Page 169 of The Sun He Buried

He stops.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s usually the answer before a great deal of talking.”

“I can be quiet.”

Baldr raises one eyebrow.

“I can.”

“For how long?”

“This isn’t supporting me.”

He gives me a small smile, but his hand stays beneath mine.

Waiting.

I should want this.

I’ve wanted it every night since Sólvik. I’ve wanted him in beds, against a stable post, halfway across a passage, and once while he was trying to explain a harbor chain.

Tonight his mouth is warm against my neck, his thigh is solid beneath mine, and my head keeps returning to a black cup between two scraped hands.

I move off his lap.

Baldr lets me.

“I’m tired.”

“You were tired before.”

I look at him.

The line between his brows disappears. His mouth opens, then closes.

“I do want you,” I say.

“Just not now.”

“Not this.”

“What’s the difference?”

I pull the nightdress back over my knees. “You’re upset.”

“I’m not asking you to fix that.”

“Then why does your face say I failed?”

His amber eye brightens.

“Because he never has to ask you for anything. And I have to ask just to touch you.”

The room goes very quiet.