Raylen
Chapter six
The first thing I register is the scent of the intoxicating sweet smell of the elf wrapped in my arms.
The second thing I register is the heat.
Sylar is pressed flush against my side, his long, thick frame molded perfectly to mine beneath the heavy weight of the patch quilts. Somewhere in the middle of the night, the wall of pillows, painstakingly built by the defensive, rigid man beside me, had completely dissolved.
Now, his head is tucked securely into the hollow of my neck, his soft, even breaths teasing my collarbone.
One of his long, muscular arms is slung over my waist, pinning me to the mattress, while his thigh is hooked possessively over mine.
For someone who spends all his time in the library, he sure is built.
A low, heavy ache immediately pulses through my lower belly.
I shift just a fraction, and the friction of his trousers against my bare leg sends a white-hot spike of arousal straight to my cock.
I am rock hard, so fucking turned on, and hopelessly trapped by the biggest, most handsome—and most easily startled—elf in the entire market.
Goddess above, give me strength.
I close my eyes, forcing myself to take a slow, shallow breath.
I want nothing more than to roll him onto his back, tangle my fingers in his long, obsidian hair, and kiss him until he’s begging for more.
But if Sylar wakes up right now and feels exactly what he’s pressing against, he will panic, bolt out the door, and probably move into the stables just to escape me. Plus, consent is sexy as fuck.
Slowly, I begin the agonizing process of escaping the bed.
I reach down and gently take his wrist, lifting his arm off my waist. Sylar lets out a soft, tiny moan in his sleep. The sound is so sensual, I nearly lose all sense of self-control. He rolls tighter into my space, his face burying into the pillow where my shoulder had just been.
I slide my leg out from under his, biting the inside of my lip as my cock brushes his hip.
With a final, agonizingly careful slide, I slip out from beneath the blankets and stand straight on the cold wooden floorboards.
Cinder is curled up on her soft pet bed in the corner, her wings wrapped around her tiny foxly body.
The morning air hits my bare chest, causing my nipples to pebble. Rather than helping, it only makes me harder. I glance back at the bed. Sylar is completely sprawled across the center now, looking utterly peaceful, his sharp features softened by sleep and a faint, sleepy flush warming his cheeks.
I look away before I do something really fucking stupid.
Treading soundlessly across the uneven floor, I grab a clean tunic and slip through the narrow door into the washroom. The space is small and unmagical, featuring a heavy, old-fashioned copper tub.
I crank the iron handle and start a bath with the coldest water the cottage’s deep well can provide, before using a simple enchantment to heat it to just the right temperature. Stripping off my trousers, I give my cock a few simple strokes.
When the tub is half full, I slip into the hot water and lie back.
I scrub a hand over my face, listening to the steady rhythm of the water.
It’s going to be a very long, very exhausting two weeks if every morning starts with me hiding my morning wood like a teenager, desperately trying not to lose my mind over my crush.
Once I’m scrubbed clean, my fingers find my still-hard cock.
I jerk off to the sexy image of Sy grinding against me and moaning that sexy little moan. It doesn’t take long for me to come.
But as the water washes away the proof of my arousal, a slow smile tugs at the corner of my lips anyway. He slept curled up against me. He felt safe. And for a grumpy scholar who values his walls, that is a victory I’ll gladly celebrate.
When I finally emerge from the washroom, damp-haired and fully dressed, the rustic air of the cottage has completely transformed.
The earthy scent of dried lavender is masked by the delicious scent of warm cinnamon, loose-leaf tea, and fresh, flaky breakfast pastries.
Did Sylar bake something while I was in the bath?
Stars, how fucking long was I in there?
Sylar is standing by the small trestle table, setting down two mismatched ceramic plates. The morning light catches the violet shine of his black hair, making him look almost ethereal against the simple backdrop of the kitchen.
He made us breakfast.
A sudden, fierce wave of affection hits my chest, completely catching me off guard. “I had no idea you knew how to cook,” I say, stepping into the main room with a soft smile. I glance down at the spread of spiced pastries and perfectly steeped tea.
Sylar doesn’t look up, but a faint, lovely pink dusts the tips of his pointed ears. “It is simple mathematics and chemistry, Raylen. Anyone who can follow an alchemical formula can bake a pastry.”
