Chapter 14 Frost in the Bones #2
“You feel—fuck—you feel like you’ll split me open,” he gasped, tears streaking his cheeks, his cock hard again, leaking against his stomach from nothing but the pounding inside him.
“My lord,” Clyde growled into his throat, biting hard enough to bruise.
“Yes—yes—yours—” Aerion screamed, legs locking around his waist, dragging him in deeper, until Clyde bottomed out with every thrust.
Their bodies slammed together, flesh slick with sweat, moans and curses spilling into the night.
Aerion came again untouched, seed spilling hot across his stomach, his cry raw, broken.
Clyde followed with a guttural groan, spilling deep, his body collapsing against Aerion’s, both of them trembling, gasping, undone.
For a moment, Aerion lay sprawled against him, his breath hot against Clyde’s chest, his fingers tracing the ridges of scars. Peace—fragile, fleeting—settled in Clyde’s bones.
Until his gaze flicked toward the shadows at the tent’s edge.
A silhouette lingered just outside.
Renn. Watching.
Aerion’s eyes narrowed, his lips curling in disdain. He said nothing. He only turned, buried his face in Clyde’s neck, and closed his eyes.
But suspicion coiled in his gut like smoke, sharp and sour, refusing to be ignored.
The next morning, grey light bled through the canvas of Clyde’s tent. The camp stirred faintly beyond—the distant clatter of arms, the cough of horses, the murmur of men roused too early—but within, the world was small, hushed.
They shared a breakfast of stale bread and thin cheese, spread across Clyde’s travel-worn table. Aerion tore his loaf apart like it had personally offended him, scattering crumbs across the maps Clyde had left half-rolled beneath.
Finally, the words tumbled out, sharp and bitter.
“They want me to marry,” Aerion spat. “Every damned vassal, every councillor with a title in their blood and greed in their veins. Suitors lined like lambs at slaughter. Men, women, sons, daughters—any alliance so long as I breed and make heirs.”
He slammed the bread down, fingers clenching into fists.
Clyde chewed slowly, carefully, buying time in silence. Then, quietly, without lifting his eyes: “They’re right. One day you will have to.”
Aerion froze. The words cut deeper than they should have.
His head snapped up, sapphire fire blazing. “So that’s it? That’s what I mean to you? A duty with a cock? You want me to marry some dull-eyed baron’s daughter while you polish my armour and pretend last night never happened?”
“Aerion—”
“No,” Aerion bit, voice trembling. “No, I won’t hear it. Not from you.”
The tension thickened until Clyde finally reached across the table. His calloused hand, broad and steady, closed over Aerion’s trembling one. The contact stole Aerion’s breath even as his jaw clenched tighter.
“You’re a lord,” Clyde said softly, eyes steady, voice low with the weight of resignation. “I’m just a knight.”
Aerion laughed once, sharp and ugly. “Just a knight. Gods, you make it sound so simple, so clean. Do you have any idea what you are to me?”
Clyde’s grip tightened, thumb brushing his knuckles with a tenderness that contradicted every word. “I do. Which is why I can’t let you ruin yourself for me.”
“Ruin myself?” Aerion’s voice cracked. “You think marriage to some simpering stranger is salvation? That bedding a warm body chosen for my crown will erase you?”
“You’ll need heirs,” Clyde said, gaze dropping. “Your bloodline matters. More than I do.”
“More than us?” Aerion demanded.
Clyde lifted his head. His grey eyes met Aerion's blue. He didn’t answer. The silence said enough.
Aerion’s lips trembled, fury giving way to despair. When Clyde leaned across the table and kissed him, Aerion kissed back—not with fire, not with the hunger of the night before, but with sorrow. Their mouths met like two men drowning, knowing neither could pull the other to shore.
When they parted, Aerion whispered, voice raw: “If I must wed, then let them line the suitors to the door. Let them whisper of heirs and alliances until their tongues rot. They will never touch what is mine.”
Clyde’s hand lingered on his, but his voice stayed quiet, steady, unyielding. “One day, they’ll demand more than whispers. And when they do, you’ll have to choose.”
Aerion’s eyes burned, but he didn’t look away. “Then I choose you. I’ll always choose you.”
Clyde didn’t answer.
