Heart of Winter (The Drake Chronicles Book 1)

by Lauren Gilley

  By the time Erik was working three fingers steadily in and out of him, Oliver was sweating and trembling all over, fully-hard again. Erik was vibrating with restraint, biting at his own lip, when Oliver peeked.

  “I’m ready. You can” – the fingers paused, and slowly withdrew – “you can fuck me. I want it. Please.”

  There was more oil, and then Erik was settling over him, blunt pressure. Oliver hissed – because it had been a long time, and Erik was huge – but when Erik hesitated, he tightened his legs around his waist and urged him forward. “Come on, come on,” he chanted, and Erik pressed in, and in, and filled him, their hips snugged together, both of them breathing raggedly into each other’s mouths.

  “Are you all right?” Erik asked, voice rough. “Can I–”

  “If you don’t, I’ll die,” Oliver pleaded, arching again, clenching around him until it was Erik hissing. “Please.”

  “All right. Hush, sweetheart, I have you.” Erik’s hips drew back, and surged forward, and it was every bit as overwhelming as Oliver had always hoped.

  Oliver clung to him, and the first few careful thrusts became long, deep strokes that would have pushed Oliver up the bed if he hadn’t been holding on so tight, overcome with sensation, marveling at the strength and power of Erik above him, moving now with low, guttural moans and murmured praise, sweet nonsense pressed into Oliver’s throat between kisses and bites.

  The rhythm built, faster, harder; sweaty skin sliding, clawing to get closer, muscles straining. Oliver clutched fistfuls of hair, and then dug fingertips into the strong, flexing back. Pleaded, and gasped, and gave himself over to Erik’s driving thrusts – gave everything.

  “Gods,” Erik murmured. He thrust hard, grinding in – and came with a wounded sound. Oliver felt the kick and bloom of heat deep in his belly, where they were joined. And Erik was still coming, his hips still kicking and cock pulsing when he reached between them to stroke Oliver to completion. Until black spots clouded his vision, and his whole body tensed, lit up electric with the force of his second orgasm.

  It was exquisite.

  They came down together, Erik heavy and limp above him, his breath hot in Oliver’s ear. Oliver clung to him, liking the pressure, wanting – needing the contact, his eyes beginning to sting, traitorously. It was the best fuck of his life, and certainly the one that meant the most – and that was why, as aftershocks rippled through him, and Erik slowly softened inside him, the reality of their situation, of their respective stations, crashed over him, and left him reeling. He was afraid for Erik to pull back, because once he did, they would be king and bastard again, and this couldn’t last – this had all been a yuletide dream.

  But Erik did eventually draw back: he pushed up on his arms, and Oliver let his hands drop. Erik met his gaze – and then froze.

  Oliver blinked, sniffed, and smiled – he did not cry. He clamped it all down, because he was damn-near professional at suppressing emotions, when he wanted to be.

  Erik looked startled…and then his expression melted into one so tender it had Oliver’s eyes stinging all over again. “No,” he murmured, and touched Oliver’s face so gently, his smile soft as the press of his fingertips as he smoothed them over Oliver’s cheek. “No, it’s all right, darling. Don’t be upset.”

  “I’m not,” Oliver lied, trying to scowl, voice quavering terribly.

  Erik’s smile deepened. “Here. Come here to me.” He slipped out of him, and then shifted over to lie on his side, both arms enfolding Oliver and pulling him close, hugging him tight to his chest.

  Oliver was proud, but not too proud to keep from ducking gratefully beneath his chin while he fought to regulate his breathing and blink his eyes clear.

  Erik stroked his hair, and his back, sweet, undemanding touches, now. “I want you to listen to me,” he said, voice a comforting rumble that rippled through Oliver’s whole body. “I’m many things. I am stubborn, and I am prideful. I can be selfish, and lustful, and I don’t ever like to look foolish. I am flawed, same as any man – but I don’t lie. And so I hope that you will believe me when I tell you that I would never have invited you into my bed, would never have asked to braid you hair if I meant to abandon you to the gossip and censure of my people.” He stroked the back of Oliver’s neck soothingly. “I will not hurt you, Ollie. Not on purpose, I swear.”

