Chapter Nine
Silas absentmindedly reached for the next piece of paper. His hand only touched the wood of the table. He groped around for a moment, brows knit together. With an exasperated sigh he finally looked up from his notes.
The endless stack of papers he’d been poring over had vanished. In their place were a few curls of black hair, trailing up to a pair of strong forearms pillowing a familiar face, relaxed in sleep.
Somehow, Archer had entered Silas’ makeshift office in the backroom of a tavern, moved paperwork around, and made himself comfortable without Silas noticing.
Guilt soured his stomach as he glanced at a clock on the mantel and discovered it was well after midnight. How long had Archer silently waited for him before succumbing to sleep?
Silas leaned forward and rubbed a thumb over Archer’s cheek, scratching his fingers through the wiry beard. Archer’s sooty eyelashes fluttered open, the firelight dancing in his dark eyes, adding to his general air of wildness.
“You should have interrupted my work,” Silas murmured, his hand still resting against Archer’s cheek, wanting to prolong that small connection.
Archer shrugged and leaned against Silas’ palm, his eyes closing again. He looked like he would be happy to sleep in the little dining room as long as Silas kept touching him.
“Let’s go to bed.”
They packed up his papers in silence and carried the box upstairs.
The owner of Capital City Brews had graciously offered rooms for those displaced by the fire, and Silas had been assigned the same room he and Archer had spent one blissful night in.
Officially, Archer had a room next door, a shallow attempt to obscure their intimate relationship, but it was late enough that they didn’t care about any witnesses.
Archer hesitated in the doorway, his brow furrowed as he took in the chaotic state of the room. Boxes of documents had bred like bunnies and covered every surface except for the bed.
“Set it anywhere,” Silas said, unbuttoning his jacket and sliding it off his shoulders.
Archer placed the box on top of a pile near the door, making sure there was a clear path to the exit.
“Remember when I said I could rule the kingdom from my bedroom?” Silas asked with a rueful smile. “Who knew it would be a prediction.” A lump formed in his throat, adding weight to his attempt at humor.
Archer pulled Silas to him, wrapping him in a tight hug. He rested his chin on Silas’ head and murmured, “You’ve worked hard.” His deep voice rumbled through his chest so Silas could feel the concern as much as hear it.
“So have you,” Silas said, squeezing him tighter. He tilted his head back to look at Archer, admiring his form in the lantern light. Every time they were separated, for weeks or only hours, he always wanted to reacquaint himself with Archer’s strength, his beauty, the heat of his skin.
Before Silas could issue a coy invitation, a thick yawn stretched his jaw wide and shuddered through him.
Still holding tightly onto Silas, Archer sat them both down on the bed. The mattress creaked as it sank beneath them. “When was the last time you slept?”
The last time we were here together. Silas didn’t say the thought out loud, knowing how unhappy it would make Archer.
Ever since the palace fire, Silas had been running around trying to put out the flames, literal and metaphorical.
Between Varro’s escape, Alistair’s execution, the funeral pyres, and endless meetings with advisers and staff and displaced nobility, Silas barely had time to blink, let alone sleep. “Too long,” he admitted.
“Sleep,” Archer said, rubbing Silas’ back in soothing circles. His deft fingers found a knot near Silas’ shoulder blade and kneaded it to release the muscle’s tension.
“Only if you stay with me,” Silas said, his eyes already half-closed.
Archer’s forehead brushed Silas’ shoulder when he nodded.
“Say it.”
“I’ll stay with you,” Archer said.
Silas refused to immediately give in to the call for sleep.
He still wanted to feel Archer, skin to skin, even if that was all they did that night.
He shifted to face Archer, trailing his fingers down his side until he found the edge of his shirt and lifted it slowly over Archer’s head.
Inch by inch, using the opportunity to caress him as much as undress him.
The discarded shirt joined the boxes of paperwork.
Then it was Silas’ turn. He closed his eyes, breath short and strained as Archer’s calloused palms ghosted over his skin. The tips of his fingers teasingly tweaked one of Silas’ nipples, then quickly moved on to remove his shirt.
The rest of their clothes received the same slow, leisurely treatment, until they lay on the bed, naked limbs entangled.
They faced each other, and Silas was disappointed that the weak moonlight from the window didn’t allow him to see more of Archer’s face.
He had to imagine the dark, strong brow, the crooked shape of his nose.
Silas was tempted to trace each line to aid his memory, but at the same time he didn’t want to remove his arm from around Archer’s waist.
“Wake me when you leave in the morning,” he whispered.
He couldn’t see the quirk of Archer’s lips, but he could hear his gruff amusement when he said, “I’ll try.”
