Page 12

In the days following his and Everild’s newfound intimacy, Camdyn still rose for prayers at the break of dawn as usual. He spent half an hour kneeling in the chapel, hands clasped together, thanking God for the path that They had set him upon. For all his fond memories of the monastery and his love of Cenric, Camdyn was acutely aware that he would have made a terrible cleric—his impatience, his fidgeting, his constant chatter and questions, and his tendency to run off with the younger male visitors, even if it had been out of more honest curiosity than lust. And though he still missed the monastery terribly and waited for word from Cenric, now, as a young husband to a great lord, he could be more involved in the community, in the people’s lives and their needs. With all resources now available to him, he could help them. It was a wonderful thing—praise God for Their wisdom.

And thanks be to Them for the love and care They had shown him in giving him Everild. His husband was so kind, so sweet, so handsome, and Camdyn adored him more and more every day.

Their first time together in bed had prompted a very welcome change in their morning routine. Now, after his prayers were over, Camdyn rushed back to their bedchamber, where his husband would be awake but not dressed, and they spent the early morning hours kissing and rubbing against one another. He would never get enough of Everild’s hands roving over his body, so deliciously rough and yet so gentle with him, so careful, nor would he ever have grown tired of his husband's lips upon his or his mouth around his member.

And—a blush crept onto his face—these were such salacious thoughts, here in the sanctity of the chapel—and he liked it when Everild came. So far, he thought he liked it best when his husband straddled him and took himself in his hand. He could watch the desperate pleasure on Everild’s face as he stroked himself, red-faced and panting, until he spilled, hot and sticky, all over Camdyn’s chest and stomach and thighs.

Only after Everild cleaned the both of them up with a warm towel and they dressed—or, in Camdyn’s case, redressed—did they call for breakfast. A slice of herb and cheese quiche or oatmeal with cinnamon and cooked apples, a small bowl of fruit—ripe blackberries and raspberries, or a shiny pile of dark red pomegranate seeds—and always fresh baked bread accompanied by a pat of rich, creamy, yellow butter. Mint tea with honey was their choice of drink in the morning hours; its flavor was light and refreshing, with the added bonus of being both good for Everild’s throat and more acceptable to his palate than black tea.

And before they left the bedchamber for their routine tasks, there was always a kiss—deep and slow and languid—so that their day began with the lingering taste of each other on their lips.

◆◆◆

There had been no letters from his father, and for that, Camdyn had been incredibly relieved. In his prayers, he had always thanked both of his parents for bringing him into the world, though the gratitude was tempered with the ever-present bitterness toward his father. He thanked his father, of course, for his tireless machinations that had led to his marriage to Everild —a union Camdyn had come to cherish. Yet, alongside that, he thanked God that he hadn’t laid eyes on the man since Everild had forcefully thrown him out of the castle. The idea of his father entering his life again filled him with dread, and Camdyn hoped, with all his heart, that he would live a long, contented life far away from that looming shadow.

As for his sisters, he received regular communication from them, and their letters brought him comfort and warmth. Cera, his younger sister, always took great care in the presentation of her letters, ensuring that each one was perfumed with a delicate floral fragrance that made it feel like a personal touch. Camdyn, with his fine, neat handwriting, had found himself taking over the task of responding to Everild’s correspondence. His husband would dictate his thoughts, and Camdyn, with the utmost care, transcribed them onto the parchment, carefully shaping each word. His sister-in-law, in turn, did the same with Cera’s replies—her own form of communication, which, while sometimes a touch blunt and bordering on tactless, Camdyn had learned to navigate. Everild often grew frustrated with the pretensions of the nobility, but his exasperation rarely translated into more than heavy sighs and the occasional grumble, which Camdyn handled without complaint.

In contrast, his eldest sister, Aoife, was a tempest of emotion. She was quick to see insult in nearly every word, whether it was intended or not. Her replies were always sharp, her responses measured, and her words, more often than not, carried an undertone of reprimand. Camdyn never envied his sister-in-law’s task of tempering Aoife’s aggression. It was a delicate balancing act to ensure that Aoife’s words didn’t spark conflict or worse—a blood feud. Yet, despite the tension, Aoife’s letters were a marvel of refinement. She poured great care into her scented parchment, her elegant penmanship, and the meticulous editing of her wife’s often caustic words. Camdyn admired her ability to maintain composure while still fiercely defending her own, something he had never quite mastered.

