by Jaye McKenna
Mikhyal handed Tristin a plate holding a huge cream puff.
“Thank you,” Tristin whispered, staring down at it. Was he expected to eat it? And talk at the same time? Or should he leave it until he was finished talking? What did one talk about with a royal heir when one had been invited to said heir’s suite while everyone else was still at the dance?
Had anyone seen them leave together?
Aio’s teeth, what would it do to Mikhyal’s reputation if they had been seen? Word would spread through the Court like wildfire.
“I shouldn’t be here,” Tristin blurted out.
“Why ever not?” Mikhyal asked.
Tristin risked a glance up. A frown marred Mikhyal’s handsome features, and he was immediately sorry for having put it there. “I don’t mean I don’t want to be here, just that it might not be a good idea, I mean people will talk, and I’m quite sure they all saw us leaving the ballroom, they might have even seen me talking to Dirit, I forget sometimes that not everyone can see him, and there I was happily chatting away to him, and you wouldn’t want people thinking you were doing anything untoward with—”
Mikhyal took the plate from Tristin and set it on the table, then leaned in and pressed his lips to Tristin’s in a soft, chaste kiss.
“Oh.” Tristin said when Mikhyal finally pulled back to stare into his eyes. “That was nice.”
“I don’t care what anyone else thinks,” Mikhyal whispered. “I’m only interested in what you think.”
Tristin swallowed. “I think… I think I might like another of those.”
“The cream puff or the kiss?” Mikhyal teased.
“Can I have both?”
Mikhyal grinned. “Your wish is my command, my prince.”
“I’m not really a—” Tristin never finished his sentence, for Mikhyal leaned over toward the table, dipped a finger into the creamy filling of the pastry, and lifted it to Tristin’s mouth. Tristin froze, mesmerized, as Mikhyal spread the cream over his lips, then leaned closer to lick it off with delicate swipes of his tongue.
The air in the room became close and warm, and Tristin’s clothing felt tight, especially his breeches. He closed his eyes, and when the tip of Mikhyal’s tongue pushed gently at the seam of his lips, he parted them and let out a little whimper.
He’d never done much in the way of kissing, and Tristin had no idea what he was supposed to do. Should he kiss Mikhyal back? Or should he simply sit there and let Mikhyal keep doing all those intriguing things with his tongue? Was he supposed to tilt his head? What if he did and their noses bumped?
Frozen with indecision, Tristin did nothing. Mikhyal didn’t seem to mind. He continued exploring Tristin’s mouth with his tongue. Heat pooled low in Tristin’s belly as he hesitantly poked his own tongue out. It stroked Mikhyal’s, and Mikhyal let out a little moaning sound as he finished licking the cream from Tristin’s lips.
When Mikhyal had thoroughly explored Tristin’s mouth, he drew back, pale eyes burning. “You were saying?” he whispered.
Had he been saying something? Tristin’s thoughts were so scattered, he couldn’t recall. In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to repeat his own name, if asked. “Yes?”
A smile played about the corners of Mikhyal’s mouth. “Yes, what?”
“Yes, I liked that, and yes, I’d like some more, please,” he said without thinking.
“Good.” Mikhyal pulled him into his arms and kissed him again.
Tristin lost himself in that kiss. It was everything he’d ever dreamed a kiss could be. Sweet and gentle, but it set off a yearning heat deep inside him. Tristin might be inexperienced, but he was a quick study, and it wasn’t long before he was making hesitant overtures of his own. His hands wandered across Mikhyal’s broad back. It was difficult to feel the contours of his body beneath the layers of formal clothing. What would it feel like to touch Mikhyal’s bare skin?
As his hand traveled lower, he wondered if he dared try to loosen the prince’s shirt. He’d just about worked up the courage to start tugging it free from the waist of Mikhyal’s breeches when Dirit’s voice hissed in his ear, “The Wytch King is heading this way!”
Mikhyal cursed as they pulled apart. “How far away is he?”
“He just left the ballroom,” Dirit said, flitting up to perch on top of the tall bookshelf from which he commanded a view of the entire main room of the suite.
“I… I sh-should really b-be going,” Tristin stammered.
“You don’t need to leave,” Mikhyal said. “Whom I entertain is my own business.”
“Yes, well… it’s also the business of the entire C-Court.”
Mikhyal sighed and straightened his clothing, and Tristin did the same. He’d only just finished when the door of the suite opened and Wytch King Drannik entered, looking pale and tired.
“You may have been right, Mikhyal,” the Wytch King said sourly. “Perhaps attending the ceremony and the dance was a bit much.”
Mikhyal moved to his father’s side. “Do you need any help, Father?”
Drannik tried to shrug Mikhyal off, but Mikhyal insisted on seeing the king to his bed chamber. He shot Tristin an apologetic look, and mouthed, Tomorrow.
Tristin nodded and took the opportunity to slip away, hoping his presence in the suite wasn’t going to cause problems for Mikhyal. He returned to his own rooms by way of the Grand Hall, and hung about on the fringes of the gathering, just in case anyone who had seen them leave together was watching to see if either of them returned.
By the time he arrived in his bed chamber, he was too tired to do much more than fall into bed.
Chapter Eight
Much to his consternation, Mikhyal didn’t see Tristin the day after the betrothal, nor the day after that. The Wytch Kings of the Northern Alliance wasted no time after the announcement of their treaty. The very next morning, Mikhyal was summoned to the first of a series of strategy sessions that took up most of the next week. The time was spent discussing military assets, vulnerabilities, and defensive plans.
