“Tonight was for you.”
Fergal’s brow furrowed. “That’s not how this works. You don’t get to just?—”
“Fergal.” Gregor’s voice was soft but final. “Let me have this. Please.”
Something in Fergal’s expression shifted—a flicker of understanding, maybe, or recognition of what this meant to Gregor. The giving without taking. The act of service was its own reward. The need to take care of the person he loved in the most fundamental way he knew how, without asking for anything in return.
“Okay,” Fergal whispered. “But I’m getting you back tomorrow.”
“I have no doubt.”
Gregor settled behind him and pulled him close. Fergal melted into him, thoroughly, comprehensively undone, his back against Gregor’s chest, his head tucked under Gregor’s chin, their bodies fitting together with the ease that still amazed Gregor every single time.
Within minutes, Fergal’s breathing had deepened into the slow, steady rhythm of genuine sleep. Not the restless, surface-level unconsciousness that shattered at three in the morning, but real, deep, restorative sleep, the kind his body had been craving for weeks and that his mind had been refusing to allow.
Gregor lay awake and held him.
Someday, he’d have to find the courage to either tell Fergal the truth or let him go.
He wouldn’t. He knew he wouldn’t. The lie was a tumor, malignant and growing, and every day he didn’t cut it out, it grew deeper roots. But cutting it out meant losing Fergal, and losing Fergal meant losing the only thing that had madethree and a half centuries of living feel like they’d been leading somewhere.
So the lie stayed. And Gregor stayed, wrapped around the man he loved, guarding his sleep with a devotion that was equal parts selfless and selfish and that he would never, ever be able to untangle.
Gregor pressed his lips to the back of Fergal’s neck and made himself a promise.
I will be worthy of you. I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, but I will find a way to deserve what you’ve given me.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Eight weeks of being king, and all Fergal had managed was to raise more questions than answers. If this was leadership, someone should’ve warned him it was ninety percent futility and ten percent paperwork. He was tired. So fucking tired.
He blinked hard, willing his eyes to focus. When was the last time he’d slept more than four hours? Of course, the night Gregor had given him that absolutely amazing, completely unexpected blowjob. The one Fergal had vowed to return but never had because… Well, because that required having time and energy and the consciousness to do more than drag himself to bed every night, only to wake up in the middle of the night again with his head spinning with worry.
Even with Gregor beside him, his mind wouldn’t stop running scenarios, wouldn’t stop circling the same unanswerable questions, wouldn’t stop cataloging his own failures in meticulous, unforgiving detail.
They weren’t getting anywhere. All they had were theories, but no evidence. They had rumors and speculation, but no concrete facts. The Murphys were working on something, on a bigger plan, and they couldn’t unravel the plot enough to prevent it from happening.
“Let’s call it a day,” Gregor said, his tone kind.
Fergal eyed the stack of paperwork. “I have to finish these before we leave for the Council, and in case you missed it, that’s two days from now.”
“Fergal.”
“Don’t ‘Fergal’ me. I have a hundred things that need to be done and zero hours to do them in. I can’t show up to the Council unprepared because that’s exactly what the Murphys are counting on.”
Gregor’s hand settled on his shoulder, warm and heavy. “You’re exhausted. You can’t make good decisions when you’re this tired, and pushing through will only make it worse.”
It was reasonable. It was measured. It was exactly the kind of calm, rational advice that Gregor delivered when he was in full commander-caretaker mode, and tonight, for reasons Fergal couldn’t fully articulate, it made him want to scream.
He shrugged off Gregor’s hand. “I don’t need you to manage me.”
A beat of silence. Gregor’s voice, when it came, was carefully neutral. “I’m not managing you. I’m telling you that you need rest.”
Of course Gregor was managing him. Fergal wasn’t stupid. He’d noticed the tomato soup and grilled cheese, the mac and cheese, the comfort foods he managed to eat even when not hungry. He drank the damn chamomile tea and the glasses of water. He did what Gregor told him to do, didn’t he? Most of the time anyway.
“And I’m telling you I’m fine.” Fergal’s voice came out sharper than he intended, a blade when he’d meant to use a shield. “I’ve been running a clan for almost eight weeks while two enemy operatives sit in my council chamber smiling at me, and I have exactly zero progress to show for it. So forgive me if I don’t feel like being tucked into bed like a child.”
“No one is treating you like a child.”
