They stood like that, the bandits and their horses, still and silent, for several long moments. No one speaking, nothing moving, everyone waiting. Felix kept his eyes on the house the wolves had disappeared behind, certain they would return, but they didn’t. And when the front door of that same house slammed open, it scared him half to death.
Alex appeared in the doorway, and after a moment’s hesitation, rushed out to them. “Where is everyone else? Is this all of you? It can’t be all,” he said urgently. He laid his hand on Torsten’s shoulder, looking sympathetically from him to Felix, whom Torsten was holding upright.
“Dot,” Torsten said, calling over his shoulder for the cook.
Dot passed his horse’s reins to Selon and hurried over, casting a worried glance at Felix. “King?”
“Dot can tell you what’s happened,” Torsten told Alex. “I must get him inside. May I—”
“Yes,” Alex nodded. “Take my bed. Anything you need is yours.”
Torsten grunted his thanks, and, putting an arm around Felix’s waist, started for the house.
“I’m fine,” Felix urged, though he was panting. Now that he was on his feet moving again, now that life was moving again, a panicky pulse had a cold sweat beading on his forehead. Near fainting, he swayed, and Torsten hauled him into his arms, hitching his legs up to wrap around his waist. Felix held on, resting his chin on Torsten’s shoulder. He was carried into Alex’s house, a three-room affair with well-swept floors and a bed in the back, its covers tossed, like someone had quickly abandoned it.
Torsten lowered him onto the bed and knelt in front of him, taking his face in his hands. “Felix.”
Felix stared, taken aback. Torsten had used his proper name back in Gethrin’s tent, but everything had been moving too quickly for him to hear it, process it. Now, he was saying his name in the quiet of a bedroom, and it sounded perfect on his lips. Felix smiled.
Torsten was less amused. “Where did all this blood come from?” His hands started roaming carefully over the dried blood on Felix’s skin, searching for wounds.
“It’s not mine,” he assured him, as surprised as Torsten to discover he’d come out of such a dangerous predicament with nary a scratch. A painful throb on the back of his head reminded him he’d been thrown into a table, but when he poked at it, there was only a small bump and no blood. The only blood Gethrin had drawn from him was the now swollen bite on his lower lip, which Torsten touched carefully, his eyebrows stuck in a pained furrow.
“He did this,” he said, sounding gutted.
“Yes,” Felix admitted, grimacing at the memory of Gethrin’s mouth on his. “But it’s all he got to do.”
“Are you sure?” Torsten reached to touch his face, but hesitated. “You can tell me.”
Felix shook his head fiercely. “He never touched me. He would have. He was about to. But I stabbed him.”
Torsten’s eyes widened. “You stabbed him?”
“In his leg,” Felix provided faintly. “With his dagger. And then in the eye with my fingers.”
“Gods!” Torsten touched him, his hesitation gone, cupping his cheek in his hand.
“But it wasn’t enough," Felix continued. "If it hadn’t been for that well-aimed arrow you shot, he would have killed me.”
Torsten moved from his knees to sit beside him on the bed, taking his hands in his, maintaining their contact. “Arrow? What arrow?”
Felix was confused. “Your arrow. I mean, I assume it was your arrow, since you were outside the tent yelling my name just a moment after he was hit. Most of this is Gethrin’s blood,” he explained, sweeping over his messy body with wet eyes. “Some of it’s from the stabbing, but most of it’s from the arrow. There was a lot of blood and he landed right on top of me, the bastard. Did you not see him?” Felix demanded in response to the quizzical look on Torsten’s face, but then he realized he mustn’t have. Gethrin’s body had been clear across the tent, on the floor, face-down, and under the coverlet, and Torsten had only had eyes for him when he’d charged inside.
“I believe you,” Torsten said, squeezing his hand. “But it wasn’t my arrow. I would never have fired blindly, never have put your life at risk like that. I assumed you were in that tent with him when we rode in, because the tent was closed tight. But I couldn’t—”
“It doesn’t matter," Felix interrupted, his breath catching as he shook his head. “It was a stray arrow then, or perhaps it was loosed by the Gods,” he laughed bitterly. “Either way, it found its mark. It saved me. And Gethrin is dead.”
