Prince of Air and Darkness

by M. A. Grant

  I. Am. Fucked.

  “Does that make Smith’s place a little clearer?” Roark asks and the temperature drops enough my nipples tighten. Or, that’s my excuse, at least.

  The Seelie don’t answer. They simply abandon the shots and the bar and leave me and Roark in this weird vacuum of awkwardness that sets my teeth on edge.

  His fingers drop from me and I’d lament their loss, except Roark grabs my hand and drags me toward the emergency exit. The lack of attention from the other customers indicates he’s glamouring us as we leave, but I can’t figure out why.

  Lust cools to near terror with ferocious speed.

  “The drinks—” I protest, desperate to call for my friends’ attention or support or interference with the homicide I fear Roark’s about to commit.

  “Fuck the drinks.”

  I should stop. I’m bigger than him, not by much in height, but in bulk at least. If I set my feet, I could probably force him to let go of me. I could be stubborn and tell him to stop his fae Court bullshit and just fucking talk to me.

  But that means I’d have to let go of him. Funny how such simple tasks can become so impossible when skin touches skin.

  Outside, the air has the initial bite of a fall evening. Roark doesn’t seem to notice when he drags me out there. He mutters something under his breath after he slams the door shut and the ley line shies away from the magick binding that seals the door in place.

  “Do I dare ask what you did to warrant such attention from King Oberon’s manservants?” he asks with lethal calm.

  I swallow hard. “They work for Oberon?”

  “Yes, Smith. They do. Part of his personal retinue.” He waits, somehow the darkest shadow in the alley.

  Silence draws out until the tension screams and I squirm. “They saw us sitting together and decided to talk crap. And they were drunk.”

  His arms cross over his chest, his body tightening even more, which I really didn’t think was possible until his shoulders lift higher and his knees lock. “That’s all?”

  I stuff my hands in my pockets, but the crown of my cock still presses painfully against my fly. I pull my hands out of my pockets and cross my arms, trying to mimic his pose.

  His gaze never leaves mine. It traps me and I’m profoundly grateful for his indifference now. My loose sweater isn’t long enough to fully hide my erection and I don’t want him to see me like that. Not that exposed. Not after whatever just happened in the bar.

  “They might have decided that I should go visit the Summer Court,” I say, checking his expression for any hint of his thoughts. No changes. I’m starting to recognize when Roark uses his glamour on me. It’s a subtle shift, more about the way his body holds itself than the change of his face, but I see it now. “I didn’t agree with the idea.”

  “A wise decision.”

  “It is?” The question comes out far meeker than I intended, but it’s like talking to a statue. Perfectly carved lines without any movement, any change, any adaptation. Somewhere under the alcohol-induced haze in my head, I wonder if he’d agree that staying out here with him, having this discussion, is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

  “I believe it’s considered poor taste to kill the opposing royalty’s subjects during diplomatic negotiations.”

  It should be a joke. Except he says it so quietly it sounds more like a statement of regret.

  “You wouldn’t have killed them,” I argue. I need that to be true. I need it because if it’s not, I don’t think my world is ever going to put itself back together.

  “Ah,” he says, accent caressing the syllable with dark humor. “That’s where you’re wrong, Finn.”

  He called me Finn. Not Smith. Finn—

  Chapter Twelve

  Roark

  I am my Mother’s son. I am the Prince of Air and Darkness. I control the minutiae of this scene, weaving my rage and fear from that near disaster in the bar into the calmest, most diplomatic conversation I can manage with Smith.

  I shut it off. All of it. The emotion, the sarcasm, the expressions I cover desperately with my glamour so he can’t see the muscle in my jaw ticking. I withdraw into that darkness until I can look at the man across from me without wanting to kiss him or kill him or kill him as I kiss him. Until I don’t have to strangle the need to tell him everything. To admit everything, damn the consequences, and to finally learn whether this obsession can end.

