Chapter 9
The second Pyxlevir stalked out of the room, Gramlithyn groaned, and his shoulders sagged.
He stared up at the ceiling. Was it a curse or a gift that the earthy scent of carrots still clung to the air?
He glanced at the flora wrapping up his arm.
It’d taken many hours for the tattoo artist to trace the tiny flowers onto his flesh, but Gramlithyn hadn’t cared.
He’d wanted the blooms that sprouted from unharvested carrots to remind him of the elf he’d left at eighteen.
How had Gramlithyn forgotten how beautiful Pyxlevir was in person?
The stunning elf had sat stoically across from him with his chin lifted and the sunlight caressing his high cheekbones.
Gone were the zebra-colored beads of his youth.
Boring silver ones that could’ve been worn by any elf dotted his braids now and shimmered vibrantly as he moved his head.
His lashes somehow appeared longer and more lush around the vivid blue eyes that gave away none of his emotions.
Six years ago, Gramlithyn could tell what he was feeling with a glance.
Now, Pyxlevir was a stranger. One who’d shown up in an outfit of silk—a fabric famously used by the Valzadari.
The deep azure tunic and pants had gently bled into an intense fuchsia near the hems. Discreet beading in the same colors had decorated the outfit, and it suited Pyxlevir perfectly.
Focusing on Pyxlevir’s fashion choices was easier than dealing with the maelstrom of emotions left behind by their brief encounter. If Gramlithyn had secretly hoped Pyxlevir would object to setting themselves up to have their matebond demonically severed, his dreams were dashed.
With no complaints, Pyxlevir had agreed to take the next step—to convince their friends to go along with the scheme. What would Pyxlevir think if he knew the entire thing was a ruse to convince his other half that being with a zebra wasn’t the end of the world?
Gramlithyn was terrified to find out, but he had to see things through.
Either Gramlithyn was right, and Fate hadn’t made a mistake, or they deserved their freedom to find someone else to love.
That was if he could convince his heart and his zebra to stop adoring Pyxlevir, since the spell would demand he feel neutral about the situation.
With a groan, Gramlithyn rolled and landed face-first on the mattress. Over the past few days, he’d convinced himself that the idea he’d carefully crafted was genius. Now he was wondering how he’d survive more than a few days without falling to his knees and begging Pyxlevir for a chance.
Or how he’d hide his body’s intense reaction to Pyxlevir’s presence. Within seconds, Gramlithyn had nearly swooned at the scent of carrots and scared the poor elf off with his hardening cock. Thankfully, his visceral attraction hadn’t lasted long. It was quelled by Pyxlevir’s icy demeanor.
In their youth, Pyxlevir had smiled constantly.
If anyone was in a foul mood, Pyxlevir was the one offering them a warm hug, a silly joke, or a friendly shoulder to lean on as they spilled whatever was vexing them.
Happiness had radiated from his soul. But today, Pyxlevir had looked through Gramlithyn as they talked.
And his words were formal. Gramlithyn couldn’t remember any instance in their past where Pyxlevir had spoken in such a stilted manner.
His words had been English, but the cadence and lack of contractions reminded Gramlithyn of Elvish.
While they were both fluent in both languages, Gramlithyn hadn’t used his father’s tongue in six years.
Maybe adult Pyxlevir preferred Elvish now or used it more often than he had in his youth. Both options could be true. Gramlithyn didn’t know shit about Pyxlevir now, which hurt. It was his own fault. He’d bolted from Vegas as if his zebra ass were on fire.
As for his beast, Gramlithyn was trying to ignore him. The sad, agitated beast was whining pitifully in Gramlithyn’s head. Thankfully, the sounds were mournful and not screeching loud, but how long would that last? Like Gramlithyn, his zebra had wanted to pounce on Pyxlevir at first sight.
That was one of the reasons Gramlithyn had kept their chat as concise as possible. Both Gramlithyn and his zebra had to learn to coexist with Pyxlevir. If their friends agreed, they had twelve months of living together to survive. Gramlithyn was counting on finding common ground with Pyxlevir.
However, he had to prepare himself for the other option. There was a chance that no matter how hard Gramlithyn worked, Pyxlevir would demand separation papers and the much more devastating demonic severance of their bond.
Rolling over so his nose was no longer squished into the bedspread, Gramlithyn once again fixed his gaze on the ceiling.
