Yarrow takes a deep breath, prickling with unfamiliar nerves. “You could stay if I lifemarked you.”
Folly’s gaze snaps up. “You mean the thing I just said I’m not ready for.”
Yarrow gives a crooked smile. “Precisely that.”
“That’s even assuming you would want one,” Folly says. His words are halting at first, then gain momentum with his nerves. “You’re only seventy-seven, after all. You have your entire fae life ahead of you. I believe that you like me, but that’s not enough, is it? You’ll probably get tired of me after a decade or two, if not sooner, and you’ll be stuck?—”
“Sweetheart,” Yarrow murmurs, and kisses Folly silent.
His heart aches with how desperately Folly clings. Thin fingers clutch Yarrow’s hair, brushing the sensitive lengths of his ears. Yarrow presses just as desperately into Folly’s mouth. He wants to swallow every last doubt from behind Folly’s teeth.
The kiss blooms. Yarrow’s desire builds like Elsewhere itself, taking shape as Folly lingers within it.
A promise rattles behind Yarrow’s ribs. He wants to say, more than anything, that he wants to lifemark Folly now. Nothing would please him more than claiming this human in a binding that doesn’t hurt.
But he can’t say it, because it isn’t true.
For the first time in his life, Yarrow wants to be cautious, not reckless. Folly deserves every ounce of care Yarrow can give him. Forcing a choice between a lifemark and sudden abandonment would be cruel.
Maybe that’s not very fae of Yarrow. He doesn’t care.
“Neither of us is ready for a lifemark.” Yarrow kisses Folly’s cheek, then pulls away. “But I’m not ready to say goodbye to you either. So we’re going to kill Moriath, and then take our sweet time returning to Elladar. Give your brilliant mind time to come up with a solution. All right?”
It’s a bad answer. By his shaky breath, Folly knows that. “All right,” he says anyway.
Yarrow kisses Folly’s other cheek. “All right.”
And his hands wander from Folly’s waist to his ass, tugging him close. “We have twelve hours left,” Yarrow murmurs. “Do you want some space, or do you want me to help you feel better?”
Folly’s breath hitches, and he rocks forward in delicious friction. “Help me feel better. Please.”
Perfect. Yarrow’s been sensible for far too long today. Time to be a bit more persuasive.
Chapter 23
Folly
How foolish can a lifemark be, when Yarrow’s every touch is already branded into Folly’s soul? Folly groans into a kiss, each of Yarrow’s breaths warming him from the inside out.
This is a delay. A distraction. Folly’s happy to wait for later if the moments in between taste like this.
Yarrow’s stomach tenses beneath Folly’s touch. He explores lower, tracing muscle through supple leather. That… might be a problem. Yarrow isn’t shirtless like last night. His belt buckle looks complicated. Folly’s going to fumble with it, which is mildly embarrassing, and probably spill the invisibility powder everywhere. Not only will that ruin the plan to kill Moriath, it’ll make the sex weirder than Folly’s prepared for today, and?—
“Breathe,” Yarrow says, with a fond laugh. He kneads Folly’s ass. “Can I tie you up again?”
Gods, Yarrow’s hands are so big, massaging into Folly’s muscles. “Yes. Um. I liked that.”
“Perfect, because I liked it too,” Yarrow purrs into his ear. “I like knowing you’re exactly where I want you. Exactly where Iput you. Because you want to be good for me. You want to belong to me.”
A whine catches in Folly’s throat. His hips jerk instinctively against Yarrow.
With a gentle pat, Yarrow lets go of Folly’s ass. The measuring rope appears in his hand as a hungry smile sharpens his face. Doubling over the rope, Yarrow says, “Set your robe aside, then turn around and give me your wrists.”
Folly’s relief at the order is almost embarrassing. How pathetic he must be, so afraid of fumbling with a belt buckle that he’d rather be bound and helpless.
But Yarrow doesn’t think he’s pathetic. Yarrow calls Folly brilliant and clever and brave. Yarrow closes behind Folly and growls, “Summer’s tits, you’re so fucking hot.”
Elsewhere is a meadow in bloom. Trees circle their small patch of earth, as if offering privacy from the endless fog beyond. The air is warm and clear. The ground is steady. Folly sways, overcome with need, as Yarrow loops the rope around his left wrist. The soft material is cool compared to Yarrow’s hands, but Folly feels it as an extension of the wild fae’s touch.