  He stands there in the darkness and for the first time since I met him, I don’t want to stare at his body and lust after him. I want to hold his gaze. I want to force him to look at me, to see me. Finn is flawed and desperate and blameless and so beautifully human. His soul and all his good intentions shine from him. He’s a lantern, and now I understand why all those monsters from the Wyld realms come for him.

  They don’t want the ley line’s power, the heat his skin barely contains.

  They want his light. They want him, even if they don’t know it.

  I know because I crave his hope more than they do. My mother, the Summer Court, anyone who dares look at him as a prize to be won will have to destroy me to reach him.

  “You wouldn’t have killed them,” he accuses, but his voice wavers, as if he knows he’s lying to himself.

  Panic in his dark eyes. He knows we’re teetering on the edge.

  Answer his question. Lie to him. Keep him safe.

  “Ah,” I say, willing myself to dismiss his question. Lie, Roark. Say anything else. Just don’t give him that.

  The words are there. My mind organizes them, plays with them, arranges them into the sharpest arrow possible. The weapon that will land a killing blow.

  I open my mouth and my throat closes around the excuse and refuses to relinquish it. Instead, new words claw their way forward and shatter my defenses. “That’s where you’re wrong, Finn.”

  Smith stares at me, his soul written in his eyes because I slipped and called him by the name I only use in my head because it’s the closest I can ever come to saying what I really want, to admitting where my heart lies.

  Then he slams into me, his momentum carrying us to the wall, and life blazes back into me. Hands. Lips. Tongue. Teeth. The world explodes into sensation that reaches past my ribs and rips a groan out of my chest.

  The fingers he tangled in my hair ease their grip, and the sting in my scalp relents. He moans back into my mouth when I wedge my thigh between his legs, rubbing the straining erection his jeans can barely contain. I use that shift in our bodies’ positions to spin him so his back is against the wall. He surrenders perfectly and lets me drag his arms over his head, pinning his wrists. We kiss until I’ve memorized his mouth and the slide of his tongue. The urgency never leaves, only slowed at times by our need to breathe, by the harsh exhalations Finn makes when I roll my hips slowly into his. His fingers flex and scramble for purchase and when he finds none, his body draws tight against me until he loses control and lets his head fall back against the wall. I worship the curve of his jaw and the hollow of his throat, but can only stand to let so many breathy sighs escape him before I have to return to his lips.

  It finally becomes too much. His arms strain against the shackle of my hand as he tries to chase my mouth. I nip his lower lip as punishment and he settles back against the wall, panting and watching me with too-wide eyes. Eyes clouded with lust and confusion and worry and—

  Goddess, will I ever catch a break?

  “Smith,” I ask, voice raw, hating myself for not noticing sooner, “are you drunk?”

  Like that, he caves in on himself. “Not drunk. Happy.”

  Definitely drunk. I pinch the bridge of my nose, silently cursing fermentation and all its ill effects. My heart aches with something suspiciously like soul-crushing disappointment. Despite that, I’ll be damned before I take what I want from a less-than-fully-cognizant Smith. Until I can watch that flush bloom over his chest when I make him tell me exactly what he wants me to do to him in very descriptive, very foul language. Until I do all t
hose things and more, over and over until we’re too exhausted to move from my bed. Not until then.

  “We’re going home,” I announce. I release him, turn on my heel, and stalk away.

  “What?”

  At least he sounds as confused and miserable as I feel. Small mercies.

  I don’t turn back to him. If I see him standing there against that wall, heated and willing, all my best intentions will go to hell and I’ll follow shortly behind. “We are going back to the apartment.”

  “But what about—?”

  I pull out my phone and type a quick message to Sebastian. “I’ve told them,” I interrupt. I know I gave him the answer to a question he wasn’t asking, but survival is a powerful driving force. “Stay here or come with me. Your choice.”

