Page 62

THREE MONTHS LATER

W hat does fell-ah-tee-oh mean?”

Emery poked his head out from the kitchen. “That isn’t a word.”

Ambrose held up the book he’d been reading. “Yes, it is.”

“Spell it for me.”

Ambrose did and Emery made a noise halfway between a snort and a guffaw. He laughed a lot more lately.

“Fellatio,” Emery said. “Fuh-lay-shee-oh.”

“That sounds nothing like how it’s spelled. What does it mean?”

Emery raised his eyebrows. “Would have thought the context might give that away.”

Ambrose read the sentence to him aloud. “ Afternoon tea with Bigglesby was about as tempting a scenario as fellatio from a shark .”

Emery frowned. “All right, I understand your confusion.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Fellatio is what you were doing with my dick last night.”

Ambrose’s mouth formed an “oh” of comprehension. “I see. Bigglesby sounds like torturous company.”

At that moment, his stomach growled.

Emery said, “Come torture my company instead. I’m making pumpkin-spiced cinnamon buns this time, and I’m about to gut the pumpkin.

” Emery hadn’t forgotten his promise to let Ambrose try those cinnamon buns from the charity bake sale, and had endeavored—since their newfound freedom—to introduce Ambrose to as many new books and baked g oods as he could find.

It was, in the wake of what had happened, therapeutic to indulge themselves in simple pleasures.

To cover up the death of her father, Hellebore had insisted upon burning his remains along with the witch king’s and sealing the tomb permanently. She’d then set fire to her family home.

It was quite simple, given the tithes and taboo spell tomes of Morcant’s laboratory, to make the whole thing look like an accident.

Morcant’s remains were never recovered, but others were.

People who’d gone missing over the course of his three years at Bellgrave.

His mother’s trapped spirit. School faculty were eager to deny all knowledge, and his death was ruled an accident or misadventure, but the pall of what he’d done still lingered.

Most of all in the hearts of those he’d hurt.

Three months had passed since then.

They still heard from Saoirse every now and again, but aside from her and Hellebore, the other initiates had carried on with their lives alone. It was better that way. They reminded each other too much of a time they’d rather forget.

Ambrose only felt the collar’s choke in his nightmares.

Emery would wake him and stroke fingers through his hair until he fell asleep again.

For his part, Emery didn’t suffer in his sleep, but little things would put him ill at ease.

A particular gait of footsteps in the school halls, the vibration of his mobile phone, or the receipt of a spontaneous gift.

But one evening while reading by the fire, he’d tipped his head back against Ambrose’s shoulder and said that he’d never felt so safe before.

Ambrose, in spite of all his newly acquired vocabulary, still had no words to convey how it felt knowing his presence provided security and comfort rather than intimidation or danger.

He had not heard the witch king’s voice in months, and some days could not remember what it sounded like.

“This is the best bit,” Emery said, rolling the pumpkin toward Ambrose on the table. He’d carved a hole in the top and, tugging the stem, revealed the long strings of pumpkin innards with seeds tangled throughout. “Some people use a spoon, but I prefer to get my hands dirty.”

He reached in and pulled out a squelching fistful of pumpkin guts, dumping them into a bowl. “I’ll need to separate the seeds out from the pulp. Do you want to have a go, or would you prefer seed picking?”

Wrinkling his nose, Ambrose reached into the pumpkin’s innards and dug his fingers into the pulpy mass. He pulled out a slimy, stringy lump that smelled very uniquely of vegetable.

“Hopefully not too much like ripping hearts out,” Emery said.

Ambrose flicked a pumpkin seed at Emery. “No. It’s far too cold.”

“I never did thank you,” Emery said. “For taking care of my heart, rather than ripping it out.”

Ambrose drew him close, getting orange smears of pumpkin on his apron. “I don’t need your gratitude for that.”

“Well, I appreciate it anyway,” Emery said, allowing himself to be drawn in for a soft kiss, familiar as coming home. “It would be harder to love you without it.”

Ambrose kissed him harder.

Months ago, Emery had planned an elaborate evening where he’d cooked a roast, opened a bottle of wine, and then—quite awkwardly and abruptly—told Ambrose he was falling in love with him.

What followed afterward was an anxious, rambling monologue about how if Ambrose didn’t feel the same, he understood, and that he’d tried to rein in his feelings for fear he was moving too fast. In the end, Ambrose had kissed him quiet and explained rather bluntly that he thought it could already be taken for granted—after he’d forsaken his oath, his lover, his king and helped Emery kill his enemy—that he loved Emery, too.