He only pulled Aerion’s hand closer and pressed his lips to the back of it, reverent and sorrowful in equal measure.
Clyde didn’t sleep that night.
He lay rigid on his cot while Aerion sprawled beside him, limbs tangled in the furs, lips parted in that rarest of states—unguarded. His lord’s breaths were slow, even, untroubled, and Clyde listened to each one like it was a blade twisting in his chest.
He knew the truth. Aerion suffered because of him.
Because Clyde had given him something he could not keep. Because he had carved out a place in Aerion’s heart where duty and bloodlines should have lived. Because every kiss, every touch, every whispered “mine” had only tethered him to an impossible choice.
By morning, he had decided.
The lie came to him like armour, hard and cold. A shield he would hold up even if it pierced him through.
When Aerion stirred, Clyde sat him down. He forced his voice steady, shaped each word as if he had practised it in the dark.
“Renn has feelings for me,” he said flatly. “More than feelings. There’s been… closeness. He's… he's spent the night here. In my tent. You shouldn’t be blind to it.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
Aerion stared at him, eyes wide, the colour draining from his face like spilled wine sinking into snow. His lips parted, but no words came. Not wit, not venom, not the sharp blade of his tongue that so often cut the court to ribbons.
Only silence.
He stood slowly, stiffly, like a man gut-shot, too shocked to even clutch the wound. His voice, when it came, was a whisper frayed to breaking: “I see.”
Clyde’s breath caught. His mask cracked. He reached for him, panic blooming like fire in his chest. “Aerion—”
But Aerion stepped back, just out of reach.
And his eyes—Gods, his eyes glistened with something Clyde had never seen before. Not anger. Not cruelty. Not even pride.
Grief.
It undid him more than fury ever could.
“Do not call me that,” Aerion said, voice breaking on the words. “Not now.”
And then he was gone.
The tent flap whispered shut behind him, leaving only the ghost of his warmth in the air, the scent of him still clinging to the furs. Clyde sat frozen, the lie heavy in his mouth, burning on his tongue, eating at him from the inside out.
He wanted to chase after him. To rip the words back, confess the truth—that Renn’s eyes lingered, yes, but Clyde’s never had. That the only closeness he had ever wanted was the man now walking away from him with tears in his eyes.
But his legs wouldn’t move. His oath held him down heavier than any chain. He would protect his lord, no matter the cost.
For the first time in years, the knight who had faced blades and arrows without flinching bowed his head into his hands and shook.
The mask was cracking. The lie was bleeding him dry.
And Aerion was gone.
Aerion left with the wagons, riding at their head in silence. The road stretched cold and grey beneath his horse’s hooves, wheels groaning behind him, banners snapping in a bitter wind. He did not look back at the camp.
His face was pale as bone, carved into stillness, but inside his chest every word Clyde had spoken was an arrow still lodged, still bleeding.
By dusk, Valemont’s colours had vanished over the hills.
That evening, Renn crept into Clyde’s tent.
The boy moved like a shadow, nervous, uncertain, shoulders hunched as though he carried guilt on his back. His eyes were red, rimmed from tears hastily wiped away. He paused just inside the flap, watching Clyde in silence before murmuring, “You shouldn’t be alone.”
Clyde sat on the edge of his cot, elbows braced to his knees, head heavy in his hands. The maps lay untouched on the table. His sword leaned in its scabbard, useless. The single lantern in the corner cast long shadows, making the tent feel cavernous.
He didn’t answer.
Renn took it as permission. He stepped closer, knelt beside him on the furs. “You did what you had to,” he whispered, as though offering absolution Clyde had not asked for.
Clyde let out a breath, ragged, but did not lift his head. His body felt carved of stone, heavy with silence, too tired even for anger.
Renn’s hand hovered, then settled lightly against Clyde’s. His fingers were tentative, trembling, the touch more plea than comfort.
Clyde didn’t pull away.
He didn’t move when Renn leaned closer, breath warm at his jaw. He didn’t flinch when lips hovered near his cheek, unsure, hopeful.
He didn’t move at all.
Because if he moved—if he spoke—the truth would come spilling out, and the lie he had crafted to save Aerion from himself would shatter.
So Clyde sat in silence, still as stone, while Renn’s hand tightened around his, and his heart beat only one name.
Not Renn’s.
Never Renn’s.