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A small, rueful smile tugged at Mattias’s lips – even as his gaze tracked down Náli’s torso, and then his legs, pausing when Náli flexed his calves. Light from the window revealed the color that came up along his cheekbones.
“Shameless and ruthless,” Mattias averred, striding closer, voice gone low and rough at the edges.
Náli tipped his head back, letting his smile sharpen, heart thumping pleasantly quick. His childhood admiration of Mattias’s stalwart loyalty, his positivity, his ability to make light of even the darkest nightmares, had over time, naturally, developed into a different sort of admiration – that of a sharp jaw, and deep eyes; of broad shoulders, and strong arms, and precise footwork in the training yard. From adoration to want, to achy, impossible longing. Náli had not thought to find him more beautiful – but then here was this Mattias. The one who had finally allowed himself to want in return. Who looked at Náli like he did now, as if he wanted to devour him.
Náli wished he would.
“Hm,” Náli hummed. “I don’t suppose I’m known for being level-headed and demure, now, am I?”
“Decidedly not.”
Mattias drew close enough, at last, for Náli to dart upright, get a grip on the single, long braid that trailed over his shoulder, and wind it around his fist. He pulled, and Mattias came easily, pupils expanding, breath hitching audibly, before it rushed warm across Náli’s lips.
“Kiss me.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Náli shuddered. His title had never hit him like a punch to the gut before, never sparked across all his nerves and left him caught in his own private electrical storm. Then Mattias’s mouth slanted hot and possessive over his own, and the sensation intensified, a full-body prickling that left his head swimming.
Mattias was so very good at this. The way his hand cupped Náli’s jaw, calluses rough on soft skin; the way he shifted the angle so he could go deeper, tongue tracing along the backs of his teeth, playing deep and wet until Náli was swaying into him, pliant and eager. He’d wondered, a time or two, just how Mattias had become so skilled. How many people had he kissed? And were they better and more pleasing than Náli? Things that didn’t bear thinking about.
Náli hooked the fingers of his free hand into Mattias’s belt, trying to draw him even nearer. He shifted around, their lips still locked, so that he could get Mattias between his spread thighs, right where he wanted him.
Mattias chuckled and skimmed damp lips along his jaw. “Why are you so eager?”
“Are you saying you’re not?” Náli half-growled.
Gently, Mattias drew his hand from his belt, and urged it lower, where Náli could feel the stirrings of someone just as eager as he was – maybe more.
He hummed in appreciation, hand closing, head turning as he chased after Mattias’s clever mouth–
A high, familiar trilling from the window startled them apart.
Náli didn’t miss the panic that flashed across Mattias’s face; the harsh jump of his throat as he gulped back a curse. Things were getting easier between them every day, more heated, more desperate…but only when a door closed off the rest of the world. In front of others, even the rest of the Guard, Mattias was still entirely proper and formal.
Náli spared a nasty thought for Oliver, petty bitterness, that he could kiss and touch and be seen with his lover, wear his rings and beads in front of everyone, while his own must be a secret, too taboo to be borne. Then he whirled toward the window, already snarling.
Valgrind hovered on the other side of the glass, wings flapping. He had his head cocked to an angle so that one bright blue eye, glowing with sunlight, nearly touched the pane. He trilled again when Náli stood and marched to the window.
Náli smacked the frame with an open hand. “Go away, you bloody nitwit!”
A blue tongue lolled into a drake-smile, and, with a last chirp, he went winging away. Far distant, Náli spotted one of his parents flying high above the palace grounds: the mother, he thought.
He braced his hands on the window ledge and heaved a deep breath, not so much angry as…tired. When he wasn’t agonizing over what to include in a letter to his mother, or kissing Mattias, he was so very, very tired.
The well called to him. Each night, he slept a little deeper, went wandering a little farther, and it was harder and harder to wake in the mornings. Mattias would perch on the side of his bed and smooth his hair, pet over his throat, smelling of lavender tea and looking like worry personified when Náli finally cracked open crusty eyes.
Ball or no, bride or no, he had to go back. He could put it off no longer.
The floor creaked beneath Mattias’s silent, careful tread. Náli stayed where he was, until large hands caged him in, a solid, warm chest pressing to his back. He eased his grip, and leaned back to let Mattias take his weight; when he did, Mattias rested a hand on his belly, more stabilizing than teasing: a solid hold full of comfort that nevertheless left Náli’s stomach twisting up painfully. He wanted so much.
Mattias rested his chin on top of his head, so that when he spoke, the words vibrated inside Náli’s skull. “You know we’ll have to take him with us, right?”
“Who?”
“Your pet beast.”
Náli scoffed. “He’s not mine. He’ll stay with the others, obviously. With Oliver.”
