Page 27 of Another Man’s Treasure

“Is that s-s-soup?”

I turn to find Saint standing there looking utterly miserable, huddled in a jacket that’s far too thin.

“Come sit,” Oz says evenly. “Do you have a thicker coat?”

Saint sniffles and looks down at his outerwear. “It’s…not real wool, I guess. The wind goes right through it.”

I could almost feel bad for him until I remember how Oz has talked about him.

Oz looks at me and sighs, then stands and goes for the packs. He withdraws another coat and returns to the fire, handing it to Saint.

“Try this one,” he says. “I’d brought it for day two, but you can use it. And take a seat. We’ll get you some soup, and that’ll help warm you up.”

Saint takes the coat and shrugs it on, moaning at the added warmth. Dropping onto a log next to me, he lifts quivering hands for a bowl. The sound he lets out at the first bite sounds nearly orgasmic.

He eats in silence, occasionally looking at us. Oz moves his hand to my knee and rests it there. When no one seems inclined to talk, I squeeze Oz’s hand, then drop to a knee by the fire. I throw dirt over the coals to help the fire die down. The soup’ll refreeze overnight, and we can pack it away in the morning.

That done, I turn to Oz with a smile. “You ready for bed?”

He beams at me like I’m the only male in the entire world, and it lights his face up. Behind him, his tail lashes happily, and he shuffles his wings. Long, beautiful horns flex straight, a sign of arousal. It’s perfect, something a gargoyle would only do with his mate.

Oz rises and reaches for me. When I stand, he leads me to the third tent. I lift the flap and gesture him in, grinning at him like I can’t wait for us to be alone.

Inside, the sleeping bags are set up already. Except what was two separate ones has been zippered into one giant sleeping bag. I turn and look at Oz.

He shrugs. “Better for snuggling, and with this chill? I’m gonna be all over you. You know I love to be warm.”

Laughing, I pull him fully inside and zip the tent closed. Oz shucks off his jacket and pants, and underneath them, gods help me, he’s wearing the heart-covered jammies. He tosses off the clothes he wore all day and bends down to his bag. And fuck, the sight of his tight, bubbly ass and that tail?

My sack tightens, length hardening against my thigh as I stare, telling myself not to. That this is all fake. That I don’t know the real Oz because all of this is for show.

Except it’s hard to fake every moment of a day. Some of the things he says might not be real, but his obvious love of today’s ride? That was all Oz. At the very least, it feels like we’re blurring lines.

He dons thick sweatpants over the outfit, then zips a long-sleeved hoodie up his front. I almost offer to help him button it at his shoulders, but that seems like too much. I almost pray he struggles with it, so I can offer to do it for him.

Why?

I can’t start liking him that way. I’m paying him, for gods’ sake.

He looks up at me, shuffling his wings at his back. Cocking his head to the side, he blinks. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

A ruse, just for show. That’s all this is.

“Just tired,” I lie.

His lashes flutter, and he forces a smile that’s obviously fake. It doesn’t reach his eyes. Turning from me, he steps to the head of the sleeping bag and slips in, tucking his wings tightly around his body, shielding it from my view.

When I join him in sweatpants and a long-sleeved thermal, he’s careful to stay on his side of the double sleeping bag.

“It’s chilly,” he says in a voice that’s a little too loud, no doubt for Saint’s benefit.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll keep you warm, little mate.”

Fake. False. It’s all a lie.

Except…what if he really is cold?

That dark blush trails up Oz’s cheeks again.