Page 67

Reggie twisted his wrist viciously, and Connor finally let go. “Yes, I’m bloody upset, and you should be, too!” Barefoot, naked save his trousers, he got up from the bedroll and went to the table to pour more wine. The table where Connor had flipped him over onto his back –wanted to see you– and fucked him into oblivion. His hand shook, and he spilled wine on the wooden surface. Swiped his friend hand through it as he brought his cup to his lips again and drank deep.

“Hey.” Connor got up with a wince and a curse, doubtless as sore as Reggie was from the day’s sparring match, in which they’d pushed harder and for longer than they should, enjoying the banter, the crash of steel, the sight of the other sweat-soaked and coming undone. It had been a fun afternoon, a good one.

And then Amelia had spotted them, and Reggie had worried his way all through the council meeting, and now here he was, nothing but a nameless, faceless tryst to the man he’d bared all his vulnerabilities to.

“Hey,” Connor repeated, beside him now, heat emanating off his bare chest, and snatched his cup away.

“Hey!” Reggie echoed, reaching for it, wiping the wine off his chin with the back of his hand.

Connor held the cup away with one hand, and pressed on his chest with the other, expression troubled. “Do you want to get drunk? Or do you want to talk to me?”

“I want you to stop pretending to be the more measured, responsible one of the two of us. And I want to get drunk.”

Connor’s frown deepened, pulling at the sun lines that framed his dark eyes. “Too bad,” he said, turned, and poured the wine out on a strip of grass and dirt not overed by rugs.

“Youbastard.” Reggie lunged for the cup, jostling Connor back against the central tent pole, which wobbled. The canopy rippled above them.

Connor growled a curse, threw down the cup, and caught Reggie by both wrists. “Stop it,” he barked, and the command reached right into Reggie’s brain and pressed on a tender spot. An old, badly-scarred-over wound, still oozing.

Stop. Lie still, Aquitainian slut. Shut up. Stop it.

Whatever his face did, Connor released him immediately.

Reggie turned around and pressed his hands to his face, willing back the heat in his cheeks, wishing away the oily taint of memory that had spilled inside his head, and turned his limbs to water. He breathed, in and out, in and out.

He wasn’t there. He’d gotten away. And maybe he wasn’t where hewantedto be, but he was safe, essentially. Nothing he’d done in this tent had been against his will.

“Reggie.” Connor’s voice had changed, shifted into a low, concerned register that left Reggie shivering, and shaking his head. “Reg,” he repeated, even softer, and slipped arms around him from behind, one across his waist, one across his chest, palms warm and grounding.

Reggie didn’t want to sag back against the heat and strength of his chest, not when he was only a fuck and nothing more, not when he was embarrassed, and ashamed, and worried, but his body had other ideas. He did sag – and Connor caught him up; pressed flush against him, chest to back, arms tightening, chin hooking over Reggie’s shoulder.

“Talk to me,” he murmured, and kissed the side of his throat, drawing another shiver from him. “What’s going on in that pretty golden head, hm?”

“Don’t – don’t say that.”

“What? That you’re pretty?” Another kiss, this one slow and lingering, right over his scar. “But you are.”

“You don’t mean that,” Reggie said, voice a bare scrape. “Don’t lie to me. Not after…” He bit his lip, and closed his eyes, and willed himself the strength to shake out of his hold and walk away.

Connor’s arms shifted – he was letting go, turning him loose, listening to him, damn it, when all he really wanted was connection, no, no, no – and he gripped Reggie’s upper arms, and urged him to turn around.

Reggie did, stomach leaping with relief, and when he opened his eyes, he found Connor gazing at him with a terribly sad look in his eyes.

He reached to cup Reggie’s face in both hands, a careful touch as though he was afraid he might break him. It burned, that gentleness, and he craved it as much as he wanted to pull back from it. Reggie held still, instead, and Connor traced thumbs over his cheeks, his baby-fine, pale stubble, barely in need of shaving each morning.

In a soft voice, barely loud enough to fill the handspan between them, Connor asked, “Who here among this company have you slept with? Anyone but me?”

Reggie shook his head – and then stilled, not wanting to dislodge the thumbs that continued to pet over him in slow, soothing sweeps.

Understanding showed as a fast twitch of a smile on Connor’s face. “Ah. No one knows, then, that you prefer the company of men.”

Reggie kept silent, and knew the answer was clear in his eyes.

“Are you afraid of what they’ll think?” Connor asked, and his head tilted, and his gaze was far too knowing. “Or are you afraid of what I think of you?”

There was no way to answer that without damning himself. Flat denial of any sort of care would sound like the lie it was. And admission would only make him weaker in Connor’s eyes.

He tried to step back, and Connor’s hands dropped to his shoulders, squeezing. Entreating squeezes, rather than commanding ones, and so Reggie submitted to them, and blinked the sting of impending tears from his eyes.