“Realistic enough for you?” Rakos murmurs against his lips.
Bellamy’s knees weaken. “Not bad.”
“Not bad?” Rakos runs a finger across Bellamy’s lip. “I’ll show younot bad.”
He swallows Bellamy’s next whimper.
Bellamy winds his arms around Rakos’s neck, feeling absolutely shameless. The festival falls away. He doesn’t care about the drasgard approaching. All he cares about is the ravenous press of Rakos’s tongue, the broad hands rucking up his loose shirt.
Surely passersby can see them. The alley isn’t that secluded. Past the lanterns and hanging ribbons, Rakos and Bellamy are clearly visible. But nobody cares.
It’s not like Sandrelle or Tavoc, where every courtier and guard knows Bellamy by sight and sigil. Where his every move is weighed against the existing weave of courtly schemes. Where dancing too long with Emile Pellerin might send disadvantageous rumors to House Marcel’s ears.
Nobody in Orthin knows Bellamy’s a prince.Rakosdoesn’t know he’s a prince, and Bellamy’s guilt feels unimportant when Rakos devours him like this.
He’s dazed and breathless when Rakos pulls away, flower crown askew and a smug smirk on his lips. “They’re gone.”
“Who?” Bellamy asks stupidly. “Right, we should—wall.”
Still smirking, Rakos tugs him down the alley. Bellamy follows on clumsy knees. He barely manages to scramble over the wall with Rakos’s assistance, his skin coming alive with Rakos’s touch.
He lands with a shaky thump in another alley, and rats scatter squeaking in the darkness. Outside the festival grounds, the night chills his heated skin through his light shirt.
Rakos lands next to him, flower crown intact. His sleeveless tunic flutters askew, baring an expanse of solid chest.
Bellamy wants to kiss him again. No, he wants far more than just another kiss. And from the way Rakos held him in that alley, Bellamy thinks Rakos would be willing.
Live and learn. Make mistakes.
But the cold night wakes Bellamy from his daze, and guilt prickles sharp under his skin. Bellamy knows who he is, even if nobody else does. His heart twists and burns with wanting, but he doesn’t dare take another step.
“You’re a good actor,” Bellamy says, breaking the silence.
Rakos laughs after a moment. “Same to you.” He takes off down the alley, and gestures for Bellamy to follow. “Shout if you see magic.”
Hand over his lips, Bellamy follows.
***
The next two days pass as if the kiss never happened.
As if Bellamy’s blood doesn’t boil every time he thinks of it—which is every time sunlight passes over Rakos’s golden, freckled cheekbones. Every time Rakos smiles. Stretches. Passes Bastard treats.
The closest Bellamy gets to Rakos is wearing his wyrmskin coat. Every time he shrugs it on, his shoulders tingle as if Rakos is once again right behind him, breathing against his neck and driving him crazy.
Their new room has two beds. Bellamy daydreams about breaking one of them.
He spends most of the time resting while Rakos arranges transportation. Between Bellamy’s jewelry sales and Rakos’s mysterious coin purse—Bellamy asks, and Rakos just winks and says he doesn’t want to know—they’re comfortable. As long as Rakos handles the bartering, instead of Bellamy.
Rakos rents them a private wagon space in a caravan headed for Ostomar, where they’ll find new transportation to Parsk. They have their own driver and everything. Sure, they have to share the wagon with crates of merchandise. But it’s better than the other options.
The caravan will be a five-week journey. Horseback would be faster. “Dragonback would take no time at all,” Rakos mutters once as they plan. But he doesn’t seem annoyed when Bellamy confirms he can’t last the entire trip on horseback. He just takes Bellamy’s limitations into account and plans accordingly.
On their day of departure, Bellamy gawks around at the loading yard. The twelve-wagon caravan is a motley assortment of merchants and entertainers, brought up at the fore and rear by mercenary mages. The wagons range from plain, black-walled constructions to elaborate iron and jewel-tone carriages. Men and women load the last few crates, and a woman glittering with magic checks each of the horses in their harnesses.
Especially farther north, travel in Draskora is safer in groups. Caravan masters make extra coin by renting spare wagon space and drivers to lone travelers seeking safety in numbers.
“What areyoudoing here?” a peevish female voice calls from atop a deep red carriage. Petunia the cup-and-pebble scammer leans over her wagon bench, crowned by an enormous straw hat.
