I set to work, dragging the brush through Enoch’s coat in slow, steady strokes. He leans into the pressure with a low, contented huff, his flank warm beneath my palm. Around us, the stable breathes. Hooves scrape softly against straw. Dust lifts in warm motes, drifting through the slanted light that filters between the barn’s wooden slats. The air smells of hay and leather, earth and animal, as it should.
Neither of us speaks as we work in contented silence.
An hour passes in this manner, and then there’s the rhythmic sound of metal scraping through hay and packed dirt.
Orán works beside me without complaint, pitchfork biting into soiled bedding—lift, turn, toss. There’s a grace to him even here, even while doing something as mundane as clearing stalls. His Henley clings to his damp back, stretched across his shoulders and chest, the fabric pulling taut with each movement. The sleeves are shoved to his forearms, and as he works, corded muscle flexes beneath the strain.
Every so often, our gazes meet across the narrow aisle.
Just brief flashes that spark something unspoken and fill the space with awareness. I ignore it as best as I can, and keep my mind on my own chores.
A while later, he wipes at his face with the back of his wrist, leaving a faint streak of grime along his cheek. A piece of straw catches in his hair and stays there, stubbornly upright.
I almost reach for it. But the memory of the last time I touched his hair has me promptly shutting down that idea. He swept me right off my feet and carried me to my bedroom. Unless I want to end up in that same position, it’s probably best that I keep my hands to myself.
The barn grows warmer as the work continues. The air is not oppressive, but inescapable with his presence.
Sweat beads at my temples. My blouse becomes a second skin. I fan myself for a moment to stave off the heat, but it does little good.
Orán, possibly experiencing the same, hooks his fingers beneath the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head. The motion is casual and innocent.
But my body’s reaction is not. An inner heat builds, and I fight it off with fervor.
Though he damn near makes that impossible. His skin is golden in a way that can’t be entirely natural, although that makes it no less praiseworthy. His chest rises and falls steadily as he resumes work, completely oblivious to the additional warmth he’s stirred up.
My grip tightens on the tool handle in my hand, and I fight the desire both building and warring within me.
My discipline eventually crumbles, as again and again, my gaze is drawn by what feels like a magnetic force to the man beside me. It isn’t merely the sight of him in profile when he half turns to toss the hay, or the strong set of his jaw. Or the ways his muscles flex when he drives the pitchfork into the stubborn patches of bedding. Heaven, even the slow trace of sweat down his spine draws the eye.
No, what catches my attention and holds it is the history recorded in his flesh. The way his dark runes tell a story.
A story I find myself very much wanting to know more of.
Enough. Focus on your work, not the beautiful man.
Immortal.
Whatever.
So I do for as long as I’m able.
We trade places to spread fresh bedding, working in tandem without speaking. I shake out a bale of straw while he scatters it evenly with the pitchfork, the two of us moving around each other in close quarters, shoulders nearly brushing.
When they do, our eyes meet.
Something passes between us—the quiet acknowledgment of a tension neither of us is willing to name. The invisible line I’ve created and the temptation to erase it.
He shakes his head before he turns back to his task, chucking hay forward into the stall.
“If you want me to finish this task, then I’d suggest not looking at me in such a way. Gives a man ideas.”
I let out a slow breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “And what might those be?”
Peering back at me over his shoulder, the corner of his lips kicks up. “Like how I’d love nothing more than to dirty you up even more than you already are.” His eyes, when they find me, do a slow sweep down my frame, making his meaning clear. “Perhaps revisit the lake and take my time appreciating every inch of our skin under the moonlight. Then spending another whole day in your bed where I like to learn everything about you that I didn’t the first night I spent there.”
“Is that so?” I’m no longer working. His confession has impaired the coordination of my brain and my body.
“It is. Lying you out on one of these bales of hay and getting lost in you until the sun rises has been tempting me for the better part of this task. Get to know your body in all the ways I haven’t had the pleasure yet. In truth, it’s been the only thing on my mind as I work.”