I don’t argue with his academic logic. Instead, I slide onto the bench next to him. We munch quietly, falling into a sweet, effortless sort of domestic bliss that feels entirely too natural for two people who haven’t shared a table in ten years.
“So,” I say, brushing a stray pastry crumb from my thumb as we finish up. “Why don’t we make our way over to the astrology pavilion today?”
Sylar freezes, his tea mug stopping halfway to his lips. He sets it down with a sharp clink, his shoulders instantly locking up. “Why would you want to go there?” he asks, his voice laced with immediate suspicion, as if expecting me to tease him for his nerdy passions. Such a silly, sexy elf.
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I lean closer, reaching out to gently caress his forearm. My fingers trail slowly down the fine linen of his new cloak, lingering over the soft skin of his wrist. “Because it’s where you want to be, right? I want to see the things you love, Sy.”
His gaze drops to my fingers on his skin, his chest rising and falling on a shaky breath.
The rigid wall he usually keeps up softens, just for a second, and he gives me a quiet, bewildered nod.
“Fine. But under one condition—we’re stopping by the clothiers first. This cloak you bought me is literally the only respectable piece of clothing I have, and I refuse to let you drag me through a crowded market looking like an impoverished scribe. ”
I grin. “Deal.”
An hour later, the quiet, peaceful cottage is a distant memory.
The Everend Market is in full, chaotic swing, a roaring ocean of bright silks, shouting merchants, and thick crowds.
We keep our cloaks drawn tightly and our hoods pulled low as we navigate the grand pavilion dedicated to the celestial arts.
Rows of shimmering star charts, brass astrolabes, and glowing globes line the stalls, but before Sylar can even marvel at the texts, the outside world crashes into our quiet bubble.
“…read it straight from the broadsheet,” a hushed, gossiping voice whispers from a huddle of high-born elves near a map display.
“A noble rake, maybe even a prince, is announcing his engagement this year. They say he’s chosen that pretty little red-haired elven woman from the outskirts of Moonscliffe. ”
“Talia?”
“Yes! That’s her name.”
Beside me, Sylar goes entirely rigid. The color drains from his face so fast that I think he might faint.
Talia. I can’t imagine the Prince ever settling down.
He loves his freedom a little too much. But, goddess, what if the nobleman is Lord Vane?
Vane is a notorious rogue of the worst kind.
The wealthy asshole collects young, innocent hearts like trophies before discarding them to ruin their reputations.
“Raylen,” Sylar gasps, his hand instantly clutching my forearm, his fingers digging into the material of my cloak. “We have to stop this. If it’s Lord Vane, he’ll destroy her.”
“Hey, look at me. We’re going to stop it,” I say fiercely, stepping closer to shield him from the crowd. “I won’t let that bastard anywhere near her.”
As the afternoon drags on, the sweetness of the morning turns into a frantic, agonizing hunt.
We search stall after stall, weaving through the endless rows of the festival, with Cinder searching from above, but our sisters are nowhere to be found.
The sun begins to dip below the mountain peaks, painting the sky in bloody shades of orange, and the pressure in my chest builds.
“Damn it,” I curse under my breath, scanning the sea of faces. “I knew I should have bought a pair of those overpriced communication stones. I hate not being able to send Isolde a magical message. If I can’t find them soon…”
I trail off, but I can feel Sylar staring at me from beneath his hood.
When I glance over, his wide eyes are filled with a strange, profound shock.
I realize then that he’s never seen this side of me—the side that is organized, fiercely protective, and deeply concerned for his family’s safety.
He’s probably realizing I’m not just a careless traveler. I care about the people he loves.
Before I can say anything to ease his mind, disaster strikes.
A sudden gust of wind sweeps through the open courtyard, catching the lip of my hood and whipping it straight off my head. I curse, quickly reaching up to yank it back down, but it’s already too late.
“Wait… is that him?” a voice shrieks nearby. “It is! It’s the Archer of Moonscliffe!”
In an instant, the atmosphere shifts from a frantic search to absolute claustrophobia.
A swarm of fawning elves descends upon us, cutting off our path.
Hands reach out to touch my cloak, voices squeal, and I swear, a dozen high-born suitors push their way forward, desperate to catch the eye of the famous, eligible bachelor.
“Raylen, is it true you’re looking for a spouse?”
“Please, an autograph for my house’s ledger!”