He studied Torsten’s face as he absorbed the news. His relief was evident, but it did nothing to smooth the worried crease between his eyes. “Let’s clean you up,” Torsten said after a moment, rising to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”
Felix concentrated on steadying his breathing while he was gone. It helped that he could hear him rummaging in the adjacent room. He shrugged the fur pelt from his shoulders and pulled the boots from his feet, throwing them across the room and making the damnable bells jingle for what he hoped was the final time. It had suddenly become unbearable to have any shred of Gethrin’s clothing on his body. He stood, pulled at the cords of his tiny leather pants, and stripped them off, picking up the folded parchment that dropped to the floor.
When Torsten returned, Felix was completely naked, standing beside the bed with the letter clutched in his hand. Torsten set aside the bowl of water and cleaning cloth he’d fetched and crossed to him, wrapping him in a gentle embrace. “I’m mad at you,” he whispered, stroking his hair. “I woke up and you were gone.”
Felix snuffled into his neck. “I know. But I had to go.”
“I knew exactly where you’d gone, what you were doing,” Torsten continued. “We set out after you as soon as we possibly could, but I feared the entire time we’d be too late.” Felix couldn’t hold back the sob in his throat, and Torsten rubbed a comforting hand over his back. “Tell me you didn’t lie with me just so you could sneak away. I need to know—I need you to tell me it meant as much to you as it did to me.”
Felix pulled back, meeting Torsten’s eyes as he wiped tears from his face. “It meant something,” he said, leaning in and pressing their foreheads together. “It meant everything. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay there with you forever. I only left because I wanted to help you. I needed to help you.”
Torsten closed his eyes, sighing deeply as he moved his large hands to wrap protectively over Felix’s bare hips. “You could have been killed,” he said quietly. “You could have died. You got lucky, Felix.”
“I did,” Felix said. “And I got this, too.” He raised his hand, pressing the letter to Torsten’s chest.
Torsten’s eyes moved to the folded parchment. “What is this?”
“It’s a letter from Gethrin to the guildmaster,” Felix replied with a small, sly smile. “All about illegal activities that include a certain royal councilman.”
“You found proof?” Torsten asked incredulously, his face brightening as he took the letter in hand.
“I found proof,” Felix affirmed, his smile widening with Torsten’s excitement. “Read it.”
Unfolding the parchment, Torsten glanced at it briefly, then went to the table that held the water bowl and laid it down, securing it beneath a small pewter vase. “The letter can wait,” he declared, picking up the bowl and rag and crossing back to Felix. “We need to get you cleaned and warm before you freeze to death. Now sit.” He placed the bowl on the floor, and after securing the abandoned pelt around Felix’s bare shoulders, dropped to his knees in front of him. Dipping the rag and wringing out the excess water, Torsten moved Felix’s hair behind his ears and began gently scrubbing the blood from his face.
“Torsten?” Felix said after a minute, shivering as the cleaning moved on to his chest and stomach, where the majority of Gethrin’s blood had stained his skin.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you for coming for me,” he said. “And for trying to take
me home. And trying to protect me from the pirates. And for the bandana.”
Torsten frowned as he moved to wash the blood from Felix’s thigh. “Did I say you could keep the bandana?”
“I’m not giving it back,” Felix replied, and Torsten’s lips turned up into a soft, pleased grin. “And I’m not going to forgive you for kidnapping me and making me your flute slave, because that was wrong. But I can’t say I’m sorry you did it.” He was in the perfect position to stroke his fingers through Torsten’s hair, and he had no qualms taking advantage. It was thick, and much softer than it looked.
Torsten leaned into his hand, closing his eyes. “I’m still angry,” he mumbled, his lips brushing against the smooth, clean skin of Felix’s hip. But he didn’t look angry, the tension of before gone from his shoulders. He dropped the rag into the bowl, now filthy with dirt and bandit blood, and rested his hands on Felix’s calves. “You can’t just rush into danger like that.”
