff had been waiting to catch him the second he fell from the troll’s grasp, Mal was hoping he could count on him again. “Will you—?”
“Of course I will,” Griff said firmly. He smiled, deepening their next kiss. “I’m with you, Mal. I’ll come home with you. It’s time we made some new memories.”
Mal ran a hand along his injured side, barely resisting the urge to scratch a sudden itch. “We can take trips out to the Wood like we used to,” he said, trying to distract himself from the sensation. “I was thinking—I could get us a couple new hounds too. We could take Whiskey, even if we have to carry him. Someone will have to show the pups how to flush out the best coneys, and better him than us.”
Griff laughed softly, muffling the sound against Mal’s shoulder. “I’d like that,” he agreed warmly. “Mostly I want to cook you dinner—on any size stove—and be the one you come home to.”
Mal could almost see it as he lay there, breathing Griff in: a fresh pie cooling on the windowsill while Griff worked out back by the stream, chopping wood for the evening fire. Mal kicking off his boots carelessly in the entryway at dusk, sweeping off his cloak and exchanging it for the warmth of Griff’s arms; eating together in the old armchair with Whiskey dozing at their feet; racing each other through the Wood on a sunlit afternoon until they were as tired as a couple of pups themselves, then sprawling in the meadow grass to read Mal’s old book together. The pale light washing over them as they lay on the bedroll was silver, but in his mind it was golden, warm and rich and so real that they might as well have been there.
“I’d like that,” he murmured, frowning at a cry from some beast that soared over the treetops. “But I’d like to travel some too. Linden is boring. Or rather, I get bored. Restless, sometimes.”
“Where will we go?” Griff asked, his own eyes alight with interest as another beast, then a third, called back in answer to the first from another direction.
Mal tried to focus on the question at hand rather than the natural sounds of night. There was Cardraine, where Rhun was born, a kingdom of knowledge, good wine, and high culture; there were the southlands with their coffee too. The northern gnomish kingdoms, meanwhile, had never been of interest to Mal, as their flowers and cheeses paled in comparison to treasure hunts and lands where the castles had banners that seemed to scrape the sky.
“Anywhere,” he said with a small grin. “I want to hunt for treasure where there aren’t any mires. Who knows? Maybe we’ll stumble onto a castle waiting for a new owner somewhere out there and you won’t have to chop quite so much wood after all.” His smile grew. “I’d like to travel far to the east and finally see the ocean. Swim with you in the salt water, mess up your hair.” He paused, thinking some more. “I’d like to go south and see some of the more remote kingdoms—find out what they like to trade and come back richer than a dwarf. Richer than all the dusty old kings in your library books.” His eyes glinted with visions of the precious metals and carved crystal statues he had admired in Mayfair’s markets since he was small. “Maybe I could even show you Thrallkeld one day. It’s not all just liars and thieves—or it won’t be, once Wynnie cuts off Renaud’s head for me.”
Griff’s fingers, which had been running up and down Mal’s back, stilled between his shoulder blades. “That’s how you asked her to do it? Why now, after all this time?”
“Guts—I guess she’s … sort of a friend—heard that Renaud murdered my old friend Ella a few months back,” he explained, the scar over his chest aching dully. “So I asked Wynnie to take care of him before everyone who ever helped me down there is dead.”
Griff’s eyes narrowed over the grisly scar on Mal’s chest, the way the skin puckered and had never healed right, as he said, “Bet Wynnie will have a field day with that one.”
“That’s the idea,” Mal murmured darkly. “As for cutting off his head, I thought we could have a party with it, with cake and confetti. Guess then old Leo will have some company …” Despite his burning desire for revenge, he yawned, finally spent. Ready to drift down into a deep sleep in Griff’s arms, into a world where there were no mysterious shadows and no locksmiths who looked a little like him in the right light. One where Griff stayed long enough for Mal to show him how he felt by laying the promise of safety at his feet that only treasure could buy.
Instead, he sat bolt upright as his tattoo burned stronger than what he had grown used to out here, flames licking up his arm, the pain intense enough to dampen the discomfort in his side.
Another creature barked a question to the night—not a coyote; this came from a bigger, deeper chest—and when four or five more yowls answered, sounding much closer this time, Griff shot up beside him and reached for his maul.
Grabbing his knife, Mal turned to warn Alys and found that she was already awake, clutching Leo protectively to her chest and readying her sword.
“Wargs,” she mouthed, her face in the starlight just as feral as their yelps and snarls as their hulking shadows appeared all around the edges of the camp.
