Chapter 19
Aeldryc
Bram had earned his sugar cubes.
It was a bad time of year for a search party. The spring rains had rutted the roads, leaving them soft and challenging to ride.
I stood in the stables outside Bram’s stall, working a brush down his flank in strokes that were firmer and faster than usual.
The rest of my company had already finished with their mounts; only Thom remained, methodically oiling our tack.
The quiet of the stables felt wrong. Every movement was automatic, a routine I clung to when what I wanted was to drop the brush and find Pip, to put my hands on him and assure myself he was whole after three days without me.
“Good boy.” I ran my knuckles along the ridge of his jaw and held out a sugar cube on my palm. “You handled that river crossing well. So brave.”
He lipped at it, flicking his ears a little.
“You’re right. Next time we’ll take the bridge.” I moved the brush to his shoulder, working out the road dust.
He turned and head-butted my arm, and I slipped him another sugar cube.
This time he took it with the delicacy of a courtier accepting a canapé, his velvet lips barely grazing my skin.
I pressed my forehead against his neck, the smell of horse, hay, and iron—a scent that was fundamentally home—filling my lungs, and for a moment I stood there, letting the tension of three days on the road drain out through my boots.
“Spoiled boy. Not as spoiled as Pip though.”
Bram snorted, and I chuckled.
“I missed him,” I told Bram, because it was easier to admit it to a horse. “Three days without that boy talking at me should have been a peaceful experience, but it wasn’t.”
Bram huffed.
I turned for the hoof pick and found something far better: Pip, standing at the end of the aisle.
He was wearing something new: not shorts, for once, but a tiny pleated skirt that stopped well above mid-thigh, paired with stockings that climbed to just below the hem. He fiddled with the wooden ring at his finger and bounced a little.
Pip’s mouth spread into a grin so wide and immediate it seemed to light the aisle. He curled his fingers into fists, his whole body vibrating with the effort of not launching himself at me right there in the hay.
“How long have you been standing there?” I asked.
“Long enough to hear you call your horse a good boy and feed him treats and press your forehead against his neck and hug him,” Pip said, in a voice that was vibrating with suppressed emotion.
“That was absolutely not a hug.”
“Aeldryc the Ironstorm. The fierce, badass commander of the Grey Guard gives his horse sugar cubes and talks to him about feelings.”
“I do not talk to him about my—”
“I heard you!” Pip was across the stable in three strides, his skirt swishing against his thighs. “You said you missed me. Can’t take it back.”
“I was brushing the dust out of his coat, just standard grooming.”
“Standard grooming does not involve sugar cubes and forehead-pressing, Ricky.”
“Stop calling me that.”
He leaned against the stall door, his face was so bright it made the sconces look dim. Bram, the traitor, swung his head toward Pip and nickered, a low, warm sound that I had not heard him make for anyone else, not even Thom.
“Hi, handsome,” Pip said to my horse, reaching into the pouch at my waist and stealing a sugar cube, holding it out to Bram. “I missed you too.”
Bram took the sugar cube. Where was the loyalty?
“Thom,” I called. The groom’s head appeared from the tack room, a bridle draped over one shoulder. “Can you finish Bram for me? My twink has come to greet me.”
“Of course, Commander. He was giving me the impression that river crossing was more trouble than you let on.” Thom said this with complete sincerity, wiping his hands on a rag. “Sounded like someone got cocky.”
I turned to Bram, who bobbed his head.
I handed the brush to Thom and pulled Pip further down the row of stalls, out of sight of Thom and Bram, then cupped his face and kissed him.
He arched against me, his hands digging into the edges of my chest plate, gripping it as he kissed me back with everything in him.
I tilted my head and deepened the kiss. He tasted of sugar, like he’d been stealing the Queen’s sweet cakes again.
This was what I had been thinking about for three days on a muddy road while Bram judged my every move.
“What is this you’re wearing?”
“It’s a skirt. I was in a femboy mood. You like?” He did a little wiggle, and the skirt flounced.
“I like enough that we need to take this somewhere private,” I said against his mouth.
“Yes please,” Pip said. “There is an urgent matter happening under my skirt that I’d like to discuss.”
We did not make it to the apartment quickly.
