Chapter 43 #2
He leans forward, unlaces the center seam, then pulls it open to boast the lining—etched in so many glowing runes they’re hard to count.
“The pants have extra padding between the thighs, and each garment has hidden pockets for your blades,” he continues, manipulating the jacket to expose some of the concealed slits.
“I had panels lined with some of Rygun’s small claw scales I’ve been collecting since well before we first met, coated in a layer of pearl oxide for extra protection.
Nothing’s getting through those, so your chest, back, and shoulders are safe. ”
I look up, studying the slants of his face as he continues talking about this and that, showcasing different design aspects—more animated than I’ve ever seen him.
He seems younger. More vulnerable.
For some reason, it sends a pang of hurt through my chest.
“Once you’re fully garbed,” he says, showing off the impenetrable ellok hide boots, “you’ll blend with Líri and be fully equipped to ride bareback comfortably.”
“You like giving gifts …”
He looks up, seems to hesitate, then nods. Just once. “Hopefully it all fits, and you like the style. If not, the tailor can redo—”
I still his words with a kiss, his lips firm and unmoving at first, as though I caught him off guard. In the next beat, he melts, groaning into my mouth.
He captures my face in his warm hands—
The front door shoves wide, making way for a blast of snow and wind and the aching echo of another agonized scream.
“Hope you’re decent,” Pyrok yells, dousing all the brewing heat from my veins as he stomps the snow from his boots.
“Raeve’s armed,” Kaan growls, still gripping my face, his lips brushing my jaw like a slow-moving taunt.
Pyrok’s response is swift. “I’d be more worried if she wasn’t.”
“It’s the only thing she’s wearing.”
I pull back, mouthing the word liar.
“Sounds like the perfect scenario for one of you to put me out of my misery.”
Kaan releases a deep rumbly sound that reminds me of the noise Líri makes when she’s preparing to rip into a piece of meat.
He leans back and thrusts both hands through his hair while I battle the urge to mount him despite the unexpected company, his eyes still firmly cast on my lips as Pyrok steps into view.
He kicks the door shut and stomps into the room, arms laden with a basket of bottles and a flat, buckled box. A flock of parchment larks bang against his shoulders, back, and head, fluttering vigorously.
I arch a brow. “Friends of yours?”
He grunts, not a single glance in my direction.
I take in his wild hair and the oversized tunic hanging off his broad shoulders like a loosely lain sheet, buttoned in all the wrong holes. Not the slightest bit tucked into his tight brown leather pants. All pretty unsurprising, except—
“I’ve never seen you so pale. Are you eating between drinks?”
“You know what, I actually enjoy the food this far south.” He drops the box and basket on the table before the seater, then begins snatching the larks by their wriggly wings, charging toward a floral urn like he’s on a mission from the Creators themselves.
He lifts the lid and stuffs them in the hollow, one at a time.
“I’m pale because I’ve been listening to Siharna scream through the wall for the past however-the-fuck-long.”
The larks keep spewing out, but he keeps swatting them back down as he works to rid himself of the boisterous flock, finally stamping the lid back in place.
He releases a blasted sigh and stalks back to the table, drops to his knees, then begins unloading the basket of bottles beside three deep, rather assumptive mugs.
“There’s something unsettling about hearing someone you genuinely fear get broken down like that, and I’d quite like to scrub it from my brain. ”
I count the bottles, certain there’s enough to scrub his brain all the way into oblivion.
Kaan arches a brow. “I see managing my mail has been going well these past two daes.”
“I quit.” Pyrok flicks the locks on the wooden box. “Answering your mail, I’ve decided, is not my life’s purpose.”
“Then what is?” Kaan asks, sounding genuinely curious.
“Fuck knows.” Lifting the lid, Pyrok pulls out a Skripi board he slaps on the table. “Gracing you with my presence, probably.”
Kaan gives him the sort of dry look I’ve become accustomed to. Nice not to be on the receiving end for a change.
I jerk my chin at the board. “I see you came prepared to be stripped of all your belongings. And your pride.”
