Concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, Leth uses the waving flag of Daziroth’s tail as a guide. The closer they get, the harder the ruins are to see.
Leth catches himself the first time he stumbles.
The second time, he falls to one knee. His head spins before he shoves to his feet again and continues forward, lungs aching with the cold.
The third time, Evain catches him by the elbow. “This is stupid.” Evain raises his voice over the wind. “You’re riding the rest of the way, and nothing you say or do will prevent that from happening, so why don’t we skip the rest of the argument?”
Leth finds it difficult to think, much less argue, when Evain stands this close to him. The firm, gentle grip on his elbow is an anchor. “Fine, then. If your monster horse will let me.”
“Of course he will.” Evain whistles, and Daziroth stops up ahead. “Daisy’s a good boy.”
Daziroth looks about as skeptical as Leth feels, but obediently stands still. Leth reaches for the saddle, wishing he had a rock to mount from, or that Daziroth was much shorter. Instead, he tucks his knee in Evain’s cupped hands. They don’t count off; he just jumps when Evain lifts in perfect coordination. Leth settles onto the cold leather of the saddle, hyperaware of Evain’s absence. The brief warmth of his touch is gone, so there’s no reason for Leth’s skin to be tingling like this.
The stirrups are too long, but Leth doesn’t intend to take his gloves off to adjust the leathers, so he’ll have to go without. Taking the reins, he’s about to suggest they switch spots halfway, when Evain grabs the low front and back of the saddle.
Evain’s wrist rubs the inside of Leth’s thigh. Stepping into the stirrup presses his leg right behind Leth’s, and the sudden friction shorts out Leth’s thoughts. Leth only processes what Evain is doing when the whole saddle tilts, and Evain swings up behind him.
The force of the wind cuts off, replaced with Evain’s body sheltering him in warmth. Chest against back, thighs behind thighs. Evain reaches forward to take the reins from Leth’s slack hands, caging Leth in his arms. He says into Leth’s ear, “Let’s skip this argument too, all right?”
Leth can’t muster a response when his heart pounds so violently in his throat. He sits ramrod-straight, refusing to lean back as Evain nudges Daziroth forward, as if any speck of distance will make a difference.
Whether he’s leaning against Evain or walking far away doesn’t matter. He still feels Evain’s tongue swiping at the seam of his lips.
Leth knows the parameters of Evain’s magic. Evain draws power not from touch, but from lust. A touch or kiss is simply the means to the end, and the end isemotion. Desire. If Leth had felt no attraction in response, Evain’s magic would have failed, and the tempest of wild magic would have torn them to shreds.
A shiver wracks through him, and he knows he’s being childishly stubborn. His ideals of self-control and restraint used to be a crutch—now they’re a tether. Evain has taken care of Leth, despite Leth’s best or worst intentions, ever since they left Ostaris. Maybe taking shelter from the wind isn’t weakness after all.
Ten minutes later, Leth allows himself to melt against Evain’s chest. His frozen joints unlock one by one. Only then does Evain ask, directly into his ear, “Are you mad that I kissed you?”
“No. It was necessary.” Leth pulls his scarf up against a fresh slice of wind. He’s not mad that Evain kissed him. He’s mad that it worked. That he can’t keep denying how much he wants Evain.
That it still says nothing about how Evain feels about him.
This might, though: the way Evain moves the reins to one hand and wraps the other arm around Leth’s waist. “It’s all right if you’re mad.” Evain tightens his arm, and his sigh is lost to the wind. “But I’m glad that you’re not.”
Winter swirls around them, and the ruins rise before them. Leth’s fingers curl in his perfectly fitting new gloves.
Nobody else got new clothes the morning they left Lanwatch. Just him.
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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
EVAIN
Evain has never been so aware of how fragile humans are. Hopefully his panic doesn’t show in his voice. Leth was shivering when Evain threw him onto the horse, and Evain doesn’t know nearly enough about frostbite. He can’t help his ridiculous fear that if he lets go, Leth will be blown away into the storm. The blizzard is very strong, after all, and Leth is very small.
That holding onto him has its own benefits is beside the point.
Evain isn’t impervious to the weather, but his internal heat is much stronger than a human’s. He and Daziroth can last much longer than Leth in the cold. Luckily, Leth hasn’t seemed to notice anything strange about that yet.
Leth is preoccupied with other matters, apparently. He turns his head slightly, the angle still wrong to face each other, and his snow-streaked hair paints ice against Evain’s jaw. “How did you get my measurements, by the way?”
There’s a riveting softness to his voice. Not a quality Evain often associates with Leth. If Evain had known such softness was hiding under Leth’s prickly shell, he would have tried to break into him months ago. Years ago.
“I have a very good eye.” Evain hesitates, thoughhesitationis not a quality he often associates with himself. “And I’ve spent a lot of time looking at you.”
Leth’s hair moves against his jaw again. If he doesn’t stop moving, Evain won’t be able to conceal his reaction. “Why just for me? Did the others have better winter gear already?”
