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W ith the witch king’s magic still simmering in Ambrose’s blood, they returned to the grimoire for answers.

“Morcant said it had something to do with hunger,” Emery said, skimming through pages at an enviable speed.

“And something we said to each other in that crypt gave him the key to what it all meant. Here!” He read aloud from a journal entry, his frown deepening as he did.

“ I have thought long about the sort of spells which might last more than a lifetime. What kind of magic has the power to endure? I was reminded of a poem I read from a mad bard’s tale of a wolf who devoured her pups to stave off starvation during a long winter:

The Perfect Hunter

I watched a she-wolf sup on her pups

Winter killed her prey with cold so

She ate each one in a bite

small and milk-starved,

Starved.

Winter

a better predator than

wolves, but still it

cowers to spring.

What hunts the hunter?

It is hunger, hunger

That hunts, haunts the hunter

None of us ever stop being

hungry

for long. ”

Emery stopped, brows drawn together. “Most of the hexes Morcant placed on me soured my appetite or made it impossible to eat. Things that starved me in some way. I wonder if he was experimenting with the power of hunger the witch king speaks of here. Did the witch king do anything like that to you?”

Ambrose shook his head. He’d never been denied meals. He needed to be fit for battle at any moment.

“None of Morcant’s hexes did what he wanted,” Emery said. “Still, if hunger is the tithe powering the witch king’s connection to you, and his immortality, maybe satiety is the only thing that can dispel it. So what if I … feed you?”

“Feed me?”

“Yeah, like, cook food for you.”

“We’ve eaten together before.”

“Mostly takeaways because we have so little time. And I’ve never fed you …

by hand? I don’t know, old magic is strange!

It doesn’t operate by the normal rules of standard tithes.

I wonder if the spell is fed rather than starved, it will undo this …

hunger hex.” He flushed and couldn’t meet Ambrose’s eyes.

“Sounds stupid, now I’ve said it out loud. It wouldn’t be that simple.”

Ambrose shared the sentiment. As they’d talked, as he’d considered all the pain they’d been put through and what they faced, he’d come to an unpleasant conclusion.

While they still had several leads concerning Morcant’s immortality—the second half of the ritual, the grimoire, the things they’d seen in Morcant’s home—Ambrose’s circumstances had always felt inescapable, because the witch king’s power had always been tied to Ambrose.

So it stood to reason that to destroy one, you had to destroy the other.

He didn’t know if it was because he’d already died once, or because his loyalty no longer had anyplace else to go, but he’d already committed to saving Emery over himself.

With the magic still chewing through him, he couldn’t bring himself to believe the witch king was truly dead. Perhaps the only way to kill him was the one that had worked right up until the moment of Ambrose’s resurrection: burying them both in a warded coffin.

He didn’t say so. It seemed cruel to taint their progress with his cynicism. “We have to eat anyway. It’s worth a try.”

Emery had what they needed delivered. It was a strange reversal of the usual shopping ingredients—tithes of inedible dried animal and plant parts ground by pestle and mortar into boiling cauldrons—but it had a similar air of spellcraft to it as Emery stuffed bulbs of garlic and lemon wedges into a chicken with sprigs of rosemary in the roasting pan.

“Nothing fills you up properly like a roast,” Emery said.

“Can I do anything to help?” Ambrose asked.

“No, no. Eating and being fed are two separate things. And anyway … I used to like cooking. Especially for someone else.” His cheeks flushed.

“It’s different when you’re sharing a meal.

There are studies on the potency of potions, and the ones you buy at a shop are never as effective as something handcrafted for you personally. ”

Ambrose hadn’t known that, but he thought of the hormone potions Emery brewed for him, and something crackled in his heart like sparks from a fire.

There were advantages to watching Emery cook rather than participating—while he peeled parsnips and chopped potatoes, Ambrose could admire him unobserved.

Perhaps, when he learned his letters properly and could write without the hindrance of amateur skill, he would compose poetry about the depths of Emery’s eyes, or the way his silvering hair looked like ribbons of witch light, or the constellation of moles on his tan skin.

He felt like a thief, capturing Emery’s image in his mind and stealing it away in his heart.

As things stood, he couldn’t come up with an adequate comparison to his favorite feature: Emery’s profile.

The steep slope of his forehead led to the proud arch of his nose.

It reminded him of a raven or a hawk. He’d felt that nose buried in the crook of his neck when they’d embraced earlier.

