The excuses were starting to sound weak even to Wren’s own mind.
And the stag remained excruciatingly real.
“Behind,” Wren decided. Better to cling to Butcher’s shoulders than sit propped in front of him like a boy just learning to ride.
What other motivations Wren might have had for wanting the opportunity to cling to those broad-muscled shoulders, he pushed down into the darkest hollows of his heart.
Besides, he might never actually mount the stag. The beast had proved tame enough to approach, true, but that didn’t mean it would suffer the indignity of conveying two grown men. Though it certainly looked big enough to do so if it wished.
Butcher, meanwhile, raised his wild brows at Wren’s answer. Then he unpinned his cloak and swung it down off his broad shoulders.
“It’ll be a chill night where we’re headed,” was the only explanation Butcher offered, along with his cloak.
After a moment’s hesitation, Wren accepted it with an outstretched hand. The sheer heft of the cloak as Butcher dropped it into his grasp made him stumble forward. Yards upon yards of coarse black wool lined with untold silver-grey rabbit skins soft as velvet—altogether formed a substantial garment indeed. And, as Wren shrugged it over his own shoulders, it still carried the warmth and woodsmoke scent of Butcher himself.
Still, as Butcher stood a full head taller than him, Wren could only imagine how ludicrous he looked as the ragged hem of the cloak pooled around his ankles. No doubt the Restive Quills had all huddled in a nearby hedge to lampoon his novel costume. Wren pulled the cloak tighter around him as if it could shield him from their slings and arrows. He fiddled with the clasp—one of the ring and pin sort—in the dark.
Butcher closed the distance between them in a single stride. His fingertips brushed Wren’s upon the clasp as he fastened it in two deft movements.
Wren swallowed hard—his throat had gone unaccountably dry—and murmured his thanks. He could just make out the flash of Butcher’s smile in return.
Then Butcher turned to the stag, which had waited all the while with unprecedented patience, though it did nibble on the lower-hanging leaves overhead. This stopped as Butcher placed his palms on the beast’s withers. He vaulted onto its back with astonishing agility for a man of his size.
Wren, who’d leapt back in anticipation of the stag bolting, stared in amazement as it did no such thing, but bore Butcher’s weight with dignity.
Butcher nudged the stag’s flanks with his boot-heels. It approached Wren at his urging.
As if he could perform the same acrobatic feats as Butcher.
Wren had ridden horses back when he and his father were still on speaking terms. More than a decade ago. Never bareback, though. And never deer. Much less a stag that stood over seven feet tall—not including the antlers.
Regardless, Wren would hardly give up without having a go at it.
Rather than come to a halt beside him, however, the stag continued on past him towards a looming shadow. Wren belatedly recognized it as a tree stump, cut off just above his own knees.
Wren required no further urging to clamber atop it.
Butcher bent down to offer Wren his hand. Wren clasped his forearm. Powerful sinews flexed beneath his fingertips, their might in no way disguised by the sleeve of Butcher’s tunic. And the hand that grasped Wren’s forearm in turn had a hold as strong as the Gordian knot. Wren braced his free palm against the wiry fur of the stag’s back. He leapt—Butcher heaved—
And then he was up.
Wren glanced ‘round from his new perch, breathless with exertion and wonder alike, sitting taller than he’d ever stood in all his days.
The stag’s muscles shifted beneath him. Bereft of stirrups and not trusting the grip of his thighs, Wren’s hands flailed to brace himself.
And landed on Butcher’s shoulders.
They could land on little else, for Butcher sat so close to him, hardly a hair’s breadth remained between Butcher’s broad back and Wren’s narrow chest. Wren’s slender thighs aligned beneath Butcher’s, and as for his fork and Butcher’s fundament—well. The less said about that, the better. Still, Wren found it difficult to think of much else, with those massive shoulders clasped tight in his fingers and his face at the nape of Butcher’s neck, inhaling his woodsmoke musk.
Butcher glanced back at Wren, but otherwise didn’t so much as twitch beneath Wren’s vise-grip. If Wren didn’t know better, he’d think Butcher smiled at him. Doubtless the combination of fevered imagination and deep shadow had crafted the illusion.
Before Wren could apologize for the liberties he’d taken, Butcher spoke.
“Make no promises nor bargains. Consume neither food nor drink. Accept nothing, offer nothing. Shall we be off?”
Wren, still not quite daring to believe any of this was real, nodded.
Butcher’s thighs clenched against the stag’s flanks, and the stag leapt forward into the darkness.
