AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“To happy endings?” Phaedron says, his voice lifting at the end in a way that makes his words sound like a question.
I lift my glass to his. The rims clink together with a sound like breaking ice. I raise the glass to my lips. The liquid inside burns all the way down to my stomach, and I can’t help but cry out in protest. Phaedron gags, then coughs, and then laughs. Tears pool in the corners of his eyes.
“Voids,” Phaedron says. “I forgot how awful that is.”
He lifts his glass again, and for a moment I think he’s actually going to finish the vile stuff inside. Instead, he crosses the room and dumps his glass into the fire. The flames flare a brilliant blue in appreciation, and suddenly the mess of tension and desire swirling inside my chest escapes in a burst of laughter. I raise my own glass and narrow my eyes at it.
“Are you sure you’re supposed to actually drink it?” I ask. “I think the smell alone could knock you out.”
Phaedron walks over to me, and then we’re laughing together as he wraps his hand around the glass. His fingers are so warm they send brilliant little bursts of heat skating down my arm. I shiver, and his smile vanishes.
“Are you cold?” he asks.
My voice has fled. I shake my head, trying to dismiss his worry, but he’s still frowning at me. And his hand is still wrapped around mine, cupping the glass. My mind casts about desperately, trying to find something to hold on to, some words that will make him smile again, and my eyes catch on the rafter above his head. It’s painted with those same swirls, red and white and blue, dancing above us like little fireflies frozen in time.
“What are those?” I ask. My voice shivers, and I try to ignore it.
Phaedron tilts his head up, following my gaze. His pale neck flashes as he swallows, and I remember how his skin felt against my mouth, the soft brush of his hair against my palm, and the flutter of his pulse beneath my lips. I remember his taste.
“Rowan never saw the stars,” Phaedron answers, his voice soft and thick. “So I painted them. I tried to show him what they were like—”
His voice trails off, and I realize I’m staring at the curve of his lips, at the rose-tinged flush spreading across his cheeks. Is that from the alcohol? Or is it something else, something related to how close we’re suddenly standing, to his hand wrapped around mine?
Phaedron clears his throat, then shakes his head. I rock back on my heels, pulling my gaze to the rafters to stare at the hundreds of little dancing points of light, brilliant against the rough wood. I imagine Phaedron with a paintbrush, standing on a chair, trying to recreate an entire lost world for his little brother, and suddenly I’m shivering again.
“You are cold,” Phaedron says. “It’s my room, isn’t it? It’s too cold for you. Do you need another blanket?”
I shake my head, trying desperately to will the words to my lips, but Phaedron is already pulling away, my glass in his hand. He tosses whatever horrible concoction came out of that dark bottle into the fire, then rinses the glass under the handpump in the kitchen. His white illusion shirt almost glows as it moves with his muscles. Finally, he vanishes into his brother’s room while I stand in front of the fire like an idiot with shame and fear and arousal so strong it’s almost painful burning through my veins.
Phaedron reappears in the doorway with a neatly folded blue blanket in his arms. I cross the room to meet him. Our fingers brush when I take the blanket from his arm, and that tiny little touch suddenly makes me feel like I’m never going to be cold again. I glance up; he turns away. His cheeks are still flushed pink, like the room is too warm for him. Phaedron clears his throat again.
“Anything else?” he asks.
Yes, my mind and heart and aching body scream. Yes, stars, yes! I open my mouth, but the words don’t come. If I had magic, I’d spin it in illusions. I’d have the birds call it from the skies. I’d paint it in flames and send it through the air, shining off the snows of the Lands Below.
But I don’t have magic. So I just lean forward and clumsily, desperately, press my mouth to his.
It’s over in a heartbeat. Phaedron stands like a stone statue, and I sink back on my heels, holding the blanket to my chest like a shield. I pull in a breath to apologize.
And Phaedron’s lips steal it away. He bends forward and kisses me softly, tenderly, like a man cupping a flower blossom in his palm as his hand traces a path up my arm and across my shoulder. I taste the burn of the drink we shared on his lips as we dance together, giving and taking, tasting and exploring. I open for him, for his soft, slow kisses, and he takes me like he has all the time in the world. Like he intends to do nothing but move inside me for the rest of his life.
I lean into him, the blanket pressed between us, the heat of his body tugging on me like the moon pulls the tides. I tilt my hips and, oh stars, I feel the hot, hard length of him. His breath catches as that part of our bodies meets with nothing but cloth between us, the fire inside me calling to the fire inside him, and gods, has it ever felt this urgent? Did it ever feel like I would die without it?
My head spins; the world has lost its center. I raise the hand that isn’t clutching a blanket to my chest and grasp at Phaedron like he is the one solid thing in the world. Magic tingles beneath my fingertips, the weave of his illusion shirt burning against my palm. I sink my fingers into that magic, desperate for the skin beneath it, for the heat and throb of his pulse, the rise and fall of his breath.
Phaedron pulls away, leaving me gasping. I almost fall forward as he steps back, and then there’s nothing but cold air against my body. I look up, almost afraid of what I’m going to find. Phaedron is staring at the fire, his face twisted almost like he’s in pain. I blink as my brain tries to remember how to form words. The fire makes a strange crackling noise. I watch light and shadows chase themselves up the pale curves of Phaedron’s neck. The air between us feels thick and heavy, like a fog bank, and for a moment I almost want to lift my hands in front of my face to feel my way forward. As if that would help me make sense of the tangled mess of hope and desire, fear and hesitation that seems to be waiting in the silence between our bodies.
“Are—” I stammer. “Are you okay?”
Phaedron shakes his head as his lips twist into the most painful smile I’ve ever seen.
“Voids, Alindra,” he says, in a rough whisper. “I can’t even hold you.”
Chapter27
Phaedron
A MESS OF EVERYTHING
