22. Alistair #2
His pulse quickened when Iggie shifted, resting a cool hand on his cheek.
A weary smile graced the necromancer’s lips.
“Until I met you, I loathed the Order. I blamed every last Knight for my parents’ deaths.
But I realize now that hating all for the sins of a few makes me no better than those I reviled.
” His grin faltered, his grip on Alistair’s cheek tightening.
“You reminded me that it’s possible to try to see the good in others.
To gather up all my fear and anger and just… ”
“Let it go,” Alistair finished softly. He thought of his father’s flesh ravaged by duskflame and the hatred he’d once borne for anyone who wielded such magic. Reaching up, he threaded his fingers with Iggie’s. “I know exactly what you mean.”
Something flickered over Iggie’s face. He squirmed as if to rise before sighing softly and lying across the bed, resting his head in Alistair’s lap.
Heat buzzed through Alistair, and despite his inner voice shouting at him to move, he reached down and tentatively stroked his hand through Iggie’s crimson locks.
“I should return to my room,” he said. “We both need sleep.”
Iggie shook his head against Alistair’s thigh. “Stay.”
“I can’t—”
“Not for the night. Just…just for a little while. Please. I’d like to hear more about your time with the Order—if you’re willing to tell me, that is.”
Surprised, Alistair raised his brow. “Since when do you care what it’s like being a Knight?”
“Since I met one who restored my faith that there’s at least some good left in the world.”
Merciful Light. His resolve crumbling, Alistair said, “If you’re sure. But only for a bit.”
True to his word, Iggie proved to be a rapt audience, and Alistair quickly lost track of time as he regaled Iggie with stories from his training and earliest missions.
The necromancer seemed to particularly enjoy the tale of Lady Marabeth McCormick, a minor noblewoman whose father had petitioned the Order for help when she went missing.
There’d been signs of local bandit activity in the area, and at first, everyone assumed that they’d kidnapped Lady Marabeth to hold for ransom.
It was only after nearly a week of searching that they discovered she had willingly joined the bandit group to stick it to her father.
Usually, the Order would have intervened, but a mortified Lord McCormick insisted they leave the matter to him…
even after his daughter led a lucrative robbery against one of his caravans.
A quiet peace stole over Alistair as he talked. It was far too easy to lose himself in the necromancer’s comforting presence—in his quiet chuckle and too-blue eyes.
Eventually, he found himself lying on his back with Iggie nestled against his side, one leg draped over him.
He’d removed his armor at some point under the guise of comfort, and while they both still wore their tunics and trousers, he reveled at the enticing heat of Iggie’s fleeting touch—the electric prickle each time their bare skin brushed.
“I should go,” he murmured, as he had at least a half-dozen times before.
Iggie didn’t reply, his eyes closed as he rested his head on Alistair’s chest. Gazing down at him, Alistair heard his even breathing and spied the steady swell and fall of his chest. His necromancer had fallen asleep.
He took the opportunity to study Iggie’s features.
His pale, porcelain skin, unblemished by any scars despite the hard life he’d lived.
His sharp cheeks and narrow face, belied by his full lips.
The way his messy red hair draped over his forehead like a wave of crackling fire.
Alistair knew from experience how soft it was, and he tenderly brushed the bangs out of Iggie’s eyes.
Iggie shifted at the touch and blinked awake, looking up blearily. When he saw Alistair, he smiled. “You’re still here,” he said, his voice husky from sleep.
Alistair chuckled. “And you sleep like the dead.”
Iggie’s smile widened, the pure, unfiltered joy in it enough to steal Alistair’s breath.
He’d never seen the necromancer look so happy, so carefree.
Soon enough, his troubles would no doubt return to him, the weight of the world crashing back down.
But for at least this singular blessed moment, Alistair caught a glimpse of what Iggie might’ve looked like without the tragedies of his past.
So beautiful.
Iggie’s eyes widened, and it was only then that Alistair realized he’d spoken the words aloud. Flushing, he opened his mouth to apologize, but before he could get a word out, Iggie surged upward, sealing their lips in a kiss.
Warmth blossomed in Alistair’s chest, spreading through him like dawnflame.
He shifted so he lay atop Iggie, kissing him all the while.
A groan escaped his lips when Iggie bucked beneath him, and he ground his own answering hardness against Iggie’s.
For one glorious moment, he allowed himself to pretend that this connection between them was more than an impossible dream.
But all too soon, harsh reality came rushing back.
Merciful Light, what am I doing?
He jerked away, breaking their kiss as he scrambled off Iggie and out of the bed. Iggie blinked dazedly at him as he grabbed his armor and retreated to the door.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his throat too tight.
Iggie’s carefree joy faded, taking a piece of Alistair’s heart with it. He gave a listless nod. “Right. Of course. Nothing’s changed.”
Alistair nodded too quickly, his gut roiling. “Exactly. We still can’t do this. Not with who I am and, um, who you are.” Merciful Light, could this get any more awkward? He had to get away and clear his head. “I…I’ll see you tomorrow.”
With that, Alistair practically sprinted out the door. Despite his best efforts to quiet his spinning thoughts, sleep eluded him, and as he lay awake in bed, his mind returned again and again to Iggie—to that kiss they’d just shared, and to the night they’d spent together in the harmonite cavern.
There had to be some way of resolving this divide he felt growing within himself—of reconciling his duty as a paladin and defender of the people with his desire for Iggie. He’d thought himself resigned before to letting Iggie go when this was all over, but now…
Now, I don’t know if I can.