The odds were against him. He’d opted to run from his feelings and ditch his best friend so he could roam aimlessly.
Pyxlevir had to be pissed. Or perhaps he’d worked through his anger and no longer gave a shit.
Gramlithyn couldn’t decide which was worse. It would be foolish to dwell on it. He had to remain focused on how to help the situation, not worry about every possibility or how much additional pain he’d endure in the coming months. His current predicament was his own damn fault.
Although it was Fate that put them together, it was Gramlithyn who’d charted the path of least resistance.
At eighteen, Gramlithyn had fled because he was scared.
He had given little thought to the future and hadn’t put himself in Pyxlevir’s shoes.
Too much time had passed for them to pick up where they’d left off.
He owed Pyxlevir an apology. A heartfelt and truthful one.
But what Pyxlevir deserved most was to decide their future.
So, Gramlithyn would take his cues from Pyxlevir.
It’d be up to Pyxlevir to dictate how much Gramlithyn divulged and when.
However, if they stood in a room together someday, ready to drop their blood into a bowl to separate completely, Gramlithyn would ensure Pyxlevir understood how sorry he was for his choices and whatever hurt he’d caused.
It was far less than Pyxlevir deserved, but it was all Gramlithyn had left to offer.
∞∞∞
Although Gramlithyn had been poised to rush into convincing Pyxlevir and their friends to move in together, he’d needed a day for his nerves to settle.
His parents phoned daily in their effort to reconnect.
However, it remained difficult to talk to them, so Gramlithyn didn’t answer.
He’d hurt everyone in his haste and childishness.
How could he explain to his folks that he’d defied thousands of years of tradition because he’d wanted Pyxlevir to love him as a mate and not a friend?
It was too soon to have that conversation with them anyway. If they knew the truth, his mother would march up to the Centaurus-Valzadari mansion and demand a ceremony immediately. Gramlithyn would not allow Pyxlevir to be forced into anything. Not for his mother or any custom.
His lack of response to his parents hadn’t dimmed their enthusiasm for his return.
To Gramlithyn’s shock, they’d dumped money into his account to ensure he and Dasan had whatever they needed.
Since Gramlithyn was focused solely on his living arrangements, their generosity was welcome, but he needed to figure out how to earn his own income soon.
It didn’t sit comfortably to rely upon his parents, which was why he’d gone six years without asking for a dime and routinely sending back anything they gave him.
They had to be ashamed of him, but they offered no words of rebuke.
His parents were wonderful and must be unbelievably disappointed in their only child.
“Are we going over to meet these gargoyles or what?” Dasan demanded as he fluttered around their hotel room, tidying his few belongings.
Whether it was his relentless desire to move constantly or an innate dislike for clutter, Dasan kept everything neat as a pin.
It made living with him easy, and Gramlithyn had done so for years now.
“Yeah, sorry, I’m nervous.”
“I can’t believe you won’t tell me what’s going on. You’ve been acting weird as shit since the moment we got to Vegas.”
“I know, I promise I’ll explain everything once we get to Colby and Crispin’s place.”
“Okay, are you ready, or do you need a few more minutes?” Dasan asked. “You look nervous as fuck.”
“That’s because I am. But delaying this shit isn’t going to make things easier.”
Without another word, Gramlithyn and Dasan headed out of their hotel room and went down to the Dérive station.
The druid Gramlithyn had arranged was already waiting for them, and they were teleported to another druid-owned spot close to the mansion the Hawthorne-Stone family called home.
Gramlithyn eventually led Dasan to the front door of the lovely house.
After taking a deep breath, Gramlithyn rang the bell. The door opened to reveal Colburn and Crispin’s father.
“Gramlithyn, it’s a been a long time,” the ruler of the gargoyles remarked, his pale green gaze unreadable. In his youth, Gramlithyn had spent countless hours beneath Hunter’s roof and had loved every minute. “Who is your friend?”
“Watchman, this is my friend Dasan Calypte. He’s new to the Council and has become an honorary Verdanyth thanks to my parents. Dasan, this is the ruler of the Royal Order of the Gargoyles, Watchman Hunter Hawthorne-Stone.”
“Great to meet you, Watchman,” Dasan said, thrusting his arm out enthusiastically.
“The pleasure is mine,” Hunter replied. “Pyxlevir tells me you’re Gramlithyn’s best friend, but he was unsure what kind of shifter you are.”
“I’m a hummingbird, Watchman.”