Chapter Fifteen #2
But … maybe there are ways to make this bearable.
“I can see you thinking. Stop.” Bel pokes my cheek with the brush. And smirks, no doubt leaving a swipe of black behind; I don’t care, let him mark me all he wants.
He rolls his eyes when I don’t react and gets to work digging out a makeup remover pad from his growing collection of cosmetics.
I took him shopping a few weekends ago, and I’m not sure which of us enjoyed it more: him, getting to invade half a dozen different stores, or me, getting to watch him try on outfit after outfit, and then rimming him in the dressing room of the last boutique.
As he cleans my cheek, he shoots me a chastising smirk. “I’m serious. Stop thinking.”
“I’m not thinking.” Because I already know what I’m going to do.
“I don’t believe you. You don’t need to save me from everything.”
“That is literally my job, sweetheart. The sooner you accept that, the easier all this will be.”
His lips part and an argument builds in his eyes, but I silence him with a kiss, tasting the mint of his toothpaste, feeling the plumpness of his lips once he surrenders.
He leans into the kiss, twisting on the stepstool to press his naked body against me, and as my hand slides down the curve of his ass, he leans back, dazed and grinning.
“The Dragons won,” he whispers.
My brain stalls out. “Huh?”
He points behind me, to where my phone is roaring applause now, a reporter screaming, “The Hellhounds will be playing the Dragons in the sixty-first annual rawball championship.…”
I gawk down at Bel, the words processing slowly, and his rising giddiness releases in a bounce against my chest.
“The Dragons won,” he says again and laughs. “Fuck the Chimeras!”
Oh my gods.
The Chimeras lost.
They lost, and aren’t going to the championship. They traded me, and won’t even have the chance to defend their title.
But I have the chance to claim it again. Without them.
I scoop Bel into a kiss, ravaging his mouth with all the excitement bursting up through me. He squeals into it, arms knotting around my neck, and we really do have to go, but—fuck the Chimeras, fuck Urzoth, fuck everything but this.
Yeah, actually. Fuck everything but this.
I peck Bel on the cheek before grabbing my phone. “Keep making yourself even more beautiful—I have some calls to make.”
“Calls—what? Tease!”
But I swat his ass and duck out of the bathroom. “Trust me!”
The Urzoth service is held in a massive cathedral downtown.
The glaring stone building leaves no question as to what god it stands for, all harsh gray rock and intense statues.
Inside, the main room is outfitted with pews for the first portion of the holiday service: the sermons.
It’ll be transformed afterward, the pews pushed aside in favor of fighting rings as Urzoth followers are pitted against each other.
The feats of strength to showcase Urzoth’s power are a lot of brawling and fistfighting and general violence as winners are declared and dethroned and declared again.
It’s the normal type of service cranked to a dangerous max.
The floor’ll be streaked with blood by the end.
Drach wants me and Bel to leave before that part.
No problem.
What is a problem, though, is the discomfort that seizes both Bel and me when we enter the cathedral.
Here he is, Galaxrien’s mortal descendant, walking straight into an Urzoth church.
Hundreds of Urzoth worshippers pack the pews around us. More than a few hungry expressions follow us as we make our way up the aisle, and it takes me a beat to remember they have no idea who Bel really is. So they’re staring at him because—
Because he looks sexy as hell.
That pearl necklace cups his throat and a slate-gray suit makes his pink hair pop. Instead of a normal solid back, the jacket has a layer of swirling lace that shows the sharp blades of his bare shoulders. He’s downright edible.
I easily fall into what’s expected of someone in an Urzoth church; I yank Bel under my arm and curl my upper lip at anyone who looks at us. Challenge met.
We’re ushered to the second row, and I walk us to the very end, near one of the side aisles beneath the mezzanine that’s held up by concrete pillars.
Bel eyes me, seemingly picking up on my intent—to be able to slip out.
But he says nothing and redirects his eyes to his lap when we sit.
They’ve been down from the moment we stepped inside, focused on his balled hands or the floor, and while I should prod him to hold his chin up, keep his bearing strong and unafraid here, he doesn’t need to. That’s what I’m for.
The sermons start, long-winded lectures from Reverend Drach and a few other priests who go on about Urzoth’s might and the importance of his birthday and how we need to stand strong against adversity.
I tune most of it out, keeping my arm around Bel, fighting to stop my knee from bouncing.
Bel puts his hand on it and squeezes.