The most recent cause for Cera’s fury was the actions of their two brothers, Gibson and Kenelm. Their half-baked scheme to take Camdyn away from Everild had enraged Cera to such an extent that even her beloved wife struggled to paraphrase her wrath. Camdyn had written to her, detailing their brothers’ plans, and the response had come almost immediately. The letter smelled of lavender, a scent so thick it nearly suffocated the words within. The letter was ornate and polished, as always, but filled with Cera’s ire. Her fury was evident in the sharply written words, and as she cursed—almost blasphemously—she assured Camdyn that their brothers would be severely reprimanded for their “monstrous stupidity and grave insult to both your marriage and your husband.” Camdyn had felt a warm glow of comfort as he read, knowing that his sister would stand by him, no matter the cost.

Aoife, too, had shown her support. Her letter had been equally heartfelt, offering comfort and reassurance. She invited him and Everild to visit her and her family anytime, a gesture that meant more than words could convey. Aoife’s gentle invitation was tinged with a hint of humor, as she explained that her husband was prone to becoming flustered when guests arrived without prior notice. Aoife signed the letter “your favorite sister, Aoife,” her official seal accompanying the flourish. Below, at the bottom of the parchment, was a small handprint in ink from Young Aoife, with a simple but heartfelt addendum: “And with love from your favorite niece, as well.” Camdyn had smiled as he read it, a sense of family and connection enveloping him, and the thought of visiting them filled him with longing.

The matter had been thoroughly discussed with Everild. They both knew that, once things settled a bit, they could leave the castle in Aldaay’s capable hands and make their way to Aoife and her family for a visit, before journeying onward to the monastery. It was a trip Camdyn had been eagerly anticipating. In the months since he had left, there had been no word from Cenric, and the silence weighed heavily on him. He could only hope that something—anything—would come of his efforts to reach out to his former friend. Every day, he wrote to him, keeping up the correspondence in hopes of receiving some form of reply.

When Camdyn had still been at his family’s castle, anxiously awaiting his wedding day, his letters had been full of trepidation, laden with fearful thoughts and frequently splotched with tears. But now, his letters were pleasantly mundane—simple variations of his daily routine, his thoughts no longer weighed down by anxiety but rather filled with a certain peace. Each day, he dutifully recounted his breakfast, the books he read in the library, his progress with horse riding (which was improving, though not dramatically), and the meals he had put together in the kitchen under the stern but kind supervision of the cook. He also made detailed notes of the many gifts Everild had given him, though these often seemed far more extravagant than Camdyn ever would have chosen for himself.

The gifts were a generous and steady flow, each thoughtful in its own way. Camdyn had received a proper riding outfit, fine and durable, which would serve him well for years to come. He had been presented with a new hat to keep the sun from his eyes as he worked in the garden, a gift that Everild had clearly thought about, as it was perfectly suited for his outdoor tasks. There had been half a bushel of fresh, shiny apples—red and crisp—ready to be eaten or used in the kitchen, depending on his mood. And, of course, the bouquets—so many bouquets, changing with the seasons, bringing life to their bedchamber. When the flowers wilted, they didn’t go to waste but were either dried into potpourri or used as compost for their garden.

But then there were the jewels. Everild’s gifts were always elegant, yet Camdyn couldn’t shake the feeling that if he gave in, Everild would shower him in jewels beyond reason. The very idea made Camdyn uneasy, for he had no fondness for the ostentatious display of wealth that jewelry often represented. He had no desire to wear diamonds, rubies, or sapphires to flaunt his position. He had, after all, turned down Everild’s repeated offers to adorn him in such lavish items.

“It’d be too much, Everild,” he had said one evening, noticing how his husband’s expression had fallen at the thought. “There’s no need for them, and I’d look silly besides.”

Everild had kissed his hand, his gaze softening with affection. “You’d look beautiful. You always do. But if you really don’t want anything... I can get you whatever you’d like.” His sigh had been heavy, filled with a quiet disappointment, and Camdyn had felt a pang of guilt at the sight. Everild had looked so vulnerable in that moment, as if he had been denied something he truly wanted to give.