An embrace he hadn’t expected or deserved after the things he’d hidden from Emery.

Yet Emery had understood.

Sometimes it seemed as though he understood Ambrose’s relationship to the witch king better than Ambrose himself.

It took two hours, then the table was set and Emery carved a drumstick onto Ambrose’s plate. He’d made some sort of pastry cup in a muffin tin in the oven, which he piled a little of everything into. Chicken, mashed potato, bits of parsnip and carrot, a glossing of gravy.

Emery scooted his chair closer to Ambrose, holding up this edible cup containing elements of the entire roast feast. “In hindsight, I could have chosen something less messy, but we’re committed now.”

He held it to Ambrose’s lips for him to take a bite.

He had not exaggerated—there were far more graceful things he could have chosen.

A strawberry, a chocolate dessert, one of those frozen lollies he’d dug out of the back of the freezer.

(Literally dug. It had been frozen to the wall and required a butter-knife-turned-ice-pick to unearth.)

As Ambrose took a bite of the roast confection, he couldn’t bring himself to care how messy it was. It tasted amazing—hearty and filled with flavor. The citrusy garlic of the chicken skin and the buttery mash mixed with the honey-glazed vegetables in an enchantment of tastes.

Emery laughed, and Ambrose chuckled, too, not caring that he probably looked undignified with gravy dripping down his chin.

Emery used his thumb to wipe it and sucked the digit clean.

Ambrose’s laughter dimmed, his gaze glued to Emery’s lips wrapped around his thumb, not unlike the way they wrapped around his words.

Emery realized the effect he’d had. It struck fear in Ambrose’s heart to be so unmasked in the desires he kept trying to suppress.

But did he have to suppress them any longer? The spell leashing him might still live, but Ambrose’s loyalty to the witch king was as dead as the bones that had been rotting in Emery’s cellar.

Emery leaned closer. His thumb, still shiny and wet, traced Ambrose’s lower lip rather than his chin. “Is this okay?”

The witch king’s magic was still a ravenous flood. He shouldn’t risk this sort of intimacy if he could still be a danger to Emery.

What’s more, their enemies were cruel, but it would be crueler still to lead Emery into a romance doomed to end whenever they finally came to the conclusion that the only way to kill the witch king was to kill Ambrose, too.

Emery waited for an answer, his gaze tender. Ambrose held his breath and resisted begging. He wanted this. He shouldn’t surrender to it, but he’d waited so long to be wanted back that Emery’s thumb parting his lips broke his resolve.

He gave the barest nod.

Emery leaned in, but their lips didn’t meet. The kiss hovered between them.

“Okay?” Emery asked again.

This nod could be felt in the bump of their noses together. Then Emery’s smiling lips finally met his.

They first connected clumsily, but in that fumbled moment, Emery reached up and guided him with a gentle hand at the hinge of his jaw, and his mouth opened up, and the taste of Emery did not compare with any of the flavors this new world had taught him.

He made a noise. Muffled. Keening. He’d tried to keep it low and disguised but couldn’t.

He pushed closer. Kissed harder, sucking on Emery’s lower lip.

The chair legs snarled across the tile floor as Emery moved from his seat to Ambrose’s lap.

The heat and weight of him filled Ambrose’s throat with so much passion he thought he’d choke on it.

His heart had beat anew upon his resurrection, but this was the first he’d felt alive.

The witch king had only ever kissed a brand of control and possession into his skin.

It had been devouring in a way that made Ambrose feel consumable.

It did not compare to the feeling of Emery’s mouth coaxing his to open, or Emery’s thumb hitched under the hem of his shirt, or Emery’s hard cock against his hip.

A buried voice protested and scraped like fingernails at the insides of his skull.

Not the witch king’s. Ambrose’s own. You aren’t going to survive this .

He thought he’d understood starvation, but he’d suffered it so long that the gnawing of his insides had become background noise. Now the ache was fresh.

It awakened the unsavory thought that this kiss was only his second, but it could also be his last.

So he made it last.

Emery’s body went pliant, his kissing shyly hungry. All his carefully hidden nerves couldn’t be concealed because, with their chests pressed together, Ambrose could feel him shivering. All those desires surfaced in the quiet plea of a stifled moan, a tongue sweeping between Ambrose’s lips.

And the ravenous, devouring hunger sheathed its claws and was briefly, blissfully quiet.