“No, I don’t care if it takes an entire bucket of ice water. I want to see you in the morning before you go.”
Archer leaned forward, brushing his lips against Silas’. “All right. I promise.”
Silas closed his eyes and clutched Archer tighter. He wanted to stay awake, to enjoy this moment longer, to go beyond the gentle caresses and brief kisses. But now that he’d stopped working, the long days finally caught up with him and dragged him unwillingly into sleep.
Usually, Archer rose with the sun, but this time, when the sun rose, he remained in bed, his arms wrapped tightly around Silas.
Archer would need to get out of bed eventually, leave Silas’ side when their work pulled them apart once again.
But he had promised to wake Silas before he left, and he couldn’t bring himself to disturb his lover’s much needed rest.
The dark circles under Silas’ eyes had returned. They disappeared after Alistair’s blood curse was broken and Silas could finally sleep without nightmares. Seeing them again so soon felt like a small defeat. Alistair was dead, but his influence lived on to torment Silas.
In addition to the dark circles was a thick, scratchy layer of stubble along Silas’ jaw and upper lip. It was a few shades darker than his tawny curls and several degrees rougher.
How many days had it been since Silas even looked in a mirror? Like most Bellacostan men, he usually maintained a clean-shaven face. When they’d traveled together, his stubble had been light and sparse, barely noticeable. If he left it alone now, he might have a decent beard within a month.
Archer brushed his thumb gently back and forth over Silas’ cheek, amazed by the small change. If the dark circles were defeat, the beard growth was a victory, separating the old Silas from the new.
Silas snuggled closer, mumbling unintelligibly. Then he settled back down, his breaths easing as he returned to deep sleep.
Almost as soon as he did, a knock on the door woke him. His eyes snapped open, and he started, as if he would jump out of bed and immediately return to work if Archer’s arms hadn’t tightened around him.
“Your Majesty?” Mirinda called. She was one of the only members remaining of the old council.
“Yes?” Silas’ voice cracked with morning’s first use.
“Mr. Morten is looking for you.”
It took Archer a moment to remember the contractor working on the palace cleanup and reconstruction. They hadn’t met yet, since Archer had been more focused on the wreckage at the prison than the palace.
“Thank you, tell him I’ll be downstairs in a few minutes.”
“Very well, sir.” Soft footsteps and the creaking of stairs confirmed her departure.
Silas sighed and leaned his head against Archer’s shoulder. “How long do you think we can stay like this before someone comes to check on me?”
“A few minutes,” Archer replied.
“Not much, but I’ll take it.” He pressed his lips against Archer’s jaw, kissing a short trail down his neck. “If we had a little longer …”
“You’re half-asleep.”
“Mm, it would wake me up.”
Archer chuckled and rolled on top of Silas, holding himself up so he didn’t crush the other man beneath him. He kissed Silas slowly—slower than they had time for—his tongue lingering, savoring the moment.
Silas grabbed the back of Archer’s head, tangling his fingers in his hair, tugging him down until Archer’s weight pressed him more firmly into the mattress.
Knock, knock, knock. “Your Majesty?”
He released Archer with a beleaguered sigh. “Yes, just a moment.” He looked up at Archer, kiss-swollen lips pursed in annoyance. “That was not nearly long enough.”
Archer grunted in agreement and helped Silas out of bed. They dressed swiftly and quietly, and Silas fixed the slight mess he’d made of Archer’s hair.
Once they were presentable, Silas opened the door to reveal Mirinda waiting on the other side.
Her eyes scanned them both, and though her expression remained neutral, Archer knew she had some idea of what they were doing.
She’d alluded once to knowing about their relationship and cautioned Archer to keep it secret.
He stared her down now, daring her to comment.
She lowered her eyes and said, “I’m sorry to rush you, but Mr. Morten wanted me to ask you to meet him at the South Wing.”
“Of course,” Silas replied, fussing with his cravat. “I’ll go right now.”
Since they were all headed toward the palace, Archer walked beside Silas while Mirinda walked a few steps behind. The whole way there, Archer felt her heavy, judgmental gaze on his back. His jaw clenched in irritation. You aren’t my adviser. Keep your damn, unwanted advice to yourself.
Archer and Silas paused at the palace gate.
Despite the witnesses, Archer wished he could kiss Silas one last time before separating.
He grabbed Silas’ hand and squeezed it gently, the most intimacy they could get away with in public.
“Send for me if you need anything. I’ll come to you immediately. ”
Silas smiled and rubbed his thumb along the back of Archer’s hand. “If you say it like that, I might find quite a few things I need from you.”
Even after they let go and went their own ways, the heat of their connection lingered on Archer’s skin.