“Any siblings?” Water moves. “What does your family do?”
“My mothers and brothers are all minstrels too.” Bellamy needs to minimize the lies if possible—stick to just one fake profession to remember. He really didn’t plan on keeping Rakos’s company this long.
“They’re pretty protective, aren’t they?”
Bellamy sighs. “Too protective. I can’t really blame them, but it gets frustrating sometimes.”
“You don’t have to talk about it if I’m being nosy,” Rakos says.
“Thanks.” Bellamy almost takes the permission to stop talking. He never talks about this—because what’s the point? He doesn’t want his family to worry more about him. He doesn’t want to cause trouble.
But there’s something so reassuring about Rakos, as frightening and violent as he is. There’s a refreshing honesty to him. A lack of judgment. And at the end of all this, they’ll part ways, never to speak again. Talking to Rakos isn’t a commitment. It won’t have consequences.
“They’ve always spoiled me since I’m the youngest.” Bellamy’s fingers tap the windowsill. “But it got worse when I was eight. My biological father decided he wanted custody, so he took me to his…” No, Bellamy can’t saycastleorbaronyhere. “His house in another village. Without either of my mothers’ permission.”
“He kidnapped you?” Rakos says, outraged. “What happened then?”
Bellamy shrugs. “I lived at his house for a few months, until he died.”
There’s a splash. “Did your mothers kill him?”
“What? No. His heart failed.” Bellamy knows how unrealistic the coincidence sounds. There’s never been evidence otherwise, though. “The stress must have gotten to him, Mother said. Once he died, the rest of my family came to collect me, and that was that. I’ve been under constant supervision since.”
Rakos is silent for a moment. Then swears. “I’m not sure whether to offer my condolences or my congratulations.”
There’s something freeing about talking about all of this. Rakos is far easier to talk to than Bellamy expected. “I’m not sure how I feel either. What Father did was wrong, and I would be hurt and angry if he were alive, but it’s all theoretical for me. I didn’t even realize he had kidnapped me until years later. I thought it was just a confusing, stressful vacation.”
“I can see why your family would get a little overbearing, after that.”
“They’re great otherwise,” Bellamy says. “My brothers are very kind. Very capable. Far more capable than me. This was supposed to be my first journey without them, and look where it got me. Kidnapped again,twice, and I spent seven silvers for a single bed like a useless idiot.”
Oops. Too much truth there, Bell.
Rakos just laughs, warm and settling. “Are you still beating yourself up over that?”
“What do you mean?” Bellamy barely restrains himself from turning around.
“We all make mistakes,” Rakos says. “You live and learn, right? It’s not a big deal.”
Bellamy’s grip on the windowsill loosens. “Right. I suppose.”
Live and learn. Bellamy hasn’t had many chances to make mistakes. If he got lost, someone would find him through the vines. If he stumbled, someone would catch him before he so much as skinned his knee.
He’s never had a chance to get scammed out of seven silvers before. Put like that, that part of today’s misadventure doesn’t seem so overwhelming.
Water moves behind Bellamy as the sky deepens to a beautiful bruised purple, alight with stars and flashes of magic. More magic than most Silaisan cities. In Silaise, magic is hoarded by the nobility. Safeguarded, according to more traditional families like House Pellerin and House Marcel. Throttled, according to progressives like Audric. Here in Draskora, even the poorest slums glitter with occasional flashes of enchantment.
Maybe Bellamy can learn a few things while he’s stuck here.
A greater splash of water, then wet feet slap the floorboards. Bellamy counts his breaths and meditates on the sky as Rakos dries off behind him. He’s calm now. His pulse is totally normal. Great. He’s handling this very well.
Until Rakos asks, “Can you see if I got the dye off my neck?”
Bellamy turns around to find Rakos dressed only in those baggy dark trousers. The fabric clings to the bulk of his thighs, riding low along the chiseled contours of his hips. Bellamy’s gaze catches at the nexus of hard muscle and trailing black hair, twisting with each movement as Rakos towels off his hair.
Stray water slides down a rippling expanse of muscle. Rakos’s brown nipples pebble in the cold. Every taut inch of him is dangerous.
Attractive.
