19. Chapter 19 #4
"You're bigger, but you're a shit fighter," Evran tilts the blade, just slightly, just enough to catch the firelight and remind Torsten exactly what is pressed against his throat. "Get up and unlock the door."
A long moment. The fire crackles. Torsten's breathing is harsh and audible.
Then he moves.
Slowly, his hands raised, palms out, he eases himself up from the bed.
Evran shifts with him, keeping the blade in contact, adjusting his position as Torsten stands.
He is off the bed now, on his feet, and Evran is behind him with the dagger pressed to the side of his neck, and they move together toward the door.
Torsten reaches the door. His hand finds the lock.
He hesitates. One last calculation. One last moment where Evran can see him weighing the odds, of spinning, of grabbing the blade, of overpowering the smaller man behind him through sheer force.
He unlocks the door.
Bran is on the other side.
He fills the doorway, massive, immovable, his ruddy face grim and his sword in his hand.
He takes in the scene in a single sweep: Evran behind Torsten, the blade at his neck, the blood at Torsten's mouth, the rumpled bed, and the taut, trembling stillness of two men who have been locked in something that is now, mercifully, over.
Bran's eyes meet Evran's over Torsten's shoulder. His big face is tight with concern, but beneath it, beneath the worry and the grimness, there is something that looks unmistakably as though the man is proud of him.
"Go," Bran says. His voice is low, urgent. "Back to your room. I'll handle the rest. The guards, the Warlords, all of it. You were never here."
Evran pulls the blade away from Torsten's throat. He steps back. His hand is shaking, he can see it now, the fine tremor running through his fingers and the steel, but his face is composed and his breathing is even and he does not collapse.
He hands the dagger to Bran. Handle first.
Bran takes it and tucks it into his belt. Then he steps into the room, past Torsten, and goes straight to the bedside table. He opens the drawer. He reaches in and pulls out the vial of purple liquid and holds it up to the firelight.
Torsten's face goes white.
Evran does not stay to watch. He does not look at Torsten, does not acknowledge him, simply moves past him as though he is furniture and out into the corridor.
The hallway is cool and quiet. The torches flicker. Evran walks, his steps steady, his back straight, his face composed, and he does not stop until the southern wing is behind him and the corridor is empty and he is alone.
Then his knees buckle, and he catches himself against the wall with one hand and bends forward and gasps, a single, shuddering gasp that seems to come from the very bottom of him, from the place where he has been holding everything together through sheer will, and now the will has been spent and what is left is just a man, shaking and breathless and alive.
He breathes. He counts. He straightens.
He almost collides with Delia.
She is coming around the corner at a near-run, her sleeping robe belted hastily, her hair loose around her shoulders. She stops short when she sees him and her eyes go wide, taking in his appearance, the disheveled shirt, the flush on his face, the wild look in his eyes.
"Are you okay?" she asks immediately.
"I'm okay." His voice is thin but present. "But Bran and the guards may need help in the south wing. Torsten is in custody."
"What happened?"
"We found the evidence. Bran has it. There's a vial, poison, the same kind that was on the assassin's blade. Your husband needs to see it."
Delia's expression hardens into something fierce and determined. "I'll send Harath right away." She grips his arm, briefly, the same strong grip as always. "Are you sure you're alright?"
"I'm sure." He covers her hand with his own and squeezes. Then, on impulse, he leans forward and kisses her cheek, a brief, grateful press of lips. "Thank you. For everything."
She looks startled for a moment, then her face softens. She squeezes his arm back, nods once, and turns and runs toward the family wing with the focused urgency of a woman who has a Warlord to wake and a crisis to manage.
Evran watches her go. Then he turns and walks back to the eastern wing, through the quiet corridors, past the guards who nod without comment, and to the door of his and Vaike's room.
He opens it.
The room is dark. The fire has burned to nothing. The bed is a landscape of shadow, and in it Vaike sleeps, still on his side, still reaching across the empty space, his face peaceful in the darkness.
Evran sheds his clothes. He leaves them in a pile on the floor, the shirt, the trousers, the boots, the leather strap that held the dagger.
He stands naked in the dark room and he can still feel it, Torsten's hands on his skin, Torsten's mouth on his throat, the weight of another body pressing him into the bed.
It clings to him, and for a moment the doubt rises again, whispering that Vaike will feel it, will sense it, will know.
Maybe he will.
Maybe he will pull Evran close and smell another man on his skin and know exactly what happened tonight, and maybe the knowing will change everything, and maybe the morning will bring the conversation Evran fears more than any blade or poison.
But Vaike will be alive for that conversation. Vaike will be alive to be angry, to be hurt, to be betrayed, to look at Evran with whatever lives in his eyes when the truth comes out. And that is enough. That is the only thing that was ever enough.
Evran crosses to the bed. His hands are shaking again, the fine tremor returning now that there is no blade to hold and no throat to press it to. He climbs in, and the moment his body touches the mattress Vaike's arm comes around him.
Automatic. Unconscious. The arm pulls him close, draws him in, tucks him against the broad warmth of Vaike's chest. Vaike makes a sound, not awake, not asleep, just the low hum of a body recognizing its missing piece, and Evran is held.
He presses his face against Vaike's chest and wraps his arms around Vaike's thick waist and breathes him in, smoke and skin and the faint musk of sleep, and feels the strain and the revulsion and the terror slowly drain out of him.
Degree by degree. Layer by layer. Until what is left is just exhaustion, and relief, and a love so vast and so costly and so entirely, irrevocably chosen that it fills him from the bottom up and leaves no room for anything else.
He presses a kiss to Vaike's chest. Right over his heart.
Into the quiet space between them, barely a whisper, barely more than a breath:
"I will always keep you safe."
Vaike's arm tightens around him. A reflex. A promise in return.
Evran closes his eyes and sleeps.