  “You’re horrible,” Oliver sniffled, but he wrapped his arms around strong ribs, and held him in return. This impossible, sweet, fearsome man who was a king of a wild Northern nation, and who had – if he was honest with himself – not simply fucked Oliver, but made love to him. Called him pretty. And now held him so tightly and securely.

  Erik hummed, and petted his curls.

  Oliver let the day’s exhaustion sweep over him, and fell asleep with his cheek pressed to the steady beat of Erik’s heart.

  24

  “You’re lying.”

  “I am not!” Rune fumbled for the flask in the center of the table and only managed to spill a little as he refilled his cup. He ignored his brother’s censorious gaze, and took a healthy slug of this latest round of mistress. Fuck Leif for not being able to unwind at all. It was yuletide! When else were they supposed to cut loose? Mother was gone, besides, retired to the upper parlor, with the other ladies, and would soon head for bed. And Uncle was gone, too – though definitely not sleeping, Rune thought, sniggering to himself.

  “What’s so funny?” Haldin Askrson demanded, slurring a little. He’d been the one to produce the flask of strong spirits, and they’d split most of it between them, at this point. “I’m calling you a liar and you’re laughing!”

  “I’m not laughing at you.” When Rune glanced up, the image of the young, redheaded lordling across from him blurred and threatened to double before he blinked his vision back to mostly normal. “And I’m not a liar.” He just caught himself before he could admit what he’d found so hilarious. “I really can hit – hit a target at – forty yards.”

  Haldin made a face and shook his head dismissively. “Fuck you and your lying.”

  Rune stood – only swaying a little as he got up from the bench. “You want to see? I’ll show you right now.”

  “Rune,” Leif said.

  “Lay off,” Rune bit back, and turned away from the table. The whole hall swayed, and he heard several sharp barks of laughter. Laughing at him? Laughing in general? The wine and mistress had been flowing for…who knew how long. He knew that he was overheated, and faintly sick, but determined to demonstrate his prowess.

  “Rune, don’t,” Leif tried again.

  Rune ignored him.

  In truth, he wasn’t sure why he was so annoyed with his brother tonight. They rarely quarreled – not even as boys. He knew that was mostly down to Leif’s unending patience and goodness of spirit, but he wasn’t feeling charitable enough tonight to grant him that. He had gladly attacked Ormr in Leif’s defense – fuck anyone who messed with his brother – but now, the threat past, he kept thinking about the way Tessa’s face had fallen as she watched Estrid flirt with Leif across the room. Estrid was a snake who didn’t deserve anyone’s attention, in Rune’s unforgiving estimation, but for Leif to offer his freely, when he had Tessa already – beautiful, kind, sweetly-smiling Tessa…

  Had he been sober, Rune would have acknowledged that he was wildly jealous.

  But, being this deep in his cups, he led a shoving, shouting group of young lords out of the hall, to the armory, and then out into the frigid night, only stumbling a time or two.

  Fresh snow was falling, slow, gentle fat flakes that would feather hair and eyelashes. A new layer of powder lay across the training yard, all the old footprints and slides covered over: a smooth stretch of virgin white within the low, snow-heaped stone walls.

  “We need targets,” Baldi proclaimed, and went jogging clumsily down to set them up.

  Rune set his arrows up with their tips buried in the ground and set about stringing his bow. It left him frowning and took three ti
mes as long as normal, his fingers slow and thick-feeling.

  “Rune.” Leif materialized beside him, as if from thin air, snow dusting his golden braids and fur mantle, breath steaming in the chill. The light from the torches along the wall illuminated a deep furrow between his brows. “You’re drunk.”

  Rune finally got the string secured, and glared at his brother – or at least in the direction of his shoulder. It was hard to focus on his eyes. “No ssshit. Doesn’t matter. I can outshoot anyone – drunk – drunk or not.”

  Leif sighed – the long-suffering, responsible big brother.

  “Go find Estrid or something,” Rune spat. “I’m sure she – wants to hear what you think about – about bloody everything.”