  Toward the end of the alley, where it reconnects to the street, I begin to worry that Smith hasn’t chosen me. That I’m just some kind of drunken distraction or, worse, a sexual experiment based on curious loathing. The very thought helps to relieve the uncomfortable tightness in my jeans. Then footsteps echo down the narrow space toward me, getting closer and closer.

  Smith jogs to my side, leaning in to bump his shoulder against mine. “I’ll come with you.”

  He’s drunk, I remind myself. But he followed me. Maybe I do stand a chance after all.

  Phineas

  I’m not drunk. Well, not drunk from the whiskey and beers I’ve been knocking back all night. I’m from Iowa and I was on the high school football team. I know how to hold my liquor.

  Nope, not drunk from the alcohol. Drunk off Roark’s taste and touch and scent and arctic chill? Yeah, maybe I’m a little drunk from that.

  Too bad the Prince of Air and Disappointments doesn’t seem to care. In fact, he’s still walking in front of me, pretending like we weren’t just pressed against a wall devouring each other and shaking every time our cocks ground together.

  “Why’d you stop?” I blurt out after we walk yet another block without exchanging a single look.

  “Why’d I stop what?”

  “Kissing me.”

  “Did you want me to keep kissing you?”

  I roll my eyes. “Well, it wasn’t the smell of the alley that made me hard.”

  He glances at me sideways. About fucking time. “Stop talking, Smith. You’ll only regret it in the morning.”

  I glare at him. “I won’t regret it in the morning.”

  He gives a delicate, dismissive shrug, as if this isn’t an argument worth having. “Yes, you will.” His pace quickens.

  “No, I won’t.”

  No response.

  “I won’t, Roark, I promise.” I walk faster, until I’m side to side with him again. There’s only a minor misjudgment when I try to slow down, so I accidentally bump into him. We both stop.

  The low growl must have come from his throat, since I know it didn’t come from mine. He turns toward me, scowling and opening his mouth to argue more. I reach out and brush my fingers over his lower lip, wondering if I could keep him from talking by kissing him again.

  He jerks at the touch, but doesn’t step away from me. Emboldened, I move closer and skim my fingertips over the sharp line of his cheekbone, down to brush along the curve of his jaw. The flutter of the pulse in his throat fascinates me, so I touch there, too.

  “What are you doing?” he murmurs when my fingers dip lower toward the collar of his shirt.

  I hesitate. “Touching you.”

  He doesn’t pull away as I expect. Instead, he swallows hard and lets his jaw relax. He tilts his chin in chary invitation to continue my exploration, so I keep going. After a moment, he asks, “Why?”

  “Geez, Roark, I’m not going to throat-punch you. I just like doing this, okay?”

  He sways a little when I trace his collarbone and if he knew he hummed while I did it, I think he’d die from mortification. Instead of commenting on it, I keep that little detail to myself and drop my fingers from his skin.

  He blinks and retreats a half step. This time, his laughter’s strangled. “Herne and the hunters, I thought drinking would make you meaner. Instead you’re even more infuriatingly friendly. You’re a golden retriever.”

  Well, moment ruined. I glower at him. “Hey—”

  “It’s the need for approval.” After a moment he adds, “And the hair.”

  I reach up without thought. Okay, it’s getting a little long up top, but the sides are still buzzed pretty close. “Because it’s blond?”

  “Because it’s blond. Because you attempt to tame it and can never quite contain its exuberance.”

  I blink, pieces of a slightly blurry puzzle coming together. “You’re teasing me.”

  “Never.” The corner of his mouth curves into one of his half smiles.

  I want his mouth again. I want everything.

  I know I didn’t say that aloud, but it doesn’t matter. His eyes darken and the new distance he created between us vanishes when we both take a halting step forward. I reach for him. His hands clench to fists, tighten, but he doesn’t reach back. His face goes blank.

  My heart sinks and I try to hide my hands’ shaking when I let them fall back to my sides.

  “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I shouldn’t have teased you. Nothing’s going to happen between us, Finn.”