This was Pip’s fault, though I bore some responsibility.
The route from the stables to the Grey Guard wing passed through two corridors, up a staircase, and around a gallery, and Pip turned every stretch of wall into an opportunity.
He pulled me against the stone between the stables and the east corridor, rising onto his toes to kiss me while his hands worked at the buckles of my chestplate.
I pinned him against a pillar near the staircase and kissed his neck until he squirmed.
He retaliated by sliding his hand under my shirt on the landing, his fingers cold from the corridor air.
I flinched and grabbed his wrist, and he laughed, a bright, ringing sound that echoed off the stone walls.
I wanted more of that, so I tickled him.
It was something I had not done before and had not planned to do.
He shrieked and doubled over and batted at me.
And I was laughing.
The realization hit me mid-stride on the gallery, where Pip had recovered from the tickling assault and was walking backward ahead of me, flushed and grinning and talking about something to do with yarn.
I watched the skirt swing around his hips and the bounce in his step, and joy bloomed in my chest.
I could not remember when I had last felt joy.
Behind us, somewhere down the gallery, I heard Thyren say, “Thursday is my day. Pay up.”
They weren’t supposed to be betting on things, but with Pip leading me to my door, I couldn’t bring myself to care. He turned the handle to our rooms and pulled me through by the front of my shirt, standing on his tiptoes to suck on my neck as we moved.
The fire was already lit, the room warm. I closed the door behind us and frowned at the mess on the table, a quiver of crossbow bolts that looked… different. I picked one up. “Have you been crafting with my crossbow bolts?”
“They’re perfect for crochet hooks,” he said, snatching it out of my hand, and turning it over. “See? I just had to smooth off the point, file a notch into the wood at the tip, and sand it down to make a hook shape.”
“You did this to all fifteen of them?”
He beamed at me. “I held my first crochet class in Lyriel’s craft room this morning, it was quite popular! I’m sure even more people will be at the next, so I need extras.”
“But they’re my crossbow bolts,” I said.
“So? Have you been shooting people with crossbows lately or something? Everyone says Qoksmere is at peace!”
He had a point, as much as I didn’t want to admit that, but the thought of transitioning my stockpile of armaments into cozy crafting tools sat in my chest like a blade turned the wrong way.
“Oh, come on, Aeldryc, loosen up! They’re so much more useful as crochet hooks. Besides, I used them to make my sweater. Do you like it? It’s warm.”
He lifted his arms so the sweater bared more of his slim torso and flat stomach. The thought that a weapon could be transformed into something that gave him joy, and kept him warm, made something shift against my ribs.
Well, it kept the top half of his torso warm, anyway. “Did you forget to finish it?”
He burst out laughing, spinning so I could see his creation.
“Don’t be ridiculous! It is finished. This is how long it’s supposed to be.
” The pleats of his skirt swayed when he shifted his weight.
The hemline grazed the top of his thighs and below it was bare skin, smooth and tan and all of it mine.
I tugged on the sweater, skimmed my fingers over his stomach, making him giggle.
I stuck my hand underneath the skirt and found his ass completely bare. I gave it a squeeze.
“On the bed.”
He shot a cheeky smirk over his shoulder as he led me back to my bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, hands planted on the mattress, legs spread wide, skirt fanned out around his thighs, and looked up at me.
He was presenting himself like an obscene offering, one I intended to exploit every inch of.
“This skirt is a demon’s work.” I dropped to my knees in front of him.
He grinned. “Technically, it’s my work. Does that make me a demon?”
“It makes you something wondrous.” I pushed the skirt up. Slowly. The fabric gathered in my hands as I bared him inch by inch, drinking in the sight of his thighs, the crease of his hip, the hard line of his cock already flushed and straining.
“You were prancing around in something this tiny with nothing underneath?”
“I knew you’d be home. I spent all afternoon cleaning and prepping myself so you can fuck me good.”
He had removed all of his pubic hair, and the effect made my mouth water.
I could clearly see his cock, his balls, and that tiny fluttering hole.
All of him was on display for me. I spread his legs wider and he fell backwards, bracing himself on his elbows.
I leaned in, his scent filling my head, watching his cock swell and harden at just the promise of a touch.