Torsten’s breath was warm against his cool, somewhat mottled skin, and Felix let out a needy little sigh as he continued to rake fingers through his hair. “But it was worth the risk," he countered. “I got the proof you need.”
Torsten came to his feet, framing Felix’s head in his hands. “Thank you for what you did,” he said. “The letter will be beyond useful. But it’s not what I need just now.” Taking his hands, he drew Felix to his feet and kissed him, sweet and slow.
“What do you need?” Felix asked when the kiss ended several skipped heartbeats later.
Torsten’s fierce eyebrows struck an angle of disbelief as he stroked his thumbs over Felix’s cheekbones. “Just you, Flautist.” He leaned in, rubbing his cheek against Felix’s before pulling him into his arms. “If that’s okay,” he murmured softly at his ear.
Felix’s brain all but exploded with a thousand lyrical descriptions hearing those words, but none that accurately conveyed the feeling in his stomach that overwhelmed him now, and had been with him, in some degree, since first meeting Torsten. Thus, he was compelled to believe—with no excuses or reasons left to fight it—that it had to be love he was feeling, a love powerful enough to make him take reckless chances, make him feel crazy, make him feel this formerly unknown urge to lay himself completely bare.
He sighed, amazed that the night was ending with him in Torsten’s arms, the way it should end always. “It’s okay,” he answered, his mouth muffled against Torsten’s neck. He breathed him in, big gulps of him, with hopes of filling his senses permanently.
“You were brave,” Torsten whispered, holding up Felix’s hand to kiss tenderly at his palm. “And strong.” Felix blushed, looked down at the praise, and Torsten caught him in a kiss, not nearly as gentle as before, but just as sweet. “And stubborn.”
“I never knew I was any of those things,” Felix managed to say before he was caught up in another sweeping kiss.
“I did, from the first moment I saw you,” Torsten claimed, backing him closer to the bed. “It’s how I knew you weren’t a noble."
“You’re a noble,” Felix retorted as Torsten eased him down onto the mattress.
“No, I’m not,” Torsten smiled, leaning over him.
Felix laid a hand on his chest, holding him back. “Maybe not. Not yet. But you could be when this is all settled. If the letter is as damning as I think it is, Queen Bellamy will likely retract your banishment and welcome you to Court. You could be a noble.”
Torsten smirked down at him, his arms bracketing Felix’s slight frame. “So could you.”
Felix rolled his eyes and laughed. “Me? A peasant flautist? I don’t think so, Sir Torsten. I have no blood ties to make me worthy.”
“It would be your right through association,” Torsten replied. “And your accomplishments.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works.” Felix laughed again, pulling the bandit king down to him and capturing his mouth in an eager kiss. He opened his legs, inviting Torsten to settle his weight between them, thrilling at the hardness in his trousers that pressed against his stomach. But when Felix’s hands swept down to smooth over Torsten’s backside, Torsten pulled away, his worry clear in the thin line of his mouth.
“We shouldn’t do this now,” he said. “You’ve had an impossible night, and you need rest.”
“Yes, we both do,” Felix countered firmly, hitching up his legs to hook his feet behind Torsten’s back. “I am tired, and sore, and I could use a proper bath. But I don’t want Gethrin to be the last person that grabbed my ass," he said, looking deep into Torsten’s eyes. “I want you, and I need you to help me forget all the bad that happened tonight. I want the good now. If that’s okay.”
“It’s okay,” Torsten said, kissing him again before getting up to grab his satchel and throw it on the bed. He clambered back between Felix’s thighs, one hand digging inside the satchel for the oil.
When he bent again for a kiss, it was with a rush of blatant need, and Felix’s desire was just as great. With well-slicked fingers, Torsten stretched him again, eliciting a groan of pleasure from them both and causing Felix to arch his back, seeking more.
His fingers flew to Torsten’s trousers, made quick work of the laces, and pushed them down to his thighs. Torsten palmed the extra oil from his fingers over his cock, took himself in hand, and sank inside with a single, deep slide that made Felix gasp.
