Page 5 of A Heaven to Reach For (Infinite Grace #1)

IT only grew worse from there.

Dahl kissed Maschi twice, apparently deciding that he needed to do better than the first. Steph appeared, seemingly just to press a quick, embarrassed peck to Maschi’s cheek.

Denys was nearly as slow and torturous as Aubrey had been.

By the time Bartlemeo was done, ostentatiously urging Maschi back and cupping his cheek to kiss him breathless, the people around them had learned to silence their complaints or face two or three united, implacable guardsmen.

Wolfe was the real danger. Of course, it was Wolfe, who, without a trace of drunkenness as an excuse, swept his tongue into Maschi’s mouth until Maschi made a small, startled, hungry sound that carried to Owin’s table where Owin still sat like a stone, unwanted, and Dahl sank his teeth into his bottom lip but could not contain his whimper.

Those in the crowd not appalled or disgusted began to cheer, banging cups for drums, or shaking whatever bells they wore to show their approval.

Red and yellow sparks flew up into the air around the two of them, like traces from a bonfire. Owin surged to his feet at last while everyone’s attention was elsewhere.

Inside the pub, it was dark but for candlelight, and there was not a spark to be seen.

Owin ordered wine and drank it, and thought it nearly the same color as Maschi’s kiss-swollen lips.

What an experiment for their studious mage.

What a way for him to discover he was wanted, and to realize how much the others cared for him.

As for Owin, they were barely friends. The little priest had said it himself.

The others were the ones Maschi felt closer to, and they would treat him well without Owin there to witness it.

Owin would stay inside, drink his fill despite his early morning, and find someone else with blue on their lips and no flowers behind their ear or in their hair.

That was a sensible, reasonable plan for a melancholy giant with an ache in his chest. Owin had never expected more, after all, and Ara was a day for beginnings. The rest he could deal with tomorrow when the ache was also in his head and he would be nicely distracted by it.

OWIN consumed a small bottle of a decent wine, and an even smaller bottle of something cheaper, and then tea, because Madame Carel clucked her tongue at him for his unusual frowns.

Some of the other guards came in and went back out, but did not seem to notice Owin at his lonely table, despite his size.

The servers passed to and fro around him, often as drunk as the customers, and it took Owin a while to notice the chains of tiny blue flowers some of them wore pinned in their hair, and which others kept in their apron pockets to hand out to anyone interested.

None of the guards had bothered with that, not even Margaret, who might have gotten away with it without much teasing.

But it would be a good thing for Maschi, Owin could not help but think.

Maschi, who was no fit priest, and should have family with him, and someone to keep his mouth soft and to draw more hungry moans from him and hold him back when his honest words grew too sharp.

He should wear a bloom or two in his ruffled, short hair, or tucked into his cowl, if he kept that aspect of his vocation.

Someone should see them there and answer his request, and take the little mage somewhere nicer than an alley or behind a tree.

Someone should take him to their home and keep him there.

Owin would have rested his forehead against the tabletop if he hadn’t been so much higher than the table and could bend comfortably that way.

He slouched in his chair instead, determined not to go back outside until it was safe to do so, and was asking for brandy to put in his tea when a slender, soft-about-the-middle fellow with the stained hands of a dye merchant sat next to him and rested a hand on the band of blue around Owin’s thigh.

Friendly and large was more than enough for some.

THE merchant, if he was one, pulled Owin to him before they were even out of the pub, asking to be pinned against the doorway and moaning before Owin had done more than press him still with his hips and his hands and exhale heavily beneath his ear.

“Not here,” Owin murmured, not nearly drunk enough to pretend he was elsewhere, that his friends might not still be outside.

He took the man’s hand to ensure he followed, and let him believe whatever he would; that Owin was shy, or concerned with what others might think.

Some caution, even on Ara after the sun was down, was always wise, and he might have agreed for that reason.

Owin didn’t particularly care which, except to wish for someone less obedient, which was unfair of him as well as impossible, and he swept them out of the pub almost recklessly before noticing that the tables out front were empty.

