He couldn’t.
Instead, Clyde moved forward slowly, every step heavy, measured, like walking into a dream. He stopped just before the stallion’s bridle. The camp stilled around them, soldiers watching, whispers rising like smoke.
Clyde bowed his head. Dropped to one knee in the mud and frost. Took Aerion’s hand in his own scarred one and pressed his lips against the pale palm, tasting faintly of leather and salt.
“My lord,” he said, voice rough, barely carrying. “What are you doing here?”
Aerion looked down at him, that crooked smile curving his mouth, sharp and tender all at once.
“I heard my dog barking for me.”
The words cut through Clyde sharper than any blade—mockery and affection, command and confession, all entwined. His throat tightened, his fingers lingering too long around Aerion’s hand before he forced himself to release it.
The camp erupted in murmurs, men craning to see, but Clyde didn’t care. For the space of a breath, all that existed was Aerion’s eyes, the heat in them, and the fire it set alight in his chest.
Chapter fourteen
Frost in the Bones
The fire in Clyde’s tent burned low, a meager shield against the frost gnawing at the edges of canvas and bone. Yet for Aerion, the chill hardly mattered—he was warm from wine, from adrenaline, from the wild, reckless decision that had carried him here to the frontlines.
And from Clyde.
The knight’s mouth was rough against his, their kiss edged with months of absence, with fury and longing tangled into one. Aerion clutched at him like a drowning man, velvet sleevetwisted in Clyde’s tunic, while Clyde held back only enough to keep from crushing him outright.
“Gods,” Aerion whispered between gasps, “I thought I’d go mad without you.”
“You nearly did,” Clyde muttered, forehead pressed to his, voice low and hoarse. “Valemont will be in ruins if you stay away from it much longer.”
Aerion laughed softly against his lips, but it caught in his throat when the tent flap rustled.
Renn stood in the doorway.
His boyish face froze, caught like a thief. His eyes darted from Aerion’s flushed cheeks to Clyde’s hand still gripping his hip.
Aerion turned, sharp as a whip. “Well. I see why they send boys to war. Quick, quiet, good at creeping where they don’t belong.”
The words stung sharper than steel. Renn flinched, mumbled something—an apology, a stammer—and vanished into the night.
Silence fell.
Aerion leaned back, arms folding across his chest, smirk curling cruel and careless. “Do all your men lurk outside your tent, or is that one especially devoted?”
Clyde’s hand dropped from Aerion’s hip. He didn’t rise to the barb. His voice was steady, quiet as iron. “He’s young. He doesn’t know his place yet.”
Aerion tilted his head, lashes lowering in mock consideration. “Oh, he looked like he knew exactly where he wanted to be.” His smile thinned, blade-sharp. “Inside.”
Clyde’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer.
“What?” Aerion pressed, voice soft and venomous. “No denial? No scolding me for insulting the poor pup? You’re usually quicker to correct me.”
“He’s a boy,” Clyde said finally, his tone calm but heavy, like a door being shut. “Not worth your cruelty.”
Aerion’s laugh was low, brittle. “Cruelty? That was mercy. If I were cruel, I’d tell him the truth—that he’ll never be half the man I need.” His eyes narrowed, glittering in the firelight. “That none of them will. None but you.”
The confession, raw and sharp-edged, hung between them. Clyde’s breath caught, but he didn’t move closer. Didn’t speak.
Aerion’s smirk faltered. His arms dropped to his sides. He looked at Clyde like a man expecting an answer, but Clyde only held his gaze, silent and steady.
