25. This Troublesome Throne
This Troublesome Throne
Seren rocks into Nevander’s grasp, his mind in disarray.
He’s never gotten so close to another man.
Stray feelings always drive him off too quickly.
All the natural unpleasantness that Seren can’t even blame people for, because he understands them all too well.
Flashes of boredom or frustration or jealousy that complicate even the smoothest of relationships.
There’s none of that in this rainbow-dappled sanctuary.
Nevander is shielded again, but his obsession echoes through Seren’s soul.
Louder still is Seren’s own desire, rushing water finally finding a break in the stone.
He’s spent so long listening to other people’s hearts.
Surrendering to his own is strange and wondrous.
Nevander always seems so untouchably perfect, yet every touch is so viscerally real. Golden hair spills over his shoulders like an enchanted waterfall—but it sticks to Seren’s heated skin. Nevander’s torn, bloodstained shirt reveals flashes of fresh-healed skin with every movement.
“You’re so beautiful,” Nevander murmurs. “So brave.” His palm, slick with precome, twists over Seren’s head.
Muscles tense in Seren’s thighs and stomach. Plush furs caress his arched neck. “I don’t feel brave.”
Nevander’s smile curves, brilliant as summer. “Even so, my prince.”
His control fractures, shards of possessive need escaping. No. Nevander’s shield remains intact. That’s Seren’s own heart, responding to the rasp in Nevander’s voice with mirroring greed.
“Say that again.”
Nevander’s eyes flash. “My prince.”
Seren groans with the heat. He can only return the gift. “My guardian.”
Nevander’s grip tightens, and his breath quickens. “Sometimes I’m wary of speaking to you. I cannot lie, and my true thoughts might frighten you.”
Memory shivers down Seren’s spine. A breeze twisting past the village creek. Leaves rustling in the garden. An invisible gaze haunting his steps. Seren’s stomach flutters—not with fear.
“Do I look afraid?” Seren asks, hips jerking. Tension builds between nerve and tendon. He’s losing track of everything except the man above him. “Can I feel you again?”
Nevander loosens his shields. Adoration, obsession, greed, the sweetest edge of fear. Everything spills out in ribbons, binding Seren by the spirit.
Sensation and spirit coalesce. Seren cries out, going rigid, and spills into Nevander’s hand.
A kiss soothes Seren’s brow. Shared emotions disentangle and recede, leaving love-marks on Seren’s hindbrain. He collapses into the pile of furs. As Seren softens, Nevander massages his seed into the flushed skin of his lower belly. Like a primal claim.
Seren could bask here happily for the night, but consideration goes both ways. He sits up enough to reach for Nevander’s belt buckle. “Your turn. Or should I say my turn?”
Nevander catches his hand and kisses his knuckles, so tenderly that Seren nearly stirs again. “I would be honored. But that had best wait until the elixir has finished its job.” His eyes dart away, like he’s about to ask a great favor. “May I simply hold you for an hour?”
“How about two?” Seren counters.
Nevander kisses his hand again. Gods and spirits, Seren could get addicted to this adoration. He yanks his trousers up enough to be comfortable, then settles into the nest of fur and silk and fae. Nevander’s chest is the perfect pillow, his arm the perfect shield against the world.
The slightest movement makes Seren’s skin tingle, a mirror to his spirit’s thrum. No wonder Nevander keeps his emotions tightly guarded. Such desire is too vulnerable to share.
Seren had thought Nevander hid other emotions, though. Perhaps Seren’s prying isn’t yet done for the day. “You lost control once before, in the Garden of Rites.” Seren buries his face in Nevander’s chest. “When I asked to escape, I felt your pain.”
Still stroking Seren’s hair, Nevander doesn’t answer.
The thorns of that pain were difficult to untangle. Complicated. Only two emotions cut that deep. Seren has felt them before from Edith and Alard. Hatred, sharpened by love for their stolen son.
Nevander took a blade for him today. Yet Seren can’t resist digging in his claws.
“I had asked what you were sworn to,” Seren says.
Outside, shifting leaves dance with the setting sun. Inside, rainbow lights spin their own waltz, and a sigh whispers through Seren’s hair. Nevander’s silence isn’t refusal, but gathering thoughts.
“It’s not a secret,” Nevander says eventually. “Valerian knows. Primrose and Lysandra, too. Anyone else could guess, if they knew me for the past twenty-one years.”
“I didn’t,” Seren says, envying those who did.
“That’s the trouble.” Nevander’s caress wanders to Seren’s arm. “I swore myself to your protection.”
Seren frowns, unsurprised. Nevander’s right—that would be easy to guess. Except Seren can’t see why that would be a problem. Perhaps a fae culture thing he hasn’t learned yet. “Is that common?”