The sermons come to a close, and Drach introduces one of the special guest speakers, a decorated arcane soldier. She gets up, talks about how grateful she is for the strength Urzoth has given her in battle, and reclaims her seat.
“And next,” Drach says, looking out at the full cathedral, “we have Orok Monroe of the Philadelphia Hellhounds.”
The crowd applauds. There are a few Hellhound barks, and I smile at that, the familiarity helping me stand from the pew, helping me leave Bel behind as I move to the front of the cathedral.
I step up to the podium and take the speech out of my jacket pocket. The paper crinkles as I smooth it, Treva’s words short and simple but swimming before my eyes.
Hundreds of Urzoth worshippers are staring at me. Rows and rows of people who love the god I devoted my life to.
Has he ever talked to any of them the way Darian’s god talks to him? It’s unusual for Urzoth to talk to anyone. He’s never been that kind of god, involved.
And yet, here we all are.
“The holiday season,” I start, reading Treva’s speech. Just say the words; I don’t have to feel them. “Is always a special time for me. It’s a time to reflect on the ways Urzoth has—”
I swallow.
Stumble a bit.
Regain myself, and carry on: “On the ways Urzoth has given me strength this year.”
There’s a list. A few bullet points about how Urzoth got the Hellhounds to the rawball championship, how he helped me in the bar fight months ago. Easy stuff.
Just read the list.
I clear my throat.
… the ways Urzoth has given me strength.
The words spin on the page. They blur.
Until I just see two: he hasn’t.
Hand shaking, I take the speech, crumple it in my fist, and look up at the crowd.
My tongue dries and I’m going to say that, he hasn’t. Those are the words that’ll come out of my mouth, here, now. I’m going to renounce Urzoth in front of the entire church.
Oh gods. No. Not here; Bel still needs this cover. Do it for Bel. Keep your shit together for Bel—
My gaze drops to the second row and I latch on to him. He’s sitting on the edge of the pew, body wound like he knows what’s going through my mind, and he probably does.
He smiles, encouraging. And mouths, It’s okay.
My chest crushes and I clamp down on the speech balled in my fist. I’m hit with such a battering ram of love for that man that I choke down those undoable words, he hasn’t, and open my mouth and say, “The biggest sources of strength in my life have come from my relationships. Particularly now, with Alexo Warden. He gives me strength. And I am eternally grateful for finding him.”
There’s stilted applause as I duck away from the podium.
Most will attribute what I said to Urzoth; they won’t get the nuance of it. And if they do? I don’t care.
I wind my way back to our pew as Reverend Drach introduces the next speaker, but instead of sitting, I grab Bel’s hand.
He snatches our coats off the seat and folds himself into me, and against the applause of the next speaker taking the podium, I drag him down the side aisle and out the door.
The chill December air bites into us as we step outside, and I work our coats on quickly. It isn’t until we’re walking to my car that Bel glances back.
“They were still doing speeches,” he notes.
“Mm.” I open the passenger door for him.
He eyes it, then me. “Don’t we need to stay for that?”
“We fulfilled our obligation.”
A slow smile stretches his face. “So … we’re playing hooky?”
“We are grown-ass men who can make our own decisions about how we want to spend our time.” A pause. “But yes, we’re playing hooky.”
Bel’s smile gets sheepish and tender. He pushes up onto his toes and I automatically bend down, letting him press a kiss to my cheek.
“You’re my biggest source of strength, too,” he whispers.
A blush heats my face, but he’s already diving into the car.
I slip in on the driver’s side and peel out of the parking lot.
Bel settles into the seat, but when I don’t drive toward the apartment, he perks up. “Where are we going?”
“Wow.” I click my tongue. “It took you this long to ask that? Do you blithely trust every strange man you get into a car with?”
He grins. There’re those dimples. “Only the really sexy ones.”
“Lucky me, then.” I wink.
“Oh, did you think I meant you?”
I reach across the console to pinch his thigh and he chirps a laugh.
Traffic is light, so we make it across town in no time, and I parallel park in a spot right out front.
Lights are on in the bar; a few people are already there, moving beyond the glass.
That was one of the calls I made earlier: offering the Silver Hound’s owner pretty much anything they asked for to reserve the whole bar on short notice.
Bel studies the exterior, his perusal transforming into a beaming grin when he recognizes the bar where we first met.
“Karaoke date night?” he asks, clearly in love with the idea.
I rest my wrist on the steering wheel, half my lips relenting in a smile. “Sort of.”
He’s unbuckling his seat belt, buzzing with excitement already, but stops. “Sort of?”