He stopped, inexplicably thrown, then realized his mistake a moment later when a slight figure rose from the chair Denys had used.

The figure swayed, though staggered was a better word, and dropped a cup to the ground that rolled into the shadowed places where the light from the lanterns did not reach.

Maschi’s cowl was rumpled and pulled loose around his throat.

His lips remained dark. His hair was a mess of soft waves and a small, thin chain of aras flowers, which hung crookedly from his crown and had been partly tucked behind one ear.

One of the blooms must have been crushed during the act, leaving a smudge of blue across his cheekbone.

His eyes were round and fixed on Owin for as long as it took Owin to catch his breath, which had rushed from him at the moment he had recognized those fragile blue petals.

All the softness of Maschi’s mouth was counterbalanced by the severity of his frown, his displeasure like something from that book the priests read so much.

He staggered again, as though a weight pulled him to one side, and Owin half-expected to see a sword in Maschi’s hand based on nothing more than the pain in his expression.

But not even sparks rose up from him to challenge the lantern-light.

It was the second cup falling from Maschi’s other hand that returned some of Owin’s senses. The little priest—or not, not with those flowers nearly caressing his neck—was unsteady, and he seemed to tremble, though drinkers were usually hot, not cold.

Owin stepped forward to steady him and ask about the others—why they had left him there, why he had been drinking, why he had not continued to learn about kisses—or to take him home and put him to bed and to never speak of it, but Maschi moved his gaze beyond Owin to the man behind him.

Maschi’s chin came up and he swayed once more, catching himself in time to prevent another stumble.

Always with Maschi, words appeared on Owin’s tongue that he could not say. He had done nothing to apologize for, except to find Maschi even more of a temptation as he was, painted and furious and soft.

Then Maschi dropped his shoulders. “I see,” he said quietly, perhaps not even to Owin at all, and pushed out a breath before turning around.

That nearly made him stumble, too.

None of their friends darted out to help him.

Owin clenched his jaw as he vainly searched the shadows for another guard.

But they were too busy drinking or fucking to help the little mage they had left alone with wine and a chain of aras blooms in his hair as if inviting someone to scoop him up and do what they would with him.

Which was a ridiculous thought. Of all of them, Maschi was possibly the most dangerous, and few would approach, much less harm, a priest, especially not one under the aegis of the Duke himself.

Maschi was an adult, if small, and if he fell into a ditch to sleep off his wine, he would be sorer but wiser for it.

He was Owin’s friend, but not a close one.

It was not Owin’s place to fuss over his wellbeing where he might be caught doing so.

“I have to go,” Owin told the merchant anyway, already slipping his hand free. “Sorry.”

The village after the sun had set on the day of Ara was a different place. There was still music and laughter and heavy breathing, but it was far away. Lanterns illuminated the streets yet left other spaces dark and private, and the tinkling of bells was rarer now, with hands otherwise occupied.

Maschi was not difficult to find, weaving clumsily between closed market stalls, his hands clenched at the sides of his black tunic. Owin kept his distance until Maschi’s foot caught on a stone, then he reached out and took his arm, stepping beside him a moment later.

Maschi glared upward, then lost his footing entirely, crashing, solid and warm, into Owin’s side.

“Owin?” he breathed in disbelief, and left it to Owin to get him back on his feet and facing the right direction.

He curled his hand, which was surprisingly colder than the rest of him, into Owin’s tabard, then snatched it back once he noticed. “I am taking you from someone.”

Lantern-light was not enough to try to read Maschi’s expression, and Owin could not tell his mood from his chilly tone. If that would even be possible; a Maschi full of wine was going to be a new experience for the both of them.

Owin side-stepped a direct response. “I should go to bed. Get some rest, as you said. I had long days before this and I have an early rise tomorrow.” He did not think his tumble would have brought him much happiness as it was, and he would have had to walk home all the same.

“I can return with you. See to it that you don’t decide to sleep in the mud somewhere, or in a pile of straw.

” He paused. “That is a small jest. Too much to drink makes us all long for sleep.”