“It isn’t,” Nevander says quietly. “Most high fae protect themselves and their kin. It’s a matter of pride. A sworn guardian is rare and usually temporary, for a particular quest or a time of great danger.”
Elladar seems dangerous all the time, from what Seren’s seen. Except moments like this.
Nevander continues. “When your mother asked for my service, your brothers had already vanished.”
Seren recalls the silver flash of Midnight’s eyes. Another concern presses to the forefront. Less important, but somehow more urgent. “So, you met me as a baby. Is this weird?”
He traces a circle over Nevander’s heart.
“Why would it be?” Nevander asks. “We’re barely a hundred years apart in age.”
Gods’ spiteful humor. Seren will need a hundred years to get used to fae timelines.
“I accepted with pride,” Nevander says, his words deceptively light. “I was new to the royal guard, elated that my talent was recognized so quickly. Then, mere days after I pledged to protect you, Haelwen hid you with the changeling spell. And I couldn’t fulfill my vow.”
His hand trembles against Seren’s arm.
Seren doesn’t understand. He wants to. He has to. “What does that mean?”
“Have you ever broken a promise?” Nevander asks.
Seren sits up, unable to lie still yet unable to leave Nevander’s side. He’s never broken a promise—the pain of trying was too nauseating. Like hammering iron into his heart.
“But that wasn’t your fault,” Seren says, as if logic can erase the truth. “That isn’t fair.”
Nevander sits with him, a hand sliding behind his neck. “According to human notions of fairness, perhaps. The pain wasn’t always as sharp as you’re imagining. It… settled.”
Seren takes comfort in Nevander’s scent. Leather, blood, honeysuckle. He can’t imagine two decades of agony. Pain so constant it becomes part of the body. “Could Haelwen not release you?”
Nevander’s touch falters, then steadies. “She refused, and I’m glad of that.” A kiss warms Seren’s forehead. “I’m glad my vow waited, ready for the moment of our reunion. I’m glad I thought of you every day and every year.”
Each dizzying truth shakes Seren to the core. He feels unworthy of such devotion, and all he can say is everything. “Nevander.”
“I waited out of duty,” Nevander says, intent. “But you’re more than a duty to me now.” He brushes Seren’s hair back. Like he doesn’t want his hesitation to be mistaken for distance. “Do you still want to escape the throne?”
It’s not an offer.
It’s not a refusal, either.
Seren steals a kiss. Soft, sweet, necessary.
He doesn’t know what to do with Nevander’s adoration.
What it truly means. He’s sure of one thing, though.
“Escaping would be easier, but I want this troublesome throne now. I want to find Briar and avenge Zavriel. And to do that, I need power. I need to matter.”
“I should be glad of that,” Nevander says. “Summer needs your strength and kindness. Yet shamefully, I dream of keeping you for myself.”
“You can,” Seren says, pushing Nevander back to the furs. “For the next two hours.”
Dust spins in the rainbows overhead. Two hours turn into three, then more.
Dawn whispers across Spiritwood before Nevander whisks Seren home.
Seren isn’t sure which is strangest, or most welcome. The morning kiss lingering on his lips, or the fact that striding through the palace doors does feel like a homecoming. Sentinel trees, waterfalls, and invisible wards seem to chime in greeting, as if Seren belongs.
Being a stranger might be easier. Half a dozen guards and servants are posted in the cavernous entry hall, and Seren resists fiddling with his silk shirt.
Surely passersby can tell what Seren’s done.
Kisses must glow like stars on Seren’s skin.
Yesterday’s clothes must tell a story clearer than any bard.
But the only true signs of yesterday’s events are the holes in Nevander’s armor. He wears fresh clothes beneath, but the leather cuirass is too large to fit in his carryhold.
Ritekeeper Jasper rushes to greet them, more flustered than Seren has seen them. “Bright morning, Your Highness. I hope your travels were fruitful.”
If those words hide criticism, Seren doesn’t care to find it. “What’s wrong, Ritekeeper?”
Jasper bows, their patchwork robe shimmering. “I wouldn’t say anything is wrong. Lady Morana and Lord Gevain have been bickering. Young Tansy has been reading books.” Jasper glances at Nevander. “Lady Lysandra awaits in the Garden of Rites.”
“When did Lysandra arrive?” Nevander asks, perfectly calm.
“Last night,” Jasper says, wincing.
Lysandra is the royal artificer, Seren recalls. She’s the one who can repair the Summer Crown. And by Jasper’s unease, she isn’t someone to be trifled with.
Nevander simply says, “Waiting is good for her.”
Seren’s focus falls elsewhere. “Where is Tansy? Is he hurt?”
“Tansy isn’t hurt. He’s just… Well, it’s fixable.” Jasper adjusts their robe and restores their serene expression. “You’ll find him in the Court of Hours, on the way to the garden. I should run ahead.”