  “Because I’m drunk?”

  “Yes. And no.”

  “But once I’m sober—”

  “No.”

  “But—” The protest dies when he raises a single brow at me.

  Fuck. I hate this version of Roark. Almost six years together and I haven’t figured out how to earn his trust. I don’t know why he needs such impenetrable walls. Not sure I want to know. Some things are better kept as secrets.

  Once he’s assured I won’t argue further, he starts moving again. “Come on.”

  I want to pester him with more questions, try to figure out why he kissed the hell out of me and then went all ice king, but he’s always a few steps ahead and he doesn’t look back once. Domovoi’s isn’t far from our apartment. Still, the trip back is long enough that I have far too much time to think. Our trek isn’t quite a walk of shame, but it’s too damn close for my taste. I didn’t even get a happy ending to make it worthwhile.

  I nearly run into his back when he stops at the key code pad we use to get into the apartment building. I coil on myself, but the alcohol’s made me relaxed and my muscles don’t respond like I’m used to.

  Roark grunts when I stumble into his side instead. For a brief moment, his arm wavers around my waist. Whatever chivalrous urge my clumsiness inspired doesn’t last long. His arm drops and he returns his full focus to the door. “Dammit, Smith, don’t do this to me. If you pass out all the way out here, you’re too heavy for me to lug back upstairs.”

  Building code accepted, Roark swings the door open and gestures me inside.

  “You could magick me up the stairs. I didn’t have that option with you that one time,” I grumble, slipping past him.

  “Your option was a bit simpler, I believe. You could have left me in the field after our fight instead of bringing me home at all.”

  “What kind of heartless person would do that?” I protest. I reach out to press a hand against the wall. Okay, maybe I’m drunker than I thought. Either that or my perpetual hard-on has severely impaired my brain’s ability to keep the world from spinning.

  I’m not too far gone to notice Roark didn’t answer my questions, though. When it comes to him, silence speaks far louder—and far more honestly—than any of the well-turned phrases that leave his mouth.

  “You really think I’m that much of a jackass?” I challenge him.

  He shushes me. Actually shushes me.

  Maybe I should try to explain it better to him. I lower my voice. “Even when I hated you, I wouldn’t have left you there.”

  “Smith, stop bellowing.”

  I wave my arms, voice climbing out of its whisper. “You haven’t heard me bellow yet.”

 
Roark rubs at his eyes. “Fine. You’re quiet as a church mouse and I’m sorry for thinking you would have left me unconscious in a field after you’d tried to blow me up with the ley line. Apparently, I’m unaware what enemies are supposed to do to each other. Enlighten me.”

  “Don’t turn this back on me. I only considered your stupid family to be my enemies. I never decided we would be enemies. You did that on your own, Lyne. I just retaliated.” I punctuate the statement by stabbing an index finger at his chest. Somehow, I end up poking his arm instead.

  That’s the last straw. Roark’s statement is unintelligible and before he even finishes it, he reaches for me. I lean in, eager to get another fix of the addictive rocking of the earth that happens beneath my feet when our mouths meet. Oooooooor...he could be grabbing my hand and dragging me toward the stairs. Damn. He doesn’t slow his breakneck pace as we climb, even though my legs seem to be getting heavier and heavier.

  “Stop hexing me,” I snarl while he drags me up one last miserable flight.

  “I’m not hexing you.”

  Walking this narrow hallway to our apartment door is the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.

  “My legs aren’t working right.”

  Roark’s somewhere between utter frustration and amusement. “That’s because you drank. Extensively.”

  He pushes me inside the apartment with no ceremony whatsoever. When he turns on the living room lights, they sear my retinas and my howl would make a loup-garou proud.

  “For fuck’s sake,” he mutters. But he turns off the light.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, sharp pain in my head finally managing to dampen my desire. I drag myself toward my room. Nausea rises but if I fall asleep before it really takes hold, I’ll be fine. “See you in the morning?”