Chapter Eighteen
Declan
When did one thing become another? Where was the border between friendship and love? Between a sound sleep and unhurried kisses?
Easy, to fall into it. (Into a kiss. Into love. Whichever.)
Declan tumbled into the ebb and flow of Antonio as the sun crept into the sky, both of them a drowsy that burnt off in the heat of desire and teeth and hands that wandered.
Declan’s mornings had never involved rasping keens or growls of “Murderpunk” before.
Nor claws at a muscular back, other hand wrapped around a hard cock, ankle hooked around a thick thigh, being kissed for all he was worth.
Antonio brought that, just as he did the strong, capable pull at Declan’s wing, eager touch mirroring Declan’s between them, working him high, then higher.
He would make time for more such mornings if Antonio were amenable.
Morning showers hadn’t been a regular occurrence, either. If they continued to involve Antonio’s blown-black eyes and hot, wet mouth held still and open by Declan’s pale hands and aching cock, his schedule for that would change, too.
He was used to the smell of coffee, though. It carried down the stairs while Declan stayed right where he wanted to be: perched on the edge of the little basement kitchen table, soft dark curls in his fingers, sure hands on his stomach, under his shirt, black lips to faded red and smiling.
Voids, but he could get used to this.
Unfortunately, he was not the sort of fae who could live on giggles and glitter. Declan’s stomach saw fit to remind them both it had been some hours since they ate, left Antonio snickering, his hands sliding back.
“It smells like Talia made waffles,” Declan said, sighing, leaning away. “Bo got her an iron for them recently. I’m loath to miss those.”
“I see where I rank.” So warm, those words. The same phrase another might use to cut, Antonio turned to a caress.
Declan only laughed and made himself presentable. Made them both, tugged Antonio’s shirt back into place as well, and earned an arm around his shoulders for the trouble, loose and casual when they headed up to the main floor.
Everil, Bo, and Talia stood around a dining table piled high with fresh fruit, syrups in sparkling glassware, plates of savories, various drinks in carafes, pitchers, and pots. That was to be expected. Less so, Aultyr and his rangy, equally brooding companion, Harke.
Declan had never seen the pair of them in their human guises.
Like most skin shifters, they required minimal glamour.
Teeth gone flat, shadows quiescent, and Harke without the ruff of green fur.
Still, they made a threatening pair. Aultyr, large and imposing, with long dark hair pulled neatly back and an aura of impenetrable, stony detachment.
Harke, lean and hard, hair shorn to the skull, was equally unexpressive but radiated a tense readiness.
“Good morning Declan, Antonio,” Everil said, with his usual careful politeness. “You’ve visitors.”
“News already?” Declan asked, slowing to a halt. Antonio’s arm tightened at his shoulders. Languid contentment turned sharp. Metallic.
“Fuck no,” said Bo, sweet and gentle as ever. “Food first. Talia cooked, and I’m hungry. You did fucking great, kid.”
“Didn’t mean to crash the party,” Aultyr noted, in a tone that lacked apology.
Talia, diminutive and unimpressed by the wall of barghest and lurking cu-sith, studied first the pair, then the breakfast table. “Do you guys like waffles?”
The corner of Aultyr’s mouth kicked up. Just a little. “Yeah.”
“Then you can stay. They’re buttermilk,” she said, in tones one might use saying ‘yes, they’re real diamonds.’ All triumphant pride, dimples on her cheeks when she swung that gaze to Declan and Antonio. “That’s not just butter and milk. It’s its own thing.”
“You could teach my niece Mara a thing or two. She burns juice,” Antonio said, moving to sit and taking Declan with him.
Talia preened at the compliment. That, and Aultyr unhesitatingly starting to fill his plate, brought the conversation firmly to breakfast. To making buttermilk, of all things, once they settled in to eat.
“Used to be a couple different kinds. Butter and milk was one.” Aultyr only looked bigger outside of Faerie, especially holding human-sized silverware with Talia watching him in anticipation. A tiny, hoodied flower in the shadow of a mountain. “When it got made at home.”
“You’ve made it? With a butter churn and everything and you milked the cow yourself?” Talia asked. “I bet you had to wear a hat to keep the sun from your eyes.”
Harke snickered into his coffee. He’d settled himself a good step away from the table, out of arm’s reach of anyone. Sociable sort. Aultyr ignored him.
“Made it, yeah. Old glass jar with some paddles inside,” the barghest replied. “Amma kept it on the table.”
Declan focused on his food, on the press of Antonio’s leg to his, radiating warmth and surety. Solid, the way they were, together, even when thrown into a surreal world where a tracker-mercenary changeling and fledgling Gate talked about bloody buttermilk.
