Page 81 of Drown Me Gently

Auren, already sliding to the floor in a heap of exhausted limbs and ruined bliss, laughed breathlessly.

“You outperformed the performers,” he teased, voice hoarse and delighted.

He curled into the cushions scattered across the floor, utterly wrecked, utterly beautiful, slick with sweat and leaking Ulric’s release.

Ulric crawled after him, hauling him into his arms, pressing kisses into the damp fall of his hair. Ulric was in love with a prince of the sea. How had he ever lived without this? How was he supposed to let it go now, when it was all he had ever wanted?

As he cradled Auren against his chest, Ulric felt the clock ticking in his bones. The gods would come for him soon. But after holding his beloved like this, he would meet them smiling. And as Auren’s breath grew even and Ulric held him, he whispered a silent prayer.

“Let me stay like this.

Let me have this moment.

But if I must vanish… let it be here. With you.

With love.

With the salt of your kiss still on my lips.

All I ask, my darling, is that you⁠—

Drown me Gently.”

Auren woke to the stuffy hush of morning.

Sunlight filtered through the heavy velvet drapes in thin, glowing bands, cutting across the haze of the theater. Dust motes floated in the still air, dancing lazily in the beams. Somewhere nearby, a curtain rustled. Bare feet padded against plush carpet. A few low groans echoed as other couples began to stir from their nest of scattered cushions, some laughing sleepily, others wincing with the weight of the previous night still aching in their bones. Nobody had come to kick them out last night. No announcement that the theater was closing, leaving the inhabitants to succumb to the debauchery of the night.

Auren blinked, his head fuzzy, his limbs heavy and sore.

He lay on a nest of fine silk pillows and padded mats, the luxurious kind. His whole body ached in places he hadn’t known could ache. His thighs burned. His hips throbbed. His cock was sore in the best, most exhausted way imaginable. And his ass—well, there were bruises there that would sing for the rest of the day. He tried to roll over and winced.

Nope. That’s not happening.

He chuckled to himself as the early light cut through the lingering scent of sweat and moth-eaten curtains.

So it was a slumber party, he thought hazily.

Only this one lasted late into the night, with bodies tangled in every shadowed corner and pleasure spreading like wildfire with every pluck of the violin.

He and Ulric lost themselves in each other twice more after the performance ended, wrapped in the heat of their private alcove, their limbs entwined as if they might never separate. The velvet curtains muffled the sound, but the rest of the theater had turned into a chorus of moans and murmurs, sighs and screams. Their hosts, Auren suspected, were under no illusions about what kind of guests they were housing. At some point, during a lull between kisses and whispered words, a gentle knock interrupted them. Auren cracked open the door and found a wash basin, fresh towels, and a folded cloth left respectfully outside.

Even now, he could hear the faint bustle of theater staff beyond the curtains—servants ferrying clean linens and trays of sweet breakfast rolls to other guests. The quiet sound of plates clinking. Murmured greetings. Warm, practiced hospitality.

This must cost a fortune, Auren mused, still lying there half-numb.

Not only for the accommodations, but also for the discretion. Auren didn’t know much about human society, but he assumed that only the noblest of them could afford such a night, and they wouldn’t want word of their proclivities widely known.

And Ulric is among them.

He remembered the way Ulric had been addressed, “Lord.” The title meant something here. Auren wanted to know how Ulric had come by it. How much of himself he’d integrated into human society. He wanted to know it all, but mostly, he wanted Ulric to be the one teaching him.

Ulric lay behind him, one arm slung across his waist, their legs tangled beneath the covers. His face was tucked into the curve of Auren’s shoulder, as if he’d been trying to breathe him in during the night. His hair was a wild tangle, and his breath stirred the skin at Auren’s neck.

But something was off. As Auren blinked into clearer focus, he felt it—the irregularity of air. Ulric’s breath wasn’t right.

Too shallow.

Auren frowned. He shifted, easing out from under the weight of Ulric’s arm.