“Pride’s long gone,” he mutters, opens a black jar, and tips out the dice.
“Roan, the boring fuck, is too preoccupied with the book to play with me, so you two are it.” He uncorks a bottle and pours the suspiciously murky liquid into a mug until it’s brimming.
“I hope you weren’t planning to slumber. Or go on a murder spree—”
I screw up my face. “Feels targeted.”
“—or fuck. You have daes to do that before the sky crushes us all.”
Creators. Someone’s not taking the pending apocalypse well. Perhaps scrubbing his brain is the right call of action.
Another gutsy scream rips across the courtyard.
“We’re all yours,” I say in the same instance Kaan reaches for the shards. He cuts the deck and hands me half while I edge farther around the seater, shuffling them. Together, we set the board while Pyrok fills the other mugs, drains his, then refills it again.
“How should we play?” he asks, inspecting his fan of shards.
Eyeing my fantastic hand—honestly, this game’s already over—I flatten my features and suggest, “Favors?”
“No,” they both answer in unison.
“Bit swift. Why not?”
Kaan arches a brow. “Because I’m still bruised, Moonbeam.”
Fair.
I turn to Pyrok. “What’s your excuse?”
“I’m on a losing streak.” He eyes his splayed hand while shuffling it around, his bland gaze giving nothing away. “I already owe Veya. Fuck if I’m owing you, too.”
Also fair.
“Twos and fours drink,” he continues, slams his shards against the table, then fans them in the other direction. “First loser has to empty their mug in one hit.”
I scowl at my brimming mug and slide it toward him, certain I don’t want to risk tasting that shit again—no matter how good my hand is. “We’re child-minding. Someone needs to stay sober. I heartily volunteer.”
“Korie’s covered.” Pyrok jerks his chin at Kaan. “He’d have to guzzle a river of mead to get drunk.”
“Really?” I look at Kaan. “Built-up tolerance?”
“Overprotective dragon,” he murmurs, flicking me a glance before he gets back to arranging his hand. “He’s quick to absorb my ailments. I’d have to intoxicate Rygun to get more than a soft buzz.”
That’s … interesting.
And inconvenient for my taste buds.
“I miss the daes before he went all Daga-Mórrk on us,” Pyrok drones, chewing the inside of his lip piercing. “We saw some wild shit.”
“Short answer,” Kaan cuts in, like he’s eager to change the subject, “Korie’s covered.”
I scowl as Pyrok slides the laden mug back into my unappreciative atmosphere. “Well. I’m happy for her.”
A guttural groan heaves across the courtyard, crisp and clear, as if Siharna’s standing right beside us. Like Clode personally lumped it on the table for us to not enjoy.
Creators, it’s getting worse …
Pyrok leaps to his feet and charges toward the far wall. “First to three gets crowned with”—he plucks a white wreath off a hook and waves it around, the red buds glinting like rough-hewn gems—“this.”
Kaan raises both brows. “The irreplaceable family heirloom that’s been passed down through generations for so long we have no knowledge of where it came from or what it even is?”
Pyrok frowns down at the thing, shrugging as he flops it on his head. “If it’s so important, it shouldn’t be on a wall hook, gathering dust.”
He’s just kneeling beside the table when the door shoves open, exposing us to another blow of wind and snow.
We all watch Roan move into the entryway with an orange quill clamped between his teeth, cracked spectacles low on his nose, eyes on the Book of Voyd spread open atop his gloved hand.
He nudges the door shut, blindly kicks off his already unlaced boots, then moves like a waif toward the kitchen counter—the dirty hem of his oversized white robe dragging behind.
He jerks back a stool and settles in with the book splayed across the table, pulls a notebook from his pocket, pries it open, and jots something down before he gets back to studying the page.
No hello.
No wave.
Not even a blink of recognition.
Right.
Collectively, we turn our attention back on the game.
“Everyone understand the rules?” Pyrok asks before another scream ratchets through the room, guttering to a groan that makes the skin on my arms prickle. “Twos, fours, and sixes,” he tacks on, to which Kaan and I both answer the same blasted word.
“Deal.”