Chapter Thirty-ThreeBusiness as Usual
Late one summer afternoon, three road-weary figures in want of a real bath and a mule in want of some new handlers rounded a bend in the wide dirt path that cut through Linden, coming within sight of a particular slightly crooked cottage—its roof in need of patching—and its sprawling garden—in need of some thoughtful weeding—in time to catch a show from the setting sun, yellow orange as the egg yolks they had enjoyed for breakfast thanks to Mal helping himself to someone’s coop.
After all, what didn’t stay had never really belonged to them in the first place.
Just like the treasure he had delivered to his former employers before daybreak on the last day of his deadline while his sleep-deprived companions hid around the corner outside, weary from the breakneck journey home. Kage’s grin was sharper and toothier than Mal’s own as he inventoried the spoils in the cellar—down to the gleaming silver vambraces and the crown of lupines and marigolds.
Mal sure was going to miss the crowns, but he wouldn’t miss smelling the inside of Served With Love or working for hisenemies. And he wouldn’t miss worrying about someone plotting another attack on Griff. On his sweet boyfriend with the kohl-lined green eyes that haunted him in the best way.
He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve, grateful for his choppy new haircut as Griff glanced over at him from atop the mule, that black scarf still tied around his neck despite the rising warmth of the day.
This was it. Just like he had promised, Griff had come home with him.
From the porch, a very old gray-brown dog who might have once had some red in his fur cracked open a lazy eye to watch their approach and bellowed a greeting, long and low.
Before they could close the remaining distance, the door burst open.
Out ran a girl of about four in a pink summer dress, gold hair falling into her dark eyes, dirty bare feet slapping the worn boards. Mags, his niece. She put a hand on Whiskey’s back—the dog was now standing, with some effort—and then bared her teeth in a wide wargish smile, growling louder than the hound as she raced down the steps. She leaped neatly over the darting shape of a white cat that yowled at her as her foot grazed its tail, finally reaching the bottom and turning to call back into the house, “They’re home!”
This brought the sound of a window creaking open—not from the cottage itself but rather from the house across the lane. The people who lived there had always been curious about the goings-on at Wynnie’s cottage. The kind of curious that meant they frequently called Liam to come change their locks.
Mal would make sure they used a different locksmith from now on.
After a quick dinner, Alys tucked her kids into bed while Vic did the dishes. In their absence, Wynnie had left for Thrallkeld on Mal’s errand of revenge—a birthday present was how she’ddescribed it to Vic—so she wasn’t around to hear the impressive tale of how he had left the Shadow Queen’s service just as she once did. With the rest of the cottage suitably occupied for the evening, Mal helped Griff to his feet and led him to his old room, to his narrow bed. The same one he’d had since childhood.
“I already have the best pillows in Mayfair, and now they’re yours too,” he boasted, warm and familiar, hoping to put Griff at ease after so long away from this place.
“I’m all for a good pillow, but I don’t think we need the biggest bed this side of the mountains when I’d rather be right next to you anyway,” Griff observed slyly, sounding plenty comfortable already as Mal’s hand worked at undoing all his buttons. “This one is plenty cozy. Structurally sound too,” he teased, rapping on the underside of the bed frame, “if you want my professional opinion.”
“A free consultation from Mister Foreman? Must be my lucky day.” Mal chuckled as he popped open the last of Griff’s buttons and pulled his pants off, tossing them into a far corner of the room where a pile of laundry from the Mire waited to be tackled by some enterprising soul that wasn’t him.
Tracing his fingers lightly over Mal’s bare shoulder, Griff asked, “Can you still see that stupid griffin statue from your room? You know the one.”
Mal cracked a sharp-toothed grin. “Sure can. Still close enough to piss on, if you’re motivated enough. I never did like that thing.”
Griff seemed to know a dare when he heard one, a good sign for their future.
Laughing at their own juvenile plan, they let the blankets fall away and climbed to their knees, which gave them just enough height to gaze fully out the window that overlooked the scraggly weeds and grasses of the backyard, currently blanketed in velvety night.
Taking himself in hand, Griff aimed at the stone head, whose perked ears were just visible peeking through a tangle of small yellow flowers.
But he’d barely started trying when Mal slipped a hand around him from behind too, guiding his stream closer to the griffin’s head until he found his mark, fingers teasing all the while. “Remember,” Mal whispered against his neck, his breath hot and eager as he ran his thumb along Griff’s slit, “Rewards are for winners.”
And his boyfriend certainly seemed to feel like a winner as Mal began to stroke him to full hardness. They fell back into the blankets together as Mal kissed him, running a hand through his hair just the way he liked and praising, “You got that old thing so good.”
With that, he reached under the bed for the vial of oil he’d stashed there earlier when putting their packs in the room. Then Griff rolled on top of him and kissed him, pulling a pillow over their heads to blot out the starry night and everything but the sounds of their breathing and the scent of each other so close in the dark.
“Thesearethe best pillows, you’re right,” Griff said—far too loud to be romantic, and probably entertaining any curious ears within these thin walls, but sparing Mal from having to strain to hear as he kissed the other man’s throat and ground their hips together. “But we’ll both sleep better if we test the structural integrity of this bed with two, just to be safe.”
Mal groaned as Griff reached down between them to palm his hardening groin, but kept something of his usual boastful air as he reminded him, “You should know by now that I give the biggest tips.”
It’s possible Griff thought he meant the slick fingers that stroked their way gently between his cheeks and spent longer than usual preparing him, pushing past that ring of muscle withtender focus again and again until Griff begged for something bigger.
But later, when the whole bed was knocking rhythmically into the wall in time with Mal’s thrusts as he buried himself balls deep in Griff—apparently, doing such a good job that Griff was unabashedly drooling onto one of the best pillows in Mayfair—he tossed something into the air seconds before his own climax.
The silvers from the Mire.
They glittered in the air for a moment before raining down all around them amid groans and curses and laughter.