Their coupling wasn’t frenzied like it was the first time, but slower, and far more intense, with Torsten whispering sweet words in his ear as he moved inside him, deeply, unhurriedly, thoroughly. It was a claiming and a confession, the way he sucked bruising kisses along Felix’s neck and gripped his thighs hard enough to leave the imprint of his fingers, and Felix joyfully received everything Torsten gave him. He bucked his hips to meet every thrust, Torsten’s name a perpetual sigh on his kiss-slack lips. The roughness of Gethrin’s hands and the taste of his mouth were washed away, the ugly memories kissed clean. When Torsten came, it was with a tremendous shudder, buried to the hilt, their mouths locked together in a heated, wet slide of tongues and lips.
Felix made a low whine in his throat when Torsten slipped out, and then a louder one when he took Felix fully into his mouth. The wet heat of it, the play of his tongue, the gentle yet insistent suction, brought him to his climax in seconds. Then he placed a soft kiss on Felix’s hip, gentling a bruise his fingers had made.
Dropping to the bed beside him, Torsten gathered him in his arms. Felix cozied close, his back against his chest, sated, elated, and blissfully content to bask in the heat emanating from his body. He closed his eyes, trusting that, at least for now, everything really was okay.
***
He awoke to brilliant sunshine outside the little window. The air was cold on his face, but his body was warm, the bedcovers having been tucked in tightly all around him. He stretched and rolled over to find his bandit sitting on the edge of the bed. Torsten turned his head and met his eyes with a smile.
“Good afternoon, Flautist,” he said, sitting back so Felix could lay his head in his lap, tugging the covers along with him. He stroked Felix’s hair with one hand, the other hand holding the letter. “Did you read this?”
“No. Gethrin was telling his men what he wrote. That’s how I knew there even was a letter,” Felix answered anxiously, shifting in a moment from happiness to dread. “Why? Is it not what we need?” He sat up, panicked, but Torsten laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“It is,” Torsten assured him. “It’s proof of Gethrin’s dealings with the guildmaster and Malcolm. But there’s a timetable mentioned that worries me.” He pointed at the lines of thickly inked words. “Gethrin says here he’s set to meet with Malcolm, to discuss a change in their trade.”
“The trade is people,” Felix said in disgust. “Gethrin and Malcolm mean to add slaves to their assortment of goods and services, and they need to persuade Guildmaster McClintock. That’s what I heard him say, anyway.”
Torsten’s mouth twisted fretfully and he pulled Felix over to
sit in his lap, the blanket draped over them both. “The letter is outstanding proof of not only my father’s crooked dealings, but the corruption of the Guardians’ Guild. But I fear, given my outcast status, there could be an outcry that I penned it myself to blacken my father’s name. We need more evidence to prove this is true, and back up this letter’s claim.”
“Like having a bandit show up for an illicit meeting with Malcolm and having Queen Bellamy know all about it? Felix asked.
“Exactly, yes,” Torsten agreed quickly. “But the meeting is set for tomorrow.”
“So?”
“So how is that supposed to happen so quickly? Given more time, we could find a way, but tomorrow? It would be impossible enough for me to gain entry into the Royal Quarter, let alone get an audience with the queen,” Torsten explained. “Everyone knows my face. No one will be happy to see me.”
“First of all,” Felix began, moving so he was straddling Torsten’s waist, “there’s no way anyone could ever be unhappy to see a face like yours.” He combed at Torsten’s beard affectionately. “It’s an exceptionally handsome face. Secondly,” he continued, “there might be a way to reach the queen without needing to go to the Royal Quarter.”
“She’s not at her secondary residence anymore, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Torsten said. “Jossy scouted her return to the Quarter himself.”
Felix could feel the uptick in Torsten’s pulse at the mention of his dead friend. He tried to soothe his pain with a kiss. “I know someone who has direct contact with Queen Bellamy on a daily basis.”
Torsten’s eyes rounded in surprise. “Seriously? Who?”
Felix shrugged, oozing nonchalance. “If you had Jossy scouting the area around the Royal Quarter, you probably know about the school.”
Torsten made a face. “I don’t know anything about a school. I know there’s an abandoned estate just beyond the Quarter that’s being used for something new.”
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