“Maybe we give them the news before you start talking Little House on the Prairie.” Harke’s voice rang with the metallic hum of a blade unsheathed, for all he spoke quietly. "Unless they’d rather have your aunty’s dahi recipe.”
“Can have both.” Aultyr glanced at Everil, studying him a moment. “Got the name of who put out the hit.”
“This would be more exciting if you had a twin brother, Declan,” Talia complained before either could continue. “Or a child raised in secret to defeat you.” She sighed, resting her chin in her hand. “Instead it’s going to be someone you accidentally insulted at a party.”
“Nonsense.” Everil’s voice was cool, and he shifted toward Bo under Aultyr’s regard. “Declan would never accidentally insult someone.”
Aultyr might’ve smiled, or might have just been his face when he ate. Declan didn’t have it in him to think on it too hard, not with Aultyr turning to Talia, eyeing the girl with the same level study he’d shown Everil.
“Settle for the spurned former bond of his longtime companion?” Aultyr asked, sounding as curious as a rock could. “One newly bonded and seated on the Council, with a noted disdain for humanity. Can spin it however you want.”
Declan heard them from a distance. The world went quiet and narrow as those words fit together, knitting themselves into something he ought to have guessed from the first. What he ought to have expected.
Bloody Nimai.
Bo sucked in a sharp breath, pressing against Everil’s side. Declan forced himself to look to his friend, concern for Everil overriding his own ringing disbelief and self-deprecation for that disbelief.
“That’s bullshit,” Bo snapped. “The fuck kind of rich bitch did he hook up with, to go around offering an allotment to kill his ex’s best friend?”
“It wouldn’t be Kylan,” Everil said, soft and thin. “But it wouldn’t need to be. Nimai has powerful friends.” He looked to Declan, expression bleak. “Forgive me, Declan, but many of them would mislike you achieving a Council seat.”
“Wait,” Antonio said, all ferocity and confusion. “I’m losing the plot. Is this politics or a stalker ex thing?”
“It’s a vindictive piece of shit thing.” Bo took Everil’s hand, their fingers lacing together tenderly despite the thundercloud writ across his face.
Declan looked away, once Bo had Everil in hand. He found solace in his own bond, Antonio and his bright feelings. His anchor. Everything but Antonio felt distant.
“The animosity you witnessed between Nimai and myself wasn’t new.
I’ve done nothing to dissuade his hatred in recent years.
I made a point to tell him of Everil’s new bond before his most prestigious friends and used connections to be placed as a judge for their trials.
Threatened him, in front of Calloway and a fellow Council member, for treating you rudely.
” He tried to smile. He failed, but the attempt was made. “So, yes to all three.”
“And he’s a prick,” added Bo, still sharp. “All that aside, he’d get a bug up his butt because you’re human and Declan’s unseelie. Besmirching the Council seat with your ass or something.”
Always so charming.
“No word who’s paying.” Waffle gone, Aultyr turned to the fruit. “Not safe to admit to.”
“Not until it’s done, anyway,” Harke growled, the metal absent. Back again, nails and iron, when next he spoke. “Sparkly fucking cowards.”
“They likely owe him some favor.” That dead even voice, still. Everil stroked Bo’s hand with his free one. “Nimai is good at being owed. If he’s dissuaded, they will be as well. No one wishes to give up an allotment if they needn’t. The expense is too high.”
“Fucking fae,” Antonio muttered, knee pressed hard to Declan’s. “Guy never heard of a parking lot fistfight? Be quicker and cheaper.”
“Quite.” Declan managed a faint, warm smile. “Though a car park fistfight would be too unseemly for him. Not all of us fae can boast of brawls in our past.”
“I fucking bet,” Bo muttered.
Declan nudged Antonio’s knee again, fond, before his attention returned to Everil. Calm, even Everil, his touch gently placating on his rabid human’s hand.
“Nimai is ankle deep in the River of Death, my friend, and he’s brought a rein. I’ll not let him leave the waters while he still breathes. That’s the only discouragement I offer.”
“Death is generally very dissuading,” Everil murmured, softer still. His fingers twisting in Bo’s was the only hint that the thought of his ex being killed by Declan bothered him at all.
Antonio said nothing. He stared down at his plate, with its half-eaten waffle, piled high with strawberries and syrup and whipped cream. A pensive, conflicted quiet seeped through their bond. Antonio had proven time and again to be someone who thrived on fixing things, helping others.
“It’s not fair,” Talia grumbled, giving her own plate a disapproving look. “I could’ve killed him, but I’m not allowed.”