Ix was smiling now, slowly and then all at once as realization dawned, his grin broad enough that Eric could mourn the loss of his pointed teeth. His hands slid around Eric’s waist, tugging him into a hug so tight all the air was crushed from his chest and Eric didn’t even care. He ended up sprawled on Ix’s chest, his arms wound around Ix’s neck.
“You don’t have to–”
“Apologize, yes, yes, I know. But I do this time. I am sorry. I cannot believe I didn’t tell you.” Eric tried to think back, to view all of it through the idea that Ix hadn’t known he was a free man. That Ix had done all of this thinking that Eric still intended to court and wed Lydia afterwards. The thought of it was so crushing that Eric found his eyes welling up. “And worse, that you went this whole time thinking that I was… I don’t even know. Attached.”
“Hells, you’ll cry at anything except actual grief, won’t you?” said Ix, but his voice was fond and his hand was gentle as he brushed away the unshed tears. Forgiveness, stated in action rather than words.
Eric let himself flop over onto Ix. He might still be poor at expressing his feelings but it was a relief for Ix to understand him anyway. He pressed his head against Ix’s chest, feeling the regular thump of his heartbeat, felt the steady inhale and exhale of his breath, and marveled that he was allowed to do that now. And if Ix’s hand, slowly stroking down the nape of his neck and the length of his back, was any indication, Ix felt the same.
The moment had to end at some point, but Eric found himself putting it off until Ix glanced at the timepiece on the mantle. “Don’t you have affairs to see to?”
“I suppose. Will you be all right without me?” said Eric reluctantly. The words weren’t even out of his mouth before he heard how petulant and clinging he sounded.
“I will probably be better. No one else will spar with me, so I won’t get stabbed again,” said Ixthan, pretending to swoon. Back to normal between the two of them, and there was some comfort there too. “I shall lie here and languish and wait for your return.”
Lies, of course. Eric fully expected him to get out of bed and be back in his study the moment Eric turned his back, but they’d learned, over the years, which of the small untruths they could tolerate from each other.
“You’d better,” muttered Eric darkly as he climbed out of bed. He dressed himself clumsily, all too aware of Ix watching him. It shouldn’t have felt different given how many times they’d changed in front of each other before, but he turned to see Ix’s eyes rest lazily on the curve of his ass and felt the flush spread from his cheeks straight down to his chest.
Flustered, Eric puttered around, collecting his things – finding a boot, hunting for the second one and eventually finding it right next to the first but he’d somehow completely missed it. Ix tossed a small coin bag at his head; Eric tried not to feel too much pleasure at being treated like a kept woman and retaliated by borrowing one of Ix’s cravats.
And then he hesitated on the threshold. Eric wasn’t sure what was too much or not but given they’d more or less breached the topic of whether this thing between them involved feelings, he strode back into the room, placed a kiss on the temple of a bemused Ix and then fled.
On the carriage over, Eric had enough time to sort himself out. He sheepishly turned his coat from inside-out to the right side and swapped his gloves from the wrong hands. The borrowed cravat was a mistake. Not because it wasn’t nice – only the finest silk for the demon prince, soft as a whisper against his skin – but because it smelled of Ix’s winter perfume, woody and distracting. He groaned, and pressed the entire side of his face against the carriage window in the hopes the cold glass could knock some sense into him.
By the time he arrived at Williams & Sons, Eric mostly resembled a well-put together young earl in possession of all his senses. Thankfully, this meeting was mostly for them to apprise him of their progress, producing an updated inventory of the ransacked house and confirmation of the various fines.
The immediate concern was that Petra’s dowry fund was pitiful and Eric hated that he was thankful she wasn’t inan active courtship. It would take some time to recover, and he would have to take a lien against the house if anyone expressed interest before next season. Eric was just mentally congratulating himself on how well he was keeping himself together when a newcomer arrived.
“Good afternoon, thank you for coming, milord,” said Ned Williams. “This is Brother Ramsay, he is here to confirm the allocation of debts owed.”
The man who extended a hand for Eric to shake was young, with a tanned complexion even in the middle of winter and hair dark enough to suggest a parent or grandparent from somewhere further south than the Isles. He looked vaguely familiar, though Eric would have recognized him if they’d met before. The most unusual detail was his long winter coat with draped sleeves and a priest’s scarf draped over his shoulders.
“A priest? I’m afraid I don’t understand, why is the temple working as debt-collectors for the Crown?” asked Eric after extending his hand. Even though he had never been an avid temple-goer outside of annual religious days, he knew that the woven scarf denoted which temple order and what rank he was. Ramsay’s purple with white stripes meant he was a priest of middling rank from the Allegreian Temple.
Brother Ramsay and the estate manager exchanged glances, and Eric’s heart sank.
“We are not debt-collectors,” said Ramsay, in a placating tone that indicated he knew something Eric didn’t and was preparing already for his anger. “And we would not ordinarily get involved in matters of estate for the nobility.”
It took Eric but a moment. He steeled himself. “Oh gods. You mean my father was in debt. To the Allegreian Temple? Why? We have not attended temple for years and even when we were, my mother’s preference was the Ecusinne Order. Begging your pardon, Brother.”
“The Ecusinne Order is very respectable,” Ramsay reassured him. “I don’t hold all of the history, but my understanding is that the debt was… more recent.”
Eric heard the unspoken implication, and staggered heavily into a chair. “My father borrowed money from the temple tofund his rebellion?”
“We have conducted a thorough investigation of how this came to be on our side. It seems your father was old friends with one of our order who approved the request, bypassing the usual process,” said Ramsay, producing from his leather bag a number of documents and letters to show him. They looked legitimate, and he recognized his father’s signature.
“I can only apologize,” said Eric, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly to ward off the inevitable headache. “It must have been difficult for the temple to be implicated in… that.”
“Our case has been appealed directly with the King and we do not blame you,” said Ramsay reassuringly. “The temple understands that you had no part in your father’s actions. And the priest involved has decided to retire from public duties and take a vow of seclusion in one of our smaller temples.”
Exile, in nicer words. Eric could only paw helplessly through the letters of proof of his father’s continued treachery until his eyes caught on the number, the sheer amount of gold his father had borrowed. “Oh, gods!”
“Some has already been returned,” said Ramsay hastily. “And the temple understands that these are exceptional circumstances.”
“Brother Ramsay and I have several proposals for you, if Your Lordship would be amenable to hearing them,” Ned chimed in, gently prying the letters away from Eric’s clutched hands so he couldn’t keep staring at them.
“I – yes, yes. That would be very helpful,” he said faintly.
