“I’ll kill you,” Shae snarls as Arthur presses his lips to his forehead.
Shae’s cooler to the touch than he’s ever been. Arthur’s entire consciousness centers around a single, simple prayer:Help him.
Vara’s answer isn’t light or heat. Arthur’s not even sure the power comes from Vara. It’s a surge of emotion from the depths of his heart. Memories rush through him. The way Shae snapped at him that morning in the Moon’s Barrel. His smile at Duchess, barely an hour later. Touching his thigh to reposition him in the saddle. The serious look on his face at the Harvest Lord graveyard, insisting on covering a dead woman’s grave. The way he never flinched when cutting open his own arm, but flew to Arthur’s side after the vaidkos ambush.
Shadows slice into his arms and shoulders, trying to pull him away. They don’t dig as deep as they could. They don’t go for Arthur’s throat. Even now, Shae isn’t trying to truly kill him.
Arthur holds fast to the thin, trembling body in his arms. He remembers the Harvest Lord’s graveyard again, pulling Shae close after, warming him up with his own body. Arthur sticks on that memory, more than anything that came after. The kissing, the sex, the smiles—he loves that, he wants that, but what truly matters is holding Shae. Giving up as much of his own heat, his own life force, as Shae needs.
Shae’s breath is ragged now. Shadow-cold claws loosen around Arthur’s arms.
“I love you,” Arthur murmurs again into Shae’s cold skin, and he feels the moment when Shae breaks.
He falls against Arthur, panting and trembling. The last of the shadows wither into nothing, and the dead orchard brightens almost imperceptibly around them.
?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Shae
Arthur’s arms are the only thing keeping Shae upright. The cold and dark seep away, leaving only emptiness in their wake. All he can do is gasp for breath and clutch Arthur’s tunic, shaking.
The first thing that fills that emptiness is warmth. More than the paladin’s aura, more than the simple warmth of human touch. It’s a surge of emotion. Relief, need, euphoria. Something more. A small scared part of his soul no longer alone.
The second thing is pain. Shae winces, fists tightening. His entire body feels like—well, he feels like he fell off a horse a few times, got strangled by dead people, and walked a few frozen miles his parents’ graves. Even the pain is welcome. It’s such a relief to feel anything again.
The rest of the memories flood back in. Losing control of the darkness, losing control of himself. Trying to kill Arthur, because he could take his energy afterwards, because he had the gall to interfere before Shae could siphon out the last remnants of his parents.
He breathes into Arthur’s collarbone, “You came back.”
Arthur’s hand loosens in Shae’s hair, and slides down between his shoulderblades. “Yeah.”
“Did you—” He flashes back to their conversation outside the paladins’ camp. “Did you already get what you needed from Ronan?”
“I didn’t need anything from Ronan,” Arthur says into his hair. “I shouldn’t have let you go alone. I’m sorry.”
Shae inhales, unclenches his fists with effort, and drapes his arms over Arthur’s shoulders. “I think I’m still mad at you.”
Arthur laughs breathlessly and hugs Shae closer. “That’s fine. You can be mad.”
“Thanks,” Shae says dazedly. “I appreciate that.”
He’s steady enough to stand on his own now, and part of him wants to. He’s ashamed and scared by how close he came to killing Arthur. How close he came to reprising his greatest regret and disturbing his parents’ rest once again. He wants to hide from any judgment of Arthur’s.
The rest of him wants to stay here forever, selfishly savoring the man’s touch.
None of that matters now, though. The array is gone. Shae has no idea what Izen will do next, but it can’t be good. He extricates himself reluctantly from the embrace. “The array broke,” he says urgently. Rememberinghowit broke, he shudders at the memory of cold lips on his. “Izen’s free, I don’t know where he’ll go next, I need—you’re hurt.”
Blood pours from a too-long, too-deep gash in Arthur’s left arm. From other wounds too, tearing through Arthur’s leather armor, staining his sun-emblazoned tunic. Dizziness sweeps through Shae.
I did that.
Arthur doesn’t look down at his injuries. He catches Shae by the elbow, as if Shae’s the injured one. “It’s nothing serious. Tell me about Izen.” He looks down at his arm, tries to move it, and winces. “Okay, that one might need stitches.”
Shae swallows down his distress and wordlessly leads Arthur out of the dead orchard.
There’s a medical kit in Arthur’s saddlebags. Shae sits Arthur down at the edge of the well and draws up water to wash off his wounds. The well hasn’t run dry in the years since he last came here. He feels Arthur’s gaze on him as he works the handle, which creaks with every movement. The rope is frayed, but somehow still intact.
