Page 121 of Goldilocks
Roan gestured to a servant waiting by the doorway, and she nodded, scuttling away to fetch their food. He sat at Sam’s side. The table was filled with books: Vi’s books on magic runes and sketchbooks that he recognised as having come from Ivan’s hand.
“Dad doesn’t want to bring any here,” Eric said. “He thinks they’d be confused to suddenly be in a new place without any idea of how they got there.”
“Well,” Sam said, “he’s not wrong.” He studied the surrounding fauna. “Though I’m pretty sure they’d live much longer here than anywhere else. What are you doing with those?”
“Debating,” Ivan said. “Apparently” – he gestured to Vi’s book – “these are drawn onto people. This one helps you sleep, this one makes you stronger, this one helps you pick up languages very fast. I drew it onto my arm with pen, and I swear it worked until it got smeared. So, we were wondering what would happen if you tattoo these onto your skin?”
Sam hummed, seeming interested. Roan reached beneath the table and rested his hand on his thigh, and Sam cast him a little sideways smile. “You know,” Sam said matter-of-factly, “the magic doesn’t just come from nowhere. It comes from the world around you, so you have to know how to function as a conduit. If you could just draw a picture and nothing else, everyone would do it.”
Sam gave Ivan a look that said‘I can’t believe you’re so dumb, and I have to explain this’.
Roan did not point out that he’d explained the same concept to Sam only moments ago.
Ivan straightened in his chair, eyes suddenly bright. “I didn’t say anything about expecting it to work with just a tattoo alone,” he replied. He never backed down from a challenge.
Sam did ahmmthat sounded like‘You’re just so dumb’.
“I’m not doing anything. Why are you throwing attitude at me the second you sit down?” Ivan demanded hotly.
“I literally didn’t say anything. Not one word,” Sam replied.
Ivan leaned away from Sam, tilted back his head and covered his face with both hands and groaned. Sam’s cheeks twitched in his effort not to smile. Soundlessly, he slid his drink across to Eric and gestured for him to taste it.
Eric lifted the thermos with a frown. “You don’t like it?” he asked. “I used that pink fruit you always eat. What was it called again?”
“Lir,” Ivan told him through his hands. And his head jerked to Eric too late as he sipped the drink.
Eric’s face muddled in confusion, and then realisation. His gaze slid to Ivan. “Did you put rum in this?” he asked.
Ivan’s expression went through many changes, and eventually it flattened out. His gaze slid to Sam. Sam stoically stared right back at him. “You,” Ivan said, “are a certified brat.”
“You should have mixed it with Malibu,” Sam said, deadpan. “Lir’s too sweet for dark rum. It clashes.”
Ivan appeared to count to a certain number in his head before answering. His irritation smoothed out and he stood. The smile he directed at Sam was so genuine that any onlooker would be easily persuaded of its warmth. “I’ll go get some now,” he promised. He squeezed Eric’s shoulder as he departed, and the moment his back was to them and he was strolling away – not marching, not stalking – strolling, he was cursing under his breath about how spoiled redheads came in pairs.
Roan did not mind the remarks, as he knew Sam enjoyed baiting Ivan, and he could easily tell that there was no real rancour in Ivan’s words.
“Sam,” Eric said.
“Eric.”
“Do you always have to wind him up?”
Sam considered the question for a long time. “Yeah.”
Eric’s fingers knit together. “Ivan’s mom died when he was young, and his dad wasn’t good to him. I know he said a lot of things that made you angry, but I’d like it if you could forgive him for it. He only wanted to protect me, and you as well.”
Eric was, once again, misreading Sam. Roan did not judge him for it, as he, too, had spent months learning that Sam’s words and outward demeanour very rarely matched what he felt inside. His mate didn’t like showing any vulnerability, so Roan had learned to listen to far more than just his words to know what he was truly feeling.
Sam’s smile faded. He studied his brother at length, then moved in, resting his arm on the table and tapping Eric’s wrung-out fingers. “I forgave him already,” Sam said. “Weeks ago. I forgave him the second he got in the car with me, ready to go to war to keep you safe.” And Sam meant every word. If Sam didn’t like Ivan, he wouldn’t waste a breath on him, and Sam, without fail, found something to needle Ivan about whenever they crossed paths.
Relief filled Eric’s eyes as he met Sam’s gaze. “Really?”
“Really. I’m glad you’ve got someone like him looking out for you,” Sam said. His expression lightened as he leaned back in his chair again. He smiled. “But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s fun to wind him up. Is the parlour ready to go?” Sam changed the subject so Eric wouldn’t argue with him anymore.
Eric sighed, though he looked relieved. Unlike Sam, Eric expressed when something bothered him. His openness clashed with Sam’s reservation, though Roan thought the clash healthy. He had often clashed with Belle too, but it was only fondness that he felt when he considered their old fights.
“Yes, almost,” Eric said. “We can open next week, as long as we pass inspections, which we will. We know what we’re doing. What about you? What are you planning? Not that there’s any pressure to come up with anything right away or anything,” Eric added quickly.