His protest breaks off into a stunned whimper as something very large pushes into his ass. Karis viscerally, physically realizes Ronan has skipped the rest of the fingering—that’s his slicked-up cock already spreading Karis open. His thoughts scatter with the steady, relentless intrusion. Every nerve ignites as his insides willingly rearrange to fit around Ronan’s cock. His eyes sting with the pressure, the overwhelmed delight.
They fit together completely, and Ronan’s forehead rests between Karis’s shoulders. “Fuck, you’re so good,” Ronan says. “Thesoundsyou make.”
He starts to move. Achingly slow, the angle driving his cock past Karis’s prostate with every stroke. Karis bites his lip at first, then gives up on staying quiet. Ronan likes hearing him—and Karis likes the way Ronan turns him into a panting, groaning mess of desire. His hands fist in the altar cloth, silk sticking to his sweating palms.
Just as everything is almost too much, Ronan lets go of his hips and covers his hands. Karis comes, his mind and heart alive with light and love. Ronan shudders too, and then leans heavily over him. Presses the sweetest kiss against his shoulder.
Tightens his grip on Karis’s hands.
They rest there, still locked together, without need for words. Karis slumps on the altar, boneless, awash in pleasure and relief.
After all they’ve been through and all they’ve shared, Ronan still treats him likeKaris. Not a madman or a god. Ronan just wantshim, and he understands that Karis’s powers are real, scarily real, but not the sum of him. Prodigy, paladin, prophet. Captive. They’re all just roles he’s played. Just like Ronan has always been more than the Trickster’s acolyte.
Even on the Radiant altar, the sweeping expanse of the cathedral rising around them, more than anything else, they’re simply in love. With Ronan’s fingers entwined with his, Karis feels free.
?
EPILOGUE
ONE MONTH LATER
A warm voice drags Karis from sleep. Not his lover, unfortunately—their very large bed is empty next to him, and when Karis’s eyes crack open, he sees a steaming mug of tea on the bedside table. Ronan always makes tea when he gets up before Karis, which is most days. Nobody dares summon Karis too early in the morning, and without the rigor of squire training, Karis tends to sleep late.
Especially after Ronan tired him out the night before.
Since Ronan’s gone, that means it’s Radiant Vara who’s saying in his head,I highly recommend you get up now.
Karis closes his eyes again and buries his head in the pillow. “Why? And I thought you didn’t want to be an alarm clock.”
Because Arthur Davorin and his necromancer are approaching the front gate.
“Oh,” Karis says absently, before the weight of that revelation hits him. “Oh,fuck,” he yelps, already jumping from the bed. Sheets wrap around his ankle, and he nearly falls on his ass extricating himself.
They’re still in the guest suite Karis first woke up in after the unbinding. The Exalted Circle offered him Archpriest Neradt’s old suite, but Karis thought that was way too creepy. They’ll also get the Locksmiths’ manor when Melanne and Coira move back to Praia, which will be any day now. Recently, Ronan’s been leaving early to help them pack.
Hopefully Ronan has already made his way out of the cathedral grounds without meeting sudden guests, Karis prays as he scrambles into his clothes. But since the tea is still steaming…
He’s still in the courtyard,Vara relays helpfully.
Karis swears again and flies out the door. His shirt flaps like a pair of dark blue wings behind him, far too loose, and he realizes he’s accidentally put on Ronan’s shirt. He’s in far too much of a rush to correct that, though.
The day is still young, but there are plenty of people awake and about. Karis has to dodge priests replacing candles and sweeping the halls, and the paladins guarding the front door flinch towards their weapons before they recognize the blurred figure sprinting past them. The north end of the courtyard hosts two dozen squires in rough training clothes, sparring under three paladins’ watchful eyes. The training dummies are draped with discarded winter coats as the squires work up a sweat.
Karis catches Ronan in the very center of the courtyard. The sound of running must get Ronan’s attention first, because he turns to wait as soon as Karis exits the cathedral.
Skidding to a halt, Karis nearly crashes into him. He grabs Ronan’s coat sleeve, breathing too hard to say anything at first. A stitch pulls his side, and his head spins with the sudden transition fromasleep in bedtorunning to the rescue.
“What’s wrong?” Ronan grabs him gently by the shoulders. He looks Karis up and down, his gaze lingering on the stretch of collarbone exposed by the too-large neckline. “Where’s your coat?”
“Fine. Not cold,” Karis says between gasps. “I just had to warn you that—”
Hooves clatter on the flagstone before he can finish, and two horses carry their riders onto the grounds of the Bright Cathedral. The striking chestnut warhorse has clearly slowed to match the pace of the smaller dark bay next to her, who looks like a farm pony in comparison. Their riders make an equally stark contrast; the chestnut’s rider is blond and broad-shouldered, the smile on his face clear even at a distance. The bay’s rider is dark-haired and thin, wrapped in a gray cloak and a forbidding air.
Dismayed, Karis can only watch Ronan turn towards the front gates, and see his eyes widen in recognition at the broad-shouldered blond.
“…Sir Arthur’s coming,” Karis finishes belatedly.
The surprise in Ronan’s expression flicks away into his usual calm, and he squeezes Karis’s shoulder. “Thanks for the warning,” he says mildly. “Do you know why he’s here?”
