Page 43 of Drown Me Gently

They danced.

Auren was terrible at it.

He tripped over his feet, stomped on Elias’s toes twice, and spun the wrong way so hard he knocked into a nearby server. But Elias only laughed, cradling Auren’s waist, steadying him.

“You’re adorable,” he said. “If you weren’t already mine, I’d fall for you all over again just watching you try.”

Auren bit his lip to hold back a grin, pressing his forehead to the crook of Elias’s neck as they swayed gently, even after the music ended. When they finally sat, Auren’s legs ached in the best possible way. Elias handed him a goblet filled with something dark and sweet.

“Berry wine,” he said. “You’ll love it.”

The wine was thick and luxurious, the sweetness clinging to Auren’s tongue. He took another sip. Then another. The warmth hit, spreading through his stomach and down to his limbs. The firelight blurred into orange whisps. The music softened into a steady hum, a heartbeat beneath the world. He leaned into Elias’s side, eyelids heavy. The room swayed, as if he were back underwater.

“You alright, darling?” Elias asked, brushing fingers along his jaw. “Getting sleepy?”

Auren nuzzled his face into Elias’s neck with a blissful sigh. Gods, he loved it when Elias called him darling. Loved how tenderly he touched him. How he made him feel like the most precious thing in the world.

“Let’s get you somewhere comfortable to sleep.”

Elias’s voice was a lullaby, and Auren let himself be led. The feel of the linen shirt beneath his cheek was soft, comforting. His limbs were slow, heavy with wine. There was a thickness to his thoughts. A warmth that slid too deep, too fast.

Still, he didn’t care.

The scent of Elias clung to him. Oil. Smoke. Linen.

And there it was again, hanging at the edges of Auren’s fading consciousness.

Decay.

He coughed once, a light breath. Maybe it was the wine. Or a breeze carrying the smell of rotting fish from the docks. He didn’t let himself dwell.

He was wanted. Chosen. This was what he’d always longed for. And he’d come this far to claim it.

The last thing Auren remembered was the hum of tavern music, the clatter of tankards on old wood, and the steady pulse of Elias’s hand wrapped around his.

He was in bliss.

The moment his legs hit the shore, Ulric exhaled a heavy breath. It burned in his lungs. The air up here was always too dry.

He moved quickly. The sand stuck to his bare skin, clinging in wet streaks as he walked through the grass-tangled path. His cabin was remote and practical. Nothing fancy and far enough from the city to give him privacy, but close enough to conduct business. He often required extended time on land to harvest rare herbs and minerals. Drinking the transformation potion too frequently took a toll, even on his body.

It was a temporary location. Now, it felt like the last place he might ever see. He pushed the thought aside. If it meant Auren was safe, it was a grave he’d gladly lie in. Ulric changed, his robes hanging where he’d left them. He dressed in layers of navy and onyx black. The fabrics clung to his frame like night poured over bone. The outer robe was long, split at the sides for movement, embroidered with thin lines of dark silver thread that caught the light only when it wanted to. High collar. Folded cuffs. A wide leather belt that secured a swath of knives.

Not royalty or nobility. But no one would mistake him for a common peddler either. His presence carried enough weight to avoid questions—and that was all he needed. Just enough presence to deter predators. Just enough anonymity to move like a ghost.

The city was already buzzing when he entered. Carts creaked. Vendors barked. Smoke rose in spirals from meat fires, casting a haze through the narrow alleys. Ulric started there. The salt-crusted docks. The roadside stalls that stank of brine and blood. He offered coin with every question.

“Do you know a human biologist called Elias?”

He got nothing but blank stares and shrugged shoulders.

“Bi-what?” one grizzled man barked. “Speak proper. Don’t bring that rubbish in here.”

Another scoffed and waved him off. “Try the royal quarter if you’re lookin’ for bookworms. This ain’t the place.”

Ulric moved on. His frustration simmered hotter by the minute. He entered higher establishments. Places where the tile gleamed, and the smoke smelled of rare herbs instead of ash. Where the coin mattered more than the man.

Finally, a breakthrough. A brothel—one of the more extravagant ones. The sign outside read “The Garden of Wonders”, and from the inside, it was clear why. The women lounged on embroidered cushions, bare-chested and painted in rosy swirls. The men wore perfume and kohl and little else. And the madam—no, the Duchess, as she called herself—lounged like a cat draped in silks.