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After our tryst, he takes me to bed and, with a soft damp washcloth, gently cleans his slick white release from my skin. He plants a soft kiss on the pinkest part of my cunt as though it were precious to him, as though this will be the hardest part of saying goodbye. He sighs above my mound, his fingers drifting lazily into my curls. Finlay arches like a cat around me, one palm on my breast, his lips resting by the other, and every so often he reaches across my body to lower my nightdress and suckle my hardened nipple. It’s lethargic, bittersweet, the energy between us lazy and comforting in the afterglow.
“If they find out about him,” Luke murmurs, stroking the cloth over my unruly curls, flattening them before watching them spring back, his expression enthralled, “then they will throw parades in his honor and call for my head all the more.”
“MacKechnie willnae let them find oot about this,” Finlay says in a reasonable tone, his lips caressing the curve of my breast. “Tae the rest o’ the world, tonight never happened. Fuck him. He can be a missin’ person case for the rest o’ time.”
Luke is disquieted at this, and I see it in his face, the brief flash of sympathy across his sharp, noble features. The man may have had ambitions to be Luke’s killer and be celebrated for it, but he’d also been a son, a friend, maybe even at some point a father, an uncle, and more… Instead of living his life to the fullest with his nearest and dearest, he’d sought to become a hero and had died a scared, quivering man.
“This isn’t your fault,” I tell Luke softly, reading the sorrow in his large brown eyes. Luke sighs, placing the cloth by his side, and lowers his head despondently onto my belly. My fingers graze the soft fuzz of his hair, meditative.
“It’s Benji’s,” Finlay explains. “Benji’s radicalized half the population intae believin’ this shite. He makes soldiers oot o’ ordinary folk. Ye think that bloke would have put on a vest and walked oot the door before Benjamin Moncrieff came along? Would’ve eventhoughtabout it? Dream on.”
Luke’s sigh is a whisper against my skin. “We don’t even know his name.”
“That’s on him,” Finlay growls. “He made his bed, he can lie in it.”
Luke cards his fingers idly in my curls.
“This time last year, Antiro murdered Rowena Marchmont.” I remember every element of that night with such vivid, sickening clarity. “What is it about them attacking at New Year?”
“Because they don’t want us to have new years or fresh starts,” Luke answers, morose. “They want us to carry the same pain into a different era. There’s no escaping it.” He shoots me an unhappy, ironic smile. “Season of peace and goodwill, innit.”
“I think Benji’s frightened.” Finlay’s voice is quiet, thoughtful, and Luke raises a skeptical brow. “Of course he’s frightened. He’s paranoid ye’re gonna send an insurrection after him tae claim whit’s rightfully yours. So he has these attacks, tae blot oot his enemies. Which means he knows deep-doon that he isnae entitled tae the throne. It’s all just lies, lies, lies. Lies, wi’ a pathological amount o’ bravado.”
“A great many people now believe I’m not entitled to the throne.”
“You were made tae be king,” Finlay declares unflinchingly, words that take both me and Luke by surprise considering its source. “Henever was.”
“Goodness,” Luke murmurs, sounding startled. “And here I thought you believed kings and crowns incompatible with the overthrow of capitalism.”
“Apologies, comrade,” Finlay replies with a tiny smirk. “If it makes ye happier, I’ll go back tae callin’ ye a cunt.”
A surprised peal of laughter bursts out of Luke, sweet and hearty and free. He reaches across me to clap Finlay on the back, their bodies bracketing me tightly.
“I don’t have armies at my disposal,” Luke admits, turning pensive, “but I do have rhetoric. It may currently be the strongest weapon in my arsenal. So I think, perhaps, I should send them a message.” He traces slow spirals around my navel. My stomach quivers at his touch, and Luke smiles at me, that unbeatable grin of his that always reminds me of basking in the most glorious summer sunshine. It amazes me that even after tonight he’s able to find enough joy in the world to produce it.
I wonder what Luke is planning.
There’s a knock at the door, and although in another time the three of us would have sprung apart instantly, and I would have at least tugged down my nightdress, our dreamy love for each other tonight somehow surpasses basic decorum. “We need to leave now, Your Highness,” MacKechnie says from the other side of the door, and I release an unhappy breath. “I’ve made arrangements for each of us.”
Luke’s mouth purses forlornly, and he reaches out for my hand one last time. He plants a soft kiss on the skin of my belly and breathes against me, “I wish you well.” He turns his gaze over to Finlay and adds, “You, too, my thorn in my side.” His lips tilt slightly. “Though tonight, I suppose, you bloomed into a rose for me.”
“Dinnae,” Finlay responds gruffly. “Dinnae fuckin’ say things like that, ya dozy auld sap.”
With good humor, Luke’s lips twitch. He raises me from my prone position on the bed, before pressing his mouth to my cheek. “Wait. I… have something for you.” It’s a private whisper, shielded from Finlay, and I give him a curious glance.
When Finlay leaves the room with a solid, lingering clap to Luke’s back, Luke eases open the drawer of his bedside table. He instructs me to close my eyes.
I oblige him. He spreads open my palms so they’re face up, then drops an object that’s smooth and spherical. I tilt my head to the side, curious, trying to scope it out without sight. It feels like a small ball.
“Open your eyes.” My gaze drops to my cupped hands, and I see that I was right — itisa small black ball. Puzzled, I give it a shake, but it isn’t hollow and no sound comes from it. With a raised eyebrow, I meet Luke’s careful gaze.
Luke is not a person I would describe as naturally impish. He is not someone who embarrasses easily, either. But there’s something unusual about his expression, to the extent he’s almost flustered, and it’s strangely endearing. “It’s… an egg,” Luke states, and I stare at him, uncomprehending. “It goes…” He licks his lips, looking as though he’d planned this moment better in his head. “It goes inside you.”
I stare at him even harder, unblinking and bewildered, and then glance down in bemusement at the small egg.
“It’s programmed so that only I control it.” In his hand, he flashes a miniature remote. “It works across long distances, so I thought we could… even if we aren’t together…” Luke drifts off. His apprehension hasn’t lessened, and through those uncharacteristic nerves, he babbles, “I apologize. Is it too tacky? I just wanted something so that the two of us could be close even when separate. I bought it when I knew you were coming, so IknowI should have gifted it to you for Christmas — and I know tonight isn’t the best time, all things considered, but perhaps a New Year present is better?” Luke stares at me, the silence between us growing thick with awkwardness as I stand in front of him, holding the egg between my fingers and saying nothing at all.
But then I give my head a quick shake and throw my arms around Luke’s neck. I breathe in the soap and sweetness of him, markers I rely on for me to know that he’s safe, and whisper into his skin, “You surprise me at every turn, Lucas Milton.”