Though he hadn’t felt the stomach-gnawing hunger of the witch king’s magic in months, he did feel a different sort when Emery rose up on his toes to deepen their kiss.

He broke away when Ambrose’s hands wandered, saying, “Later! We have buns to bake.”

Ambrose raised his eyebrows. He’d recently been made aware that “buns” could be used as a euphemism for buttocks.

“Teaching you modern slang was a mistake,” Emery said.

They managed to mix and knead the dough, slather the batter in pumpkin-spiced sugar, and roll them into perfect spirals with only minimal sex jokes and interludes for kissing.

While the buns proofed, they read together, had dinner, and headed to bed with the taunt of the buns they couldn’t bake until tomorrow following them.

Since they couldn’t give in to the temptation of eating them, they gave into the temptation of each other instead.

As the night grew heated, and clothing more scarce, Emery said, “Wait. I have something for you.”

Ambrose nudged Emery’s cock with his thigh. “I noticed.”

Emery slapped him playfully. “Pervert. Actually, never mind, that’s quite … astute of you. Hold on.”

Emery opened the bedside cabinet, removing a gift bag tied shut with a purple ribbon and decorated with—

“Is that pattern floral or phallic?”

“Yes.”

Ambrose stared.

“Open it!”

Ambrose adjusted his position leaning back against the pillows to untie the ribbon. From inside, he pulled a crystal potion bottle shaped like a cut jewel and filled with an iridescent fuchsia liquid.

Ambrose raised his eyebrows and popped the cork to drink it, but Emery slapped a hand over the opening. “You’re not even going to read the label or ask me what it does?”

Ambrose shrugged. In the passionate context of their bedroom, he’d forgotten he could read. “I trust you.”

Emery flushed. “That’s—lovely, actually. But before you drink it, read the label.”

The label on one face of the potion had been written in Emery’s familiar curving letters. As Ambrose’s eyes crept along each line, they widened with comprehension.

He and Emery had discussed this before—if there was magic that could change his body a step further.

Emery affirmed that there was, but it was the sort of spellcraft he’d like to be very careful about, and the ones he knew of only effected temporary change.

Ambrose once feared he’d like the results too much to go back to the way he’d been, but after months of sex with the body he had, he felt quite sure he’d be satisfied either way.

“This will only last a day,” Emery said.

“But I’ve been working on it, and I thought—I don’t know if it’s possible yet, and you can tell me if you hate the idea, but I wondered if we could adapt the old magic that affected you before and use it for something better.

Instead of a tithe of hunger, maybe it could be one of …

fulfilment. Wholeness. The kind you find by being yourself. ”

Ambrose ran a finger over the edges of the potion bottle, emotion welling inside of him.

“Sorry if that’s too cheesy,” Emery said.

Ambrose swept Emery’s hair back from his face and kissed him. Then he tipped the potion bottle to his lips, drained the sweet brew, and went back to kissing Emery again as the magic took effect.

His skin was still marked by runes and scars, but every kiss turned his dark memories into the faded marks of a letter gone illegible with age.

Emery had said the type of spell he’d suggested might not work. They might have to work years to perfect it. He marveled that something as awful as that old, hungry hex could be turned toward a kinder purpose.

Emery was under him, hard and waiting after being prepared by Ambrose’s fingers and tongue. And then Ambrose was inside him, seeing stars, and he had to reflect, as they kissed, tasted and devoured one another, that not all hunger was awful.

Come morning, they rose early to check on the buns, which had risen enormously in the baking tray.

After pouring cream between the crevices, they put it in the oven and drank tea on the sofa.

The aroma filled their home. The scent would forever be associated with Emery warming his cold feet by shoving them under Ambrose’s arse.

The oven dinged, and Ambrose’s newfound affinity for sex jokes continued as Emery basted the buns with dollops of icing, which looked—well. Ambrose made a rude gesture to imply they could home brew that sort of thing.

The smell was mouthwatering but didn’t compare to the taste of that first bite. Ambrose had to close his eyes, the soft, doughy pastry oozing icing sugar down his lip. The peculiar blend of pumpkin and spices reminded him of a warm hug.

Emery had taken a bite, too, and looked pleased with the result, but he seemed to derive more delight from watching Ambrose discover a new thing to crave.

For all their cravings, Ambrose didn’t think they’d ever go hungry again.

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