Dog. #4
He paused. His gaze remained unchanged, but the silence intensified it—until I wondered if eyes alone possessed the power to heat someone’s cheeks.
“I’ve come to accept it’s unlikely,” he continued. “My mother was a hopeless romantic, like so many artists are.”
I nodded, though I knew no artists. Still, I saw that same yearning in Avice—her idealistic vision of love, imagining that a life with Finn would be perfect if they could run away and live in the Walled City together. I sighed, feeling profoundly sorry that her chance for amour had been stolen.
“Did your mother ever find love?” I asked, hoping her romantic spirit wasn’t entirely lost to the King’s advances.
Fitzroy nodded. “A kind man who was widowed and wealthy, with land and titles. They married, and my mother was content.”
I hesitated, wanting to ask why she was no longer here but uncertain if it was an insensitive question.
After a moment of silent contemplation, I blurted out, “How did she die?”
“In childbirth—a daughter,” he stated, finishing off the rest of his ale.
Though I knew nothing could ease his grief, I still wished to comfort him—to take his hand or hold him in an embrace. But the foundations of our relationship weren’t laid on compassion—they were built from friction.
“She always wanted a girl,” he said, leaning toward me.
Without hesitation, I mirrored Fitzroy, shifting in the armchair so I could be as near to him as the seat would allow me. Our conversation had been private, but now that we were close enough to feel each other’s breaths on our faces, it felt more intimate.
The only time that we’d been this close before was in the midst of a heated argument.
“My mother would say that daughters cause less trouble than sons. If she had met you, though, I think she might have changed her mind,” he said with a smirk.
I gently thumped his chest with my fist, while he chuckled at his remark.
“Could you do your liege a favor?” he asked, a cheeky smile softening his face in a way I’d never seen before.
“Of course,” I replied, smiling back as if his grin were contagious.
“Fetch me an ale?”
I nodded before heading to the bar to fulfill his request.
As I waited for one of the witches to pour my order, Bash appeared beside me.
“Enjoying your night with Fitzroy?” he asked. “You’ve clung to him like a leech.”
I wanted to ask him why he suddenly had such an interest in Jane—if he was replaying her moans in his mind just to make her mediocre conversation bearable. Instead, I pretended that I didn’t care—that the mere thought of him finding her attractive in any capacity didn’t drive me utterly insane.
“To my surprise, I find him interesting,” I replied, keeping my composure. “Though I’ll never make him privy to that notion.”
Margaret appeared on the other side of the bar. “What can I get for you, love?” she asked.
“Two pints, please,” I said.
As Margaret poured my drinks, I cast a glance back at Fitzroy. I couldn’t quite put words to how he made me feel. The image of the arrogant son of a king faded, replaced by something more fragile—a boy mourning his mother, sent across the sea to appease his father’s wife.
Bash let out a disappointed sigh. “I thought his charm didn’t work on you?”
Fitzroy looked up, catching me peering over my shoulder. His eyes met mine with a friendly smile, and I couldn’t help but return it.
Bash cleared his throat. “I’m off for a piss,” he announced, downing the rest of the ale in his tankard before departing.
“Bash, wait!” I called after him, but he didn’t stop—his stride was brisk as he made for the exit.
Margaret slammed down the tankards, but I left my drinks behind and hurried after him.
“Sebastian!” I called out.
“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, holding open the heavy door. “That’s what my mother calls me when she’s disappointed.”
And Jane when you make her all giggly, I thought, but managed to bite my tongue.
I ducked beneath his arm and stepped outside, where raindrops sprinkled against my skin.
“Where are you going?” I asked. “I was enjoying your company.”
Bash snorted and trudged into the wet night. “You’ve hardly spoken to me all evening.”
“Sorry. Fitzroy—”
“You harp on about hating the man, then spend an entire evening hanging on his every word,” Bash interrupted, quickening his pace as he marched along the deck toward the birch trees.
I hurried, trying to keep up with his long strides.
“I despise him,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if that was true anymore. “But he’s my liege, I must entertain his conversation.”
Bash stopped abruptly in the pouring rain. “You love to argue with him. I see the glint in your eyes whenever he rebuts your words. Admit it—there’s no greater pleasure for you than fighting with Fitzroy.”
I shook my head, but Bash slowly nodded his.
“My greatest pleasure’s stealing your warmth,” I said, wishing I could burrow inside his long coat.
Bash smiled, slinging his arm around my shoulder. “I don’t like liars, Smith.”
I shoved him away—something I never thought I’d do—but jealousy trickled through me quicker than the rain seeping into my linens.
“And I don’t like hypocrites, Sebastian,” I retorted, brushing drenched strands from my face.
Bash gripped my wrist and dragged me under the shelter of the birch trees. “Stop calling me that,” he demanded.
I was deliberately goading him, and nothing could stop me—the ale had control of my tongue and my willpower to bite it.
“You had Jane sitting on your lap all eve, whispering only the gods know what into your ear,” I said, mortified by the envy that bled into my voice.
“We spoke about the weather,” Bash tried to reassure me. “The most improper thing she said was that I have nice eyes—”
“I’m surprised she could see them, considering you spent the entire conversation looking at her chest,” I interrupted, immediately wishing I possessed even a thimble’s worth of restraint.
Bash laughed, outraged. “I wasn’t. And even if I was, why would you care?”
“I don’t care, Sebastian,” I lied, knowing I couldn’t admit I’d grown rather fond of him. “I was simply telling you what I saw.”
He seized the sodden collar of my tunic, yanking me in close. “Why do you keep calling me that?”
“You never seem to mind when Jane calls you by your first name,” I murmured.
Bash furrowed his brow, irritation and confusion warring upon his face, as though my words made no sense.
Rain dripped from his lashes—he blew away droplets gathering in the stubble on his upper lip.
His gaze locked onto mine, intense and unyielding, flicking between my eyes as though seeking answers.
For a moment, I thought he might headbutt me—the tension thickening with every passing second. But instead of colliding, he leaned closer until his lips met mine.
Bash was kissing me.
He let go of my collar, his hands shifting to tenderly cradle my neck. I softened beneath his touch, surrendering to the sensation, lost in a realm without war—only the warmth of his mouth on mine.
Abruptly, Bash pulled away. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, releasing my neck. “I shouldn’t have done that…”
As he stepped backward, I reached out, my palm landing gently on his cheek.
My fingers traced the rough whiteness of his stubble, and he stood frozen—rigid as a frostbitten blade of grass.
A soft chuckle escaped me, breaking the unfamiliar and overwhelming tension.
Bash thawed, his lips curling into a smile.
He rubbed them together, tempting me to kiss them.
“Do it again,” I whispered.
Slowly, he leaned in, his breath heating my skin, his mouth hesitating for a heartbeat before claiming me once more. His lips parted, coaxing me into slow, deliberate movements—his tongue brushing softly against my own.
A hand slid to the small of my back, drawing me closer until our hips met.
“Bash?” Fletcher’s voice traveled across the cliffside, finding us beneath the barren branches.
Bash grunted, reluctantly pulling away, while I wished for just a few more stolen seconds to savor his taste. He let go of me, quickly adjusting himself—clear proof that he was as aroused as me.
“Your absence has been noticed,” I said, my pulse still hammering.
Then the howl of Dog echoed through the forest, as though my companion wondered where I’d gone.
“Yours, too,” Bash replied.
I lingered behind while he strode ahead, putting distance between us with every step.