Bellamy stops and presses his hand to a tree. “Wait a minute. I need to get something out of my boot.” His fingertips dig into the damp bark as he pretends to fiddle with his boot.
He spies a suitable tree about twenty yards away, barely visible through the brush. It’s large. Nothing like the great pillars of Sandrelle palace, but large enough for Bellamy’s needs. He inhales slowly through his pain and sends his mother’s magic through the tree at his hand, through the underground network of roots, and up into his target.
With the faintest creak and the cacophonous departure of startled birds, the tree parts at the center and yawns open into a wooden cavern.
Bellamy’s vision darkens briefly, and he sags against the tree. When the darkness clears and his breath catches up, he finds Rakos has kept walking ahead without waiting.
“Great,” Bellamy mutters. “Traveling with Bastard and Asshole.” He raises his voice. “Excuse me, Rakos? I think I found somewhere to stop.”
Without waiting for Rakos, Bellamy trudges towards the tree.
The closest Bellamy has come to camping before was accompanying his brothers on wyrm hunting trips. He didn’t join the hunts himself, too nervous and squeamish, but he liked visiting new forests. Getting out of Sandrelle’s nauseating iridescence. Those trips involved pseudo-rustic lodges and one memorable pavilion of trees crafted by Audric, who has the best grasp of Sandry magic of any of them. Cooks brought delicacies out to the firepit, and oathguards stood watch over everything.
Tonight, Bellamy’s too exhausted to even check the ground for centipedes. He tucks himself into the cleft of the tree and drops heavily onto the dirt. The newly parted interior of the tree is smooth and hard against his head, the earth far dryer than the rest of the forest floor. Not comfortable, but Bellamy’s too tired to care.
He’s also too tired to worry when Bastard vanishes, reappears on his foot, then vanishes again. Too tired to react when Rakos squelches closer and ducks his head into the cavernous tree.
“This will work,” Rakos says. “Well spotted.”
Finally, some recognition. “Thanks. There might be centipedes.”
“This will have to work.” Rakos drops down next to Bellamy with a grunt. “I’ll take first watch. I’m only sitting down for a minute.”
Slumped beside him, Bellamy can feel the slightest change in Rakos’s posture. Tension unlocking to helpless lassitude. From that and the rasp in his voice, it’s clear Rakos is just as tired as Bellamy. He’s just hiding it better.
Bellamy feels a pang of guilt for his pathetic self-absorption. “I can take the first watch.”
Rakos shifts against Bellamy. Warmth radiates between their bodies through the layers of damp clothing. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”
But within moments, Rakos’s body loosens even further. His shoulder presses into Bellamy’s, and his head tilts away against the heart of the tree. The long hem of his wyrmskin coat drapes over Bellamy’s thigh. Every slow expansion of Rakos’s ribs presses his breath into Bellamy’s body.
Bellamy leans back with a sigh. He doesn’t feel anything now, too numb and hollowed out by the day’s ordeal. No headache, no strain in his limbs, no pang in his stomach. No hunger or thirst. No embarrassment at cuddling so close to a frightening man he barely knows.
Just relief not to be moving.
As night deepens, lightning bugs wink like gold and violet stars between the trees. They dance as if the forest is their ballroom, the whisper of leaves their guiding song.
Bellamy watches them dance until his eyelids are too heavy. Until his head slumps naturally against the broad shoulder beside him.
?
CHAPTER FOUR
Rakos
Rakos wakes with a blinkmink in his face and a minstrel in his lap. The blinkmink is to blame for his waking—perched on his shoulder, she braces her tiny forepaws against his jaw and stares directly into his right eye. Whiskers tickle his nose and cheekbone.
“Bastard, is it?” Rakos mumbles, still half asleep. “Good name.”
He twists his neck in a series of sharp pops, prompting Bastard to blink away and reappear on his feet.
Fuck, he’s stiff—in more ways than one. His cock aches with the morning’s rise. Most days, the first thing Rakos does is resolve that with a lazy orgasm. But most days Rakos doesn’t have a skinny minstrel sprawled sideways over his lap, face pillowed on his thigh.
Whenever Bell breathes too deeply, the movement pulls Rakos’s trousers teasingly over his cock.
Rakos tilts his head against the inside of the tree. His body rebels against the thought of movement. Golden dawn steals through the dark woods, and the air no longer shivers with the threat of storm. Today’s travel will be easier, if they can avoid Vana’s drasgard and anyone else in pursuit.
There should be a town nearby. Rakos is used to traversing Draskora from above, but he’s fairly certain they’re near Orthin or Nirava. He’ll need to acquire new clothes, hair dye, and information. A dragonrider’s disappearance won’t have gone unnoticed. What story has been spread, if any? Is Rakos just avoiding the first prince, or anyone else?
