Page 22 of The Hopeless Romantic’s Guide to Enchantment

“Three. Though this is the first to mark me.”

“But who could possibly be trying to kill you… oh, it’s Pietro.”

“Pardon?”

“Pietro Angeli. He uses illusions on his teeth. And he’s been pressing me for weeks, worming after your secrets. As though you were interesting enough to possess any.” Holding up his hand in lazy examination, Waldemar wrenched the ring from his thumb to reapply it to his pinky. He twisted it, admiring the shine of the bloodstone in the firelight. “A shame. He’s such a well-bred man.”

“Breeding! Pah! Is that all that matters to you in a man, his breeding?” Lambert Beadle (a man of decidedly lower breeding) stomped across the carpet, so that his gesticulating hands passed inches from Waldemar’s nose. “And should we talk about your breeding, Pemberton?”

Waldemar crossed his legs a little more urgently, placing his hands on his lap.

“Why, with your level of inbreeding,” Lambert continued, “it’s shocking that you lack gills. Many times, I’ve examined your fingers for evidence of webbing. I’ve had your family tree framed and hung above my bed, to better count the number of sibling-fuckers that produced you, and I find that sleep typically comes before I’ve made a full circuit around the wreath.”

Waldemar leaned back to avoid a particularly forceful gesticulation. “I must admit, your heritage is far more diverse. One could not imagine more genetic distance between your father and the goat he finished in.”

A shriek of rage sprayed spittle in his face. “You think that with your looks, you can say anything you want—”

“What?”

“What?”

“You think I’m good-looking?”

“I—”

Lambert had leaned so far over the chaise that he’d nearly lost balance. It didn’t help that Waldemar had shot forward in glee, nearly cracking their skulls together. “That’s it! That’s the secret Pietro wanted to pry from me!” Waldemar couldn’t help wiggling in his excitement. “You’re a molly.”

“I am absolutely not,” he panted into his opponent’s mouth. To help with his stability, he pressed a hand into the chaise beside Waldemar’s head.

“You are.”

“I am not. And that can be verifiably proven.”

“How so?”

“You…” Lambert’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “You could do any thing you want to me, and I’d have no reaction.”

“Then maybe I will.”

“Alright. And then, you’ll see that I’m not a molly.”

“Alright.”

Afterward, they lay entwined on the carpet, sticky with intermingled sweat and other unmentionables. The cold no longer infiltrated; between the crackle of the fireplace, and the body he clung to, Waldemar felt as warm as if he lay in a bath.

“I have hated you…” Lambert’s breath tickled into his ear. “From the moment I first saw you.”

“Hmm.” Certain parts of him had already begun to chaff, but with effort he shrugged off the sluggishness that warmth and satisfaction inspired, and raised himself on one arm. “My hatred is such that one glance burns your face into the back of my eyelids.”

“The very thought of you makes my skin break out in hives. Why even now I… mmph!”

Waldemar had lowered his hungry mouth, cutting off his words.

By the time they finished, the fire had burned low, scarcely more than embers in a heap of ash. The window curtain glowed with the first gray wash of dawn.

“I’ve hated you—” started Lambert.

“Don’t,” he groaned. “I need a breather.”