  Leif’s frown deepened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Archers!” Baldi shouted, and was echoed by others.

  “If you’ll exxcuuuuse me.” Rune shoved at his brother. “I have to prove myself, now.”

  Rune pivoted, and saw the targets set up against the far wall. They were tiny at this distance – and crooked, though that wouldn’t matter. Beside him, Haldin was testing his own bow, arrows ready and waiting at his feet.

  “I’m going inside,” Leif muttered.

  Good, Rune thought, and ignored him.

  “Gentlemen!” Baldi cried. “Are we ready?”

  “Yes,” Rune said, echoed a moment later by Haldin, who sounded unsure, now. Like his father, Haldin was good with a battle axe, but the finer points of more precise warfare eluded him.

  Rune grinned to himself, because he was going to win this competition, and it was so rare that he won at anything with Leif around.

  “Nock!” Baldi cried.

  Cold and clumsy though his fingers were, Rune’s muscles knew the feel of the fletching, knew just how to grip the arrow and string together. He let out a deep breath, forcibly relaxed himself, and his vision seemed to clear a little.

  “Draw!”

  His recurve bow took an immense amount of strength to draw, and he prided himself on the way his arms and shoulders carried the burden, one long, smooth movement that stretched the string tight.

  Beside him, Haldin swore, softly.

  “Loose!”

  In the split second after he released, Rune worried that so much drink might have really ruined his chances. But then his arrow struck true, in the center of the bull’s eye, and Haldin’s sailed over the wall and into the night.

  “Ha ha!” he exclaimed, punching a fist into the air. “I win!”

  “Best three out of four!” Haldin barked.

  All four of Rune’s hit the target, clustered together.

  One of Haldin’s managed to land in the far outer ring. He turned and threw down his bow after the last shot, face flushed as scarlet as his hair.

  Rune laughed along with the rest of the spectators. “That’ll teach you to brag.”

  Haldin shot him a nasty glare. “So you’re good at one thing, Torstanson. One thing that doesn’t even matter.”

  Rune felt the smile drop off his face. “Fuck you,” he said, eloquently.

  Haldin stormed off back into the palace, leaving Rune feeling hollow and no longer victorious. And more than a little unsteady on his feet, his face too hot, suddenly. Sweat prickled beneath his clothes, and his stomach churned.

  Baldi clapped him on the shoulder. “Ignore him. Come on. Let’s go get a pint to celebrate.”

  The idea repulsed him. Rune shook his head, which proved a bad idea. He swallowed a wave of nausea and said, “You go on. I want to stay here a minute.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  Baldi and the others trooped back inside, talking and laughing and shoving and stumbling. It was a relief when the door closed and they were gone. Rune tipped his head back and looked up at the stars, at his own breath steaming overhead. He closed his eyes when the stars began to spin, and just…stood. Letting his hot, dizzy spell past. Feeling the snowflakes alight on his face.

  He owed Leif an apology, he realized, with an inward wince. He’d been an ass tonight, and it wasn’t Leif’s way to be rude to people at parties – even if that person was Estrid.

  With a sigh, he straightened, waited for his vision to settle, and headed for the door.

  He was nearly there when a shadow detached from the wall and slid in front of him.

  Ormr.

  “If you wanted to try your hand with a bow, you missed your chance. I would have beaten you anyway.” Rune moved to step around him.

  And was caught by a hand against his chest.

  Had he been sober, Rune could have easily ducked away, or forcibly chopped Ormr’s hand aside.

  But still reeling from too much wine and liquor, he stumbled back.

  “What – what in the Val-Father’s name do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, regaining his balance. “Get out of my way, shithead.” He shoved at the wolf-shirt.

  But missed. Overbalanced, stumbled forward – and Ormr struck him in the throat.

  Rune choked. He bent forward, retching, clawing at his own neck, fighting to take a breath, to keep from vomiting. His eyes filled with tears and his chest heaved, and black spots crowded his vision.

  Hands gripped his shoulder, and pushed him upright and back, until he was flat against a section of wall. He tried to bat them away, but his movements were weak and ineffectual, and he was choking, choking, running out of air, bile pushing up his throat.