Eventually, Camdyn had relented, agreeing to accept just a few small pieces—nothing ostentatious, nothing too grand, but something to wear for special occasions. A week or so later, Everild had presented him with a velvet-lined jewelry box, which Camdyn had eagerly opened. Inside, he found a crown wrought with delicate gold vines and leaves, a choker and a few bracelets made from pearls, and a gold ring set with a shimmering opal. Camdyn had been taken aback by how lovely they were. The pieces were understated, elegant, and exactly what he would have chosen for himself.

“Oh, Everild,” he had murmured. “These are so lovely.”

Everild’s face had lit up with a smile, his chest swelling with pride. “You like them, then?”

Camdyn had smiled back. “Yes. They’re exactly what I asked for. You know me so well.”

His husband had preened, delighted by the praise. “Put them on?” Everild had asked eagerly. “Let’s see what they look like on you.”

And so, Camdyn had modeled the jewelry for him, smiling, twirling, enjoying the simple joy of seeing Everild so pleased. The moment had been perfect, and when Everild had suggested that Camdyn wear nothing but the jewelry, Camdyn had playfully obliged, crawling into his husband’s lap, ready to thank him in the most intimate of ways.

That, of course, had not gone into his letter to Cenric. The monastery didn’t need to know every detail of his marriage—only that Everild cared for him deeply and made him happy, more so than he could have ever imagined.

◆◆◆

Camdyn was sitting at the large wooden desk in the quiet of the library, his fingers idly flipping through the pages of a book on beekeeping. He had always been fascinated by the process of making honey, and the monastery’s small apiary had sparked a deep desire within him to one day create his own. His eyes scanned over the intricate instructions on how to build a beehive from straw, mentally noting the steps as he imagined the sweet rewards of his own source of honey. The calming scent of old parchment and beeswax filled the air, blending with the natural, earthy smell of the library. He was completely absorbed in the task when suddenly, the stillness was broken.

Aldaay appeared, a sharp figure in his dark robes, and dropped a heavy stack of letters along with a bulky parcel onto the desk with a loud thud. The sudden noise startled Camdyn, and he looked up from his book, blinking in surprise.

“Solved the communication issue, Camdyn,” Aldaay said, a smug expression on his face. “Your letters were being delivered. The monastery’s letters were being stopped at the border.”

Camdyn’s eyes flickered to the pile of letters now resting in front of him. He reached out, his fingers brushing over the edges of the neatly stacked parchment. There was a sense of relief at finally seeing these letters, which he’d been waiting for with impatience. He could feel the weight of them in his hands, and it struck him that Cenric must have been writing to him just as often as he had been writing back. “Everild was right,” Camdyn said softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I just had to be more patient.” His mind lingered on the weeks that had passed since his wedding, the emotional toll it had taken, and how he had longed for the letters that never arrived. “What was the problem at the border? Some sort of tariff?”

Aldaay cleared his throat, a nervous edge creeping into his voice. “Well... It appeared that, uh, your father was holding them back.”

Camdyn’s brow furrowed in confusion, and he stared at the advisor in disbelief. “What?” he asked, his voice tinged with shock. “W-why? What reason would he have to do that?”

Aldaay shifted uneasily, his gaze lowering slightly as though unsure how to explain. “Your father... spent a lot of time and resources arranging your marriage. It needed to be a success. It was his thinking that if you received any letters from the monastery, then you’d be—well, homesick, I suppose.”

Camdyn couldn’t help but feel a pang of frustration at this revelation. The scent of the letters—slightly fragrant with the herbs and spices of Cenric’s apothecary and the beeswax candles from the monastery—made his heart ache a little. His fingers lingered on the edges of the bundle as he absorbed Aldaay’s words. “I was already homesick,” Camdyn said quietly, his voice soft and full of emotion. “It would have been nice to have had these in the weeks before the wedding, when I was scared and lonely.” The memories of those days, when everything had felt overwhelming and uncertain, flooded his mind. He had longed for a piece of home, a connection to the familiar faces and places of the monastery. But instead, he had felt abandoned.

Aldaay’s face softened with a look of genuine regret. “I’m sorry for it, Camdyn,” he said, his voice gentle. “I think the concern was that you might either be so distraught as to refuse the marriage and demand to be returned to the monastery, or that you and Cenric might have concocted some sort of plan for you to run away and escape back to the monks.”

