As one, they stood. Peter stepped forward, raising a trembling hand to Martin’s cheek. Fire flashed across Martin’s skin wherever the fingers touched. Eyes as dark as a midnight sea searched Martin’s face. A hard swallow didn’t dislodge the lump in his throat.
At last, Peter said, “It appears the cards have named us lovers.”
No card game anymore, their cards remained on the table, points untallied.
Martin froze, unable to move. He knew the next movement of the dance, should have stepped back, should have paused longer to consider the consequences of their actions, shouldn’t have even come here to begin with. But no, he’d returned; he’d read his destiny in the cards. Too late now.
Peter brought his lips to Martin’s ear. “A secret for a secret.” The warmth of his breath drew prickles on the back of Martin’s neck.
A secret for a secret. Martin read cards, but they both wanted men.
Martin lost before the battle truly began, leaning forward and brushing his lips against Peter’s. The clench of his heart said the cards were right. Lacing his fingers in dark hair, Martin held Peter in place while plundering his mouth.
With the flick of a fingertip, he created a ward, something he’d recently mastered with Dmitri. Anyone coming near would feel the compulsion to look some other way. Not invisible, but hidden all the same.
Peter flinched, but only for a moment. He moaned, bringing his other hand to cup Martin’s face between his palms. He remained passive, allowing Martin to explore his mouth for a moment. Had Martin misread the situation?
One gentle swipe of his tongue, then another, brought Peter into the dance. Tentative. Unsure… Innocent?
Martin stepped back. “Did I merely startle you, or are you unused to such attention?”
Peter said nothing, but the rapid pounding of the pulse point in his neck betrayed him.
Oh, he was a man of the Father, even if he didn’t follow all the tenets. Martin offered him a way out. “I could leave, pretend I never was here, never come back.”
“This isn’t a good idea,” Peter replied, voice trembling. However, he didn’t release his hold.
Parts of Martin tried to tell him that thiswasa good idea. A good idea indeed.
Grabbing his cloak from the back of the chair, Martin wrested free of Peter’s grasp. A surprisingly firm grip clutched his arm and spun him. Before he knew what happened, Peter connected their mouths again, invading, conquering, and kissing Martin like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline.
The kiss sealed both their fates.
Martin pulled away, downing a mouthful of ale to aid his suddenly dry mouth, and held out his hand. No going back now. He’d seen his future. To be sure, he eyed Peter’s cards: the novice, the watcher, the port, the lovers, the condemned man.
The novice: If not a virgin, then a man unskilled in the art of love. The watcher: the one destined to wait, though for what remained unknown. The port: an easy card to understand. Already Peter had established himself as solid and dependable. A port in a storm. The lovers. The condemned man: the one who couldn’t escape fate.
Martin closed his eyes and blew out a breath.
Peter circuited the room, snuffing lanterns one by one. Finally, the last, he lifted from the mantelpiece and offered Martin his free hand.
May whatever forces guided Martin’s path forgive him. He laced his fingers with Peter’s and allowed the lover the cards granted to guide him.
Peter led Martin, not upstairs to the rooms overhead, but to the storeroom where they’d first spoken. He let go of Martin’s hand, a note of apology on his lips, and climbed a corner ladder with one hand, disappearing through a square hole in the ceiling with the lantern.
The storeroom darkened.
Martin should go. Run back to his own rooms. If he wanted mere release, any number of men would welcome him into their beds. Though he wasn’t wealthy or well-bred, many of the upper parts of the city liked a little danger in the night.
Or he could go to the barracks and choose from among their ranks. Though men with men or women with women wasn’t openly accepted, guards often chose to turn a blind eye.
Why, then, was he here? What advantage did this humble working man with callused hands have over the most beautiful young men and women in the city?
Instead of running, Martin climbed, nearly hitting his head on the sloped ceiling. They must be under the building’s eaves.
The room paled in comparison to Martin’s rooms, with a rough-hewn wooden bed, likely supported by ropes, and what had to be a feather mattress, possibly chicken, as goose feathers were saved for those who could afford the best.
The blankets were worn but serviceable. Clothes hung from the rafters, a spare pair of trousers and a shirt. A small keg served as a table, holding socks, a bone needle, and thread. Peter did his own darning.