  Through a sheen of tears, he saw Ormr’s ugly snarl. “You are nothing,” he hissed in Rune’s face. “Your family is nothing. You’ll all die choking on your own blood.”

  Rune finally managed to drag in a breath. “What–”

  And a sharp, white-hot bolt of pain in his abdomen robbed him of air again.

  ~*~

  Oliver woke slowly, already wincing against the bright light in his face. He lay against something warm and solid, a heavy weight draped across his waist, and when he stretched, experimentally, he was sore in a way he hadn’t been in a while. Fresh, vivid memories tumbled through his sleepy mind, and he realized it was Erik he lay against, with a pleasant shiver, half-smiling, trying to crack his eyes open against the assaulting light.

  Then an urgent voice said, “Erik,” and he startled completely awake, filled with immediate dread.

  A few blinks revealed that the light came from a lantern – held over them in Bjorn’s hand. Bjorn, still fully-dressed, wore a distressed expression that left Oliver wanting to pull the blankets up over his head and hide. It was one thing to know someone was sleeping with the king, quite another to find them tangled and naked in the aftermath.

  But Erik sat up with a groan, pushed his rumpled hair back, and rubbed the grit from his eyes with the heel of one hand. The other hand slipped through the blankets, found Oliver’s hand, and covered it.

  Oliver stilled.

  In a sleep-rough croak, Erik asked, “What is it?”

  Bjorn said, “It’s Rune.”

  ~*~

  It was the wee hours. The clouds had finally cleared, and the moon hung low in an indigo sky, its light the faintest brush across the snowy fields as they passed the windows in their flight down to Olaf’s surgery.

  Oliver pulled the belt of his dressing gown tighter, and didn’t even feel the cold flags beneath his bare feet. Erik was likewise clothed ahead of him, walking with long, ground-eating strides that Oliver struggled to keep up with. Bjorn led the way, the lantern held before him now that the cressets on the wall had burned down so low. Magnus and Lars, faces drawn with worry and exhaustion, followed, still armored and uniformed.

  Two more guards flanked the door to the surgery, in their helms, spears on their shoulders, but with dressing gowns pulled hastily on over night shirts.

  “Everyone else is either on wall patrol,” Bjorn explained as he opened the door and stood aside to let Erik, and Oliver, enter first. “And I sent three to rouse Ragnar, wherever he’s gone off to.”

  Erik only
nodded and swept inside.

  Oliver hurried to follow, pulse pounding in his throat.

  Dozens of candles blazed through the lab, though they held none of the festive charm as those in the great hall earlier. Their light flickered over glass vials and bottles and beakers, illuminating liquids in all sorts of sinister colors. Oliver forced his gaze away from the specimens floating suspended in jars, made all the more horrifying by candlelight, amidst the buzz of panic.

  A panic that had a smell: blood and fear sweat. The room’s only occupants were past the lab, in the surgery. Leif and Revna – Leif still in his feast clothes, Revna bundled in layers of dressing gowns and coats, her feet in fur slippers – stood at the head of the table, bracketing Rune’s pale, slack face. Revna stroked unsteady fingertips through his dark hair, while Olaf bustled about the table, instruments gleaming in his hands.

  “Light,” the physician muttered. “I need more light.”

  Without breaking stride, Erik gripped the stand of a large iron candelabra and carried it with him, candle flames streaming out behind. He set it down when he reached the operating table, and then gripped the wooden edge with both hands. “What happened?” he demanded.

  Tears slid unchecked down Revna’s cheeks. She opened her mouth to respond, let out a shuddering breath instead, and wiped her face with quick, jerky movements. She looked equal parts furious and devastated, face nearly as drawn and pale as Rune’s.

  “He was stabbed,” Leif said, his voice like iron. “He didn’t come in with the others, and he was drunk, so I went out to find him, and I saw the tail end of it.”

  When Oliver drew up beside Erik, Leif lifted his head and met his uncle’s gaze, his own wrathful. “It was Ormr.”

  Erik’s hands flexed and tightened on the table edge. His chest lifted as he inhaled sharply.