Camdyn let out a quiet hum of acknowledgement as he reflected on Aldaay’s words. His mind raced, piecing together the puzzle of his father’s actions. Instead of simply letting him experience the natural grief of homesickness, his father had, in a misguided attempt to protect him, made him feel even more isolated. It wasn’t just homesickness Camdyn had endured; it was a deeper sense of abandonment and loneliness. He had been left to navigate the unknown, without the comfort of letters or guidance. He couldn’t help but think that had he been allowed the chance to communicate with Cenric, things might have been different. Perhaps the fear and confusion that had plagued him during the wedding could have been alleviated, saving both himself and Everild a great deal of time and tears.

But there was no changing the past. With a sigh and a small shrug, Camdyn asked, “I suppose they got lost in the shuffle after the wedding?”

Aldaay’s expression became more uncomfortable as he cleared his throat once again, visibly uneasy. “It appeared that after the incident the morning after the hunt, he chose to... forget to rescind the order to waylay the letters.”

Camdyn let out a small, exasperated sound, rolling his eyes as he processed the explanation. “Ah,” he said, his tone dry. “That certainly sounds like my father.”

Aldaay, looking like he might burst with something unsaid, hesitated before speaking again. “If I may be so bold, my lord?”

Camdyn raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Yes?”

“Your father is a fucking prick.”

Camdyn let out a laugh, a genuine sound of amusement that filled the room. “Oh, well, goodness. God forgive me, but I won’t disagree.” The tension in the room seemed to dissipate, replaced by the shared recognition of the absurdity of the situation.

Aldaay grinned, clearly relieved by the lighter atmosphere. “I don’t think even They could begrudge you that,” he said, a playful glint in his eyes. “I’ll leave you to it, my lord. You’ve quite a bit of reading to do.”

◆◆◆

The first letter was written only a few days after Camdyn’s departure from the monastery.

My dear boy,

You took part of my heart when you left. I saw it clinging to you as you disappeared over the horizon in your brothers’ cart. Make sure to feed yourself well, and to get enough rest, and enjoy yourself when you can. By caring for yourself you will also care for me.

The monastery keenly feels your absence. It is far too quiet and everyone dislikes it greatly. Brother David had to wrangle the cows himself for the first time in nearly a decade. And I now have no stalwart companion to keep me company and assist me in the garden or the apothecary.

Do you remember how you used to run around during our prayers? You would tug on our rosaries and robes until I made you come stand with me. Always moving, always curious.

I know you are greatly upset with this sudden change in your life. I do not mean to add to your distress with my nostalgia and loneliness. But just know that you are my boy. I sewed and hemmed your robes, I bandaged your cuts, I watched over you when you were ill, and now, like children are wont to do, you have grown up and are getting married and will have a life separate from mine. I will do as all parents must one day do, and simply write to you with all the love I have in me.

It pained me greatly to see you leave and it still pains me now as I write you this letter, but I also feel heartened because soon you will read it and think of me. I pray that your journey is safe, I pray that your family welcomes you back with open arms, I pray that your husband is kind and loving, and I pray that you are happy.

God bless you, Camdyn.

Brother Cenric

Camdyn smiled and wiped his eyes, then kissed Cenric’s signature, scrawled in long-dried, black ink, and pressed the letter to his heart. He carefully folded it and set it aside before moving on to the next one, and the next. It pleased him that the contents of Cenric’s letters were much like his own, filled with the day-to-day life of the monastery. They mentioned every monk’s health, chronicled Brother David’s renewed struggles with the livestock, and described how the garden was growing, as well as when the day was particularly hot or rainy.

Cenric had realized early on that their communication was one-way.

You don’t address the subjects in any of my letters, yet nearly every week I receive more messages from you. Perhaps the couriers in this area are worse than I thought. I will continue writing, of course—you shall certainly get them one day, and what else is there for me to do? I will tell you a secret: no one here is as wonderful a conversation partner as you, Camdyn. If I do not put my thoughts of the day’s events to ink, then I will burst with all the observations I have not shared.

It always pleases me greatly to hear about your little niece. She sounds much like you did as a child—curious and sweet natured.

There was a shift in tone that occurred in the letters written after the wedding; a palpable relief as Camdyn wrote to Cenric, ecstatic, that Everild was gentle and handsome and had protected him during the ceremony and doted upon him at the banquet, and that he had been kind to him on their wedding night and all they had done was talk and sleep.

