“So was Naoko. So was Mori.” Daromir knows Vana isn’t really angry at him—he’s angry at the situation. At things he can’t change. But the scolding still stings. “I understand the risk. You still won’t convince me it was the wrong idea.”
Vana deflates. “I know. You’re right. I’m sorry for losing my temper.”
Daromir’s frustration eases to sympathy. He can’t possibly stay annoyed when Vana looks so damned dejected. Daromir sheds his gloves and coat. “You call that losing your temper? Come here.”
Vana drifts over without question. He fits perfectly in Daromir’s arms. Daromir cups the back of Vana’s neck and presses their foreheads together. The nearness soothes Daromir’s ruffled nerves. The warmth of Vana’s neck melts into his palm. This is where Vana is supposed to be, safe in his grasp.
“I like when you get mad at me,” Daromir says.
“I was scolding you like a servant.” Vana’s eyes lower. “That’s not what you are to me.”
“No, you would never raise your voice at a servant.” Daromir rubs Vana’s neck. “That’s why I like it. Out there, you have to be controlled. You have to be calm. But in here, just with me? I want you to lose your temper if you’re mad. I want you to be honest with me.”
Vana sighs, his breath gusting over Daromir’s lips. “You’ve always said that. I’ve always believed it.”
“Because it’s true,” Daromir says.
Vana ducks his forehead against Daromir’s shoulder, like he’s hiding and drawing closer at the same time. An electric chill shudders through Vana, and for a moment, Daromir thinks Vana is going to say something. Wonderful or terrible, Daromir isn’t sure.
Vana’s hair smells like soap and mountain flowers. Daromir can think of nothing else.
But Vana steps backwards until Daromir’s arms fall away. “Thank you,” Vana says. “I’ll have dinner brought downstairs instead of dining at court today. I have letters from Sabora to review. Put that cocoon somewhere safe, and tell Indra to find us an entomologist or a bestiary.”
Something hangs between them. Something Vana knows that Daromir doesn’t. A missing confession. But Daromir knows Vana well enough not to push right now.
So all Daromir says is, “All right.”
?
CHAPTER NINE
Vana
Frustration roils through Vana, so sharp and uncontrollable it sparks electric at his fingertips. He jerks his hand away from the arcane bestiary in his lap before the pages catch, breathing steadily until the magic recedes.
“You okay over there?” Daromir asks. He’s sharpening his knives across the room. They’re in Daromir’s private training hall, a space that’s more Daromir’s territory than any other place in Ostomar. Old murals are faded on the walls. Hideous, ornate crown molding they haven’t bothered to change. They did tear out the old marble floor and replace it with wood.
Vana shakes out his hand. “Never better,” he says, sour. Rereading the page doesn’t help. “Apparently, scorpion moths don’t have a standard cocoon structure.”
Daromir pauses, sets down a knife, and picks up another one. “Explain that to me.”
Vana sets the book on the bench and leans back against the uncomfortable carved wall. “They’re bred from a number of different species, so their cocoon shape depends on the original species. With some variation depending on which bio-enchanter developed them three hundred years ago. They look the same when they’re grown, but they don’t have a set form as caterpillars or cocoons.”
Daromir grimaces. “So, stealing the cocoon was useless?”
“Basically.” Vana frowns. “Maybe. If we compare it to known species of regular moths… Finding a match would eliminate the possibility of it being a scorpion moth. Not finding a match would leave the possibility open, though it wouldn’t confirm anything.”
Daromir stands up and stretches, then starts putting the knives away. “That sounds fucking tedious. Assign it to someone else. You’re overworked already.”
Vana rises too, rubbing his eyes. “You’re right. As always. There’s just so much at once. Naoko, Petir, this fucking moth. I can’t solve problems when the next one jumps out before I finish the first.”
“You don’t have to do everything.” Daromir sheds his coat. “Talk to the messengers again. They’re better equipped than your drasgard to look into Petir and Naoko, at least.”
Vana’s eyes cut towards him. He wants to refuse outright—the messengers surely have mostly left Draskora by now. They had other jobs. Their ties to Kaiskara are a risk, and if caught meddling, could draw House Dire’s attention towards the island. Daromir isn’t wrong, though. “Maybe.”
“Maybe,” Daromir repeats. “Hold still.”
Holding still is all Vana can do when Daromir spins him around and starts undoing his coat buttons. Vana can’t eventhinkwith the tug of each button, the scent of Daromir so close.
