“Oh, no,” Bell says suddenly. He strums the strings again, and a thin, uneven wail rises from the lute. Shaking his head, he offers the lute back to Merry. “How long has that been in your wagon? The wood is warped.”
“Seriously?” Merry takes the lute back. A deep dent Rakos hadn’t noticed before catches the lantern light. “Fuck. Maybe that’s why the lady left it. Sorry for getting everyone’s hopes up!”
Bell leans back against Rakos’s side. “Don’t worry about it.”
“That’s too bad,” Rakos says, distracted by the fragile heat burning between them.
As soon as Bell finishes eating, Rakos gathers up their things and shadows him towards their own unlit lodging. Their driver spends nights in another wagon with the rest of the caravan crew, leaving Rakos and Bell alone.
Tension still locks Rakos’s limbs. The real problem isn’t Bell’s question or the bed workers mentioning Rakos’s name. Rakos is disturbed by his own overwhelming relief when Merry answered perfectly and Bell accepted it.
Rakos shouldn’t care this much about whether Bell sees through him.
He shouldn’t care about ruining anything. His life’s already ruined, and his only priority should be reuniting with Sarka. He’s sticking with Bell because the minstrel was too pitiful, and dropping him off in Silaise will be easy once he has Sarka for transportation.
But Rakos does care. He’s fascinated by this fragile minstrel. The way Bell opens up, becoming bolder every day. Even two weeks ago, Rakos doesn’t think Bell would have dared shoo Merry away like that.
Rakos would love to see just how bold Bell can get. But after all of this, Rakos refuses to be the one who breaks him. If Bell’s returning to Silaise, Rakos sure as fuck can’t follow. Anything between them has to be temporary. He can’t let Bell get too attached, because saying farewell is already going to be difficult enough.
So, time for some honesty.
To an extent.
“Hey.” Rakos leans against the back edge of their wagon. Theirs is nowhere near as fine as Petunia’s, with a plain wood bed and roof wrapped with reinforced canvas walls. They have to move the crates around every night to make room for bedrolls, then again in the morning to better distribute the weight.
Bell stops, hand on the lip of the wagon. Scant inches separate his fingertips from Rakos, and with Rakos slouching down, they’re almost at eye level. “Hey.”
Lantern light doesn’t stretch this far. Rakos smiles in the darkness. “What was that?”
Bell’s hand falls away. The extra space between them does nothing to diminish his closeness. “What was what?”
“Staking your claim like that. Chasing Merry off.”
Rakos wishes he could see Bell’s reaction more clearly. But the hitch of breath is clear. The sudden return of Bell’s bashfulness. “Did you mind?”
“I didn’t mind.”
“Good.” Bell’s bashfulness is gone. Was he faking it? Delightful. “I don’t want complications while we travel. You’ve seen how Merry talks.”
“The finest mouth in Draskora.”
Even in the shadows and moonlight, Bell’s glare is clear. Rakos holds out his hand, and after a moment, Bell rests his fingers in Rakos’s palm. The connection is warm.
“I don’t want complications either,” Rakos says. “So, let’s be clear. I would absolutely, gladly fuck you.”
Bell’s hand goes rigid in his.
Rakos continues. “But I can’t give anything more than that. I can’t give you anything serious, besides my promise to get you home. All right?”
Bell doesn’t answer.
“Am I clear?”
“Crystal,” Bell finally whispers.
“Good.” Rakos squeezes Bell’s hand, then lets go. “Think on that for as long as you want, and let me know if what I can give is enough for you.”
He’s about to say something else. Tell Bell to go to bed, sweet dreams, something sappy like that. Maybe offer to rub his shoulders again for purely altruistic reasons—