Praise be to God for Their love and mercy. I had so worried about your wedding day. I cannot overstate how grateful and relieved I am that you’ve a husband who is considerate of your fears and desires. It is of greatest comfort to me to know that you are well and happy. I love you so.

Eventually, Camdyn read through the entire pile of letters, and the only thing left to do was open the parcel. Cenric had mentioned it a few times—a wedding gift from the monastery. The shape of it and the sound it had made when Aldaay dropped it onto the desk indicated what it was. Camdyn carefully unwrapped it and found his assumption accurate.

A prayer book.

The cover was a fine example of leatherwork. It was a carved scene of the view of the sea from the beach near the monastery, where Camdyn had spent much of his free time. He ran his fingers over the grooves, admiring the craftsmanship. Then he opened the book, smiling as he was greeted with page after page of illuminations and carefully copied prayers, hymns, and stories. Every new page brought another set of handwriting and a slightly different style of art.

This was no doubt a collaboration between every brother in the monastery.

Camdyn’s suspicions were proven correct when he neared the end of the book. It was slightly lengthier than other prayer books he had seen. The extra pages had him curious.

After the last page of hymns, there was a message written in Cenric’s hand:

This book of hours is dedicated to a young novice whose life path diverged from ours. We have humbly put together this collection of prayers for him and have also had the temerity to include in this additional section the memories we have of his time with us.

Camdyn, may this be a fitting present for your marriage. You might not have become a brother at the monastery, but you will always be a child in our hearts. Let this book be both a devotion to God and a record of our love for you.

Brother Cenric

Blinking back tears, Camdyn turned the page and found a recollection from every monk who had helped raise him. Brother Trian had written of the first day they took him to the beach and dipped his chubby legs into the water, and how he had shrieked with glee. Brother David extolled his virtues for having the patience and hardiness to deal with the cows. The abbot admired his gentle nature and his curiosity, as well as his ability to sneak sweets from the kitchen.

He read through each page, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt, until he reached the end of the book.

Cenric’s entry was the very last.

I could fill another book with my memories of your childhood and our time together. Each day with you was a gift from God. But I fondly remember a time when you could only fall asleep in my arms.

All of my love, always.

Camdyn shut the book with a snap, the sound sharp in the quiet room, before his tears could splatter the pages. He let out a shaky breath, feeling the sting in his eyes as he wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt. It was a silly thing, really, he thought, sniffling. There was nothing to cry over. Cenric was fine. Hearty and healthy, and they would now get each other’s letters in a timely, uninterrupted manner. It wasn’t as though the pain of separation would vanish instantly, but at least there would be communication now, real communication—something he hadn’t realized he needed so desperately.

And the brothers at the monastery had given him such a lovely, wonderful, beautiful gift. His heart swelled with gratitude. That they had put this together for him, with so much care and attention—it filled him with joy. But at the same time, it made him ache, a deep, aching longing in his chest for the life he had left behind, the life he missed so fiercely.

He wanted to—he heaved a sob and buried his head in his arms, crying in earnest on the polished mahogany desk, his fingers curling around the edges of the letters. It was silly and stupid, because he and Everild had even planned a trip to the monastery, but that could be ages away, and right now, all he wanted was to stand in the chapel where he had grown up, the one that echoed with the voices of the monks, where he’d learned to pray and where Cenric had first taught him to sing hymns. He wanted to kneel in front of the altar and feel the cool stone beneath his knees, to listen to the faint hum of bees just outside the window. Or perhaps he wanted to forage for oak galls again to make the night-black ink for their manuscripts, something he hadn’t done in far too long. Or he just wanted to sit beside Cenric, to share a quiet moment with the man who had been his only parent, and say, “I’ve gotten your letters, finally, and I love you, too, of course, I love you so much, you’re the only parent I’ve ever had and I miss you all the time.”

It wasn’t a rational thought, but it was one that he couldn’t push away, not now, not after reading Cenric’s words, after feeling his love and care from miles away, across pages worn with time.

He had to write him back, that was clear. He’d thank Cenric for his advice, for his stories, for his patience, and love. He needed to tell him how much his letters had meant, how deeply they had comforted him. He could start right now—well, as soon as he could stop crying and let the blur of tears fade enough so he could see clearly. But it wasn’t just a letter that needed to be sent. Camdyn’s thoughts wandered to the monks, to the way they had worked together on this beautiful prayer book. He should send them something too, something special. Not just to Cenric, but to all of them, a gift they could all enjoy. He thought about it for a moment—maybe candied citrus peels, from the kitchen’s stock of limes, lemons, and oranges. Pretty, colorful, and sweet, and Camdyn was fairly certain they would keep on a long trek, provided the parcel didn’t get damp. He sniffled again and wiped at his eyes, already imagining the scent of the candied fruit filling the air, the bright flavors bringing a little piece of home to the monks at the monastery.

A nice wooden box to hold the candy, wrapped in a sturdy cloth that could be reused for a sewing project, or—

“Camdyn?” He looked up to find Everild standing in the doorway, concern etched across his face. “Aldaay told me he gave you your letters. Have you—received bad news?”

Ah, he had worried his husband again. Camdyn shook his head, trying to stop his lip from quivering. “No, I just.” His voice faltered as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. “I just really miss Cenric, and it was so nice to read his letters, and then—my wedding present—“

He pushed the prayer book toward Everild, the weight of it heavier than he had realized. Everild took it from him, admiring the cover briefly before paging through the book with care. He made an approving noise at the quality of the copied hymns and prayers, the attention to detail that had clearly gone into it. But when Everild reached the final section of the book, his expression softened in a way that Camdyn hadn’t expected.

Everild’s smile was gentle, his eyes filled with a tenderness that made Camdyn’s heart ache all over again as Everild read Cenric’s entry. “You were a very sweet child, Camdyn.”

Camdyn let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I think it’s my absence that has sweetened their memories. I was a terror, to be sure.” The memory of his younger self, running wild with boundless energy, made him chuckle in spite of the tears still threatening to spill.

His husband snorted, his voice full of warmth and affection. “Impossible.”

Camdyn stood, crossing the room quickly to embrace Everild, his arms wrapping tightly around him. “I’m sorry for worrying you. I didn’t mean to have you come find me.”

A thought occurred to him, a shift of panic as the time seemed to rush back into focus. “Wait, why did you—what time is it? Oh, no! I’m so sorry, Everild, I completely missed the petitioners—“

“It’s fine,” Everild assured him, his tone soothing as he gently stroked Camdyn’s back. “You were reading your letters. And you don’t need to keep me company in the great hall every day.”

Camdyn pulled back slightly, looking up at Everild with a soft frown. “I like to, though. I want to help you when I can.”

Everild kissed his forehead, the pressure of his lips warm and reassuring. “You help me plenty. It’s all right to take some time to yourself.”

Everild’s arms were always so warm, so comforting. Camdyn snuggled against him, resting his head on his chest. “I think—I’ll tend the garden a bit, and then—and then I’ll write Cenric back. I’d like to give him and the other monks a gift. Do we still have citrus fruits in the kitchen?”

Immediately, Everild answered, “If we don’t, then I’ll get them for you. However much you need.”

Camdyn thought for a moment, running his tongue over his bottom lip in concentration. “Well, maybe a bag of each—oranges, lemons, and limes.” He paused, nibbling at his lip. “And we’ll need quite a bit of sugar—mmph!”

Everild pressed their lips together in a firm, lingering kiss, a promise in the softness of it. “See to the onion sprouts. Then write your letter. I’ll have Aldaay add your ingredients to this month’s expenses. We’ve a meeting tonight, anyway.”

There was a grumble in his voice at this last statement, a clear sign that he didn’t look forward to more time spent poring over accounts with Aldaay. But Camdyn only giggled, running his hands over Everild’s chest, enjoying the feel of his closeness. “I’ll wait up for you. Since I missed our time together in the great hall today.” Feeling a little bold, he added with a teasing smile, “I’ll take a hot bath, and then I could—I could wear my pearls for you. Just, um—just the pearls?”

He gasped as Everild gave his bottom a playful squeeze and pulled him in for another kiss, his lips warm and insistent.

Then, as quickly as the kiss had started, Everild abruptly turned and began marching out of the library, his movements purposeful. Camdyn blinked, dazed and still a little breathless. “Where are you going?”

“To Aldaay,” his husband growled, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Sooner I finish with these accounts, the sooner I can see to you.”

◆◆◆