In their first act of open defiance of the Wytch Council, Altan’s Wytch Master Ilya and Irilan’s Wytch Master Ythlin joined them in plotting their rebellion.
Drannik recovered his strength quickly, and indeed, by the end of the week, it was Mikhyal, rather than his father, who was falling asleep at the strategy table.
When the last session finally ended, late in the evening, the Wytch Kings had planned for every contingency they could think of, and each would return to his kingdom with a list of tasks to complete.
The first order of business was to increase the forces on their borders and send the Wytch Council their declaration of independence. The plan was to deliver the document along with a prison carriage containing three Wytch Masters, each with a blood-chain locked around his neck to prevent him from using his power. Edrun would take Wytch Master Rotham into custody the moment he returned to his palace at Mir. Drannik was to do the same with Wytch Master Anxin, who would be escorted to Mir, as would Wytch Master Faah, who was still being held beneath Castle Altan.
Ord and Edrun planned to leave the following morning, but Drannik would wait until Mikhyal’s transformation was complete before taking Garrik up on his offer to fly him home. If Mikhyal was fit enough to accompany him, he would do so. Otherwise, Drannik would go on ahead to get things moving in Rhiva. With the attacker still loose, Mikhyal was not thrilled at the prospect of Drannik returning to the palace alone, but his father would not be dissuaded. Shaine and Anxin, he said, had already arrested the King’s Guard, and he was loathe to give them more time in which to damage the kingdom.
As the meeting broke up, Vayne pulled Mikhyal aside and said, “Ambris and I can perform the transformation whenever you are ready, though from the sound of things, your father is eager to return to Rhiva, so perhaps the sooner the better, ai?”
Mikhyal’s pulse jumped. “Ai,” he said, swallowing. “At your convenience.”
“Tomorrow, then?” Vayne sa
id cheerfully. “I’ll speak with Kian and have him bring you up to Dragonwatch first thing. We’ve been performing the transformations there. Less chance of being disturbed. Or seen by prying eyes spying for the Council.”
“Tomorrow,” Mikhyal agreed, gut twisting in apprehension as he started to turn away.
Vayne’s expression softened, and he reached out to touch Mikhyal’s arm. “Don’t worry, Mikhyal. You are well-suited for this. Most of the patterns are already there in your mythe-shadow. Your transformation will be easy and painless, and you will sleep through it, I promise.”
The reassurances were not enough to assuage Mikhyal’s fears, and he wished it wasn’t so late. Tristin had been through this, and even if he couldn’t set Mikhyal’s mind at ease, his company would be a pleasant distraction.
He saw Drannik off to bed and was about to seek his own bed chamber when there was a knock at the door of the suite. Mikhyal nodded to the guardsman standing beside it, and the door was opened to reveal Tristin standing in the hallway, shuffling his feet.
“Ah…” Tristin flushed and glanced at the guardsman before addressing Mikhyal. “G-good evening, Your Highness. I-I heard you might… I mean, someone suggested to me that you might be in need of a bit of… um… reassurance. About tomorrow.”
“I was just thinking that some reassurance would be most welcome,” Mikhyal said, smiling broadly. “I considered seeking you out, but it’s late enough that I didn’t want to disturb you if you’d already gone to your bed.”
Tristin came in, and Mikhyal sent the guardsman outside to stand watch in the hall so they could have a bit of privacy.
“I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to talk to you all week,” Mikhyal said. “These bloody strategy meetings have been interminable. There’s so much to consider, and as you can imagine, everyone is eager to return home to prepare for the Council’s reaction. We’ve been starting early, finishing late, and working through mealtimes.”
“It’s all right,” Tristin said, ducking his head. “Jaire’s been keeping me apprised, and I’ve plenty to do. Master Ludin’s been showing me around the royal gardens and the greenhouses, and we’ve been planning a new garden for Dragonwatch. Dirit’s been giving me regular reports, too. He popped in a little while ago and said you looked rather sweet, half asleep over the maps.”
“Well, we’d all but finished, but Ord would keep droning on and on. I swear, the man has to repeat everything at least three times, just to be sure everyone understands.”
“Jaire said the same. But he also said he thought it was a very productive series of meetings.”
“It was, indeed. We’ve plans for the defense of the Northern Alliance, and we’ve all got our marching orders. We’ve discussed as many contingencies as we’ve been able to imagine, and I think we are as prepared as we can be. Garrik’s first priority is to establish a communications network of dragon shifters across the northern kingdoms. We’ll be able to send messages and adjust our plans much more quickly than we could if we were sending messages by courier on horseback.”
Tristin’s eyes went wide. “That’s brilliant!” He gave Mikhyal a rueful smile. “That’s why it’s a good thing Garrik’s on the throne. I’d never have thought of anything that clever.”
“Don’t put yourself down, Tristin,” Mikhyal said gravely. “You’re clever, too. Your strengths just lie in different areas than Garrik’s.”
Tristin flushed and stared down at his feet. “Oh, but you want to hear about the transformation, don’t you? It was a long time ago for Vayne, and I don’t think his experience was very pleasant. He has a much better idea of what to do than the Wytch Master who transformed him all those years ago. I didn’t feel a thing when he did me. In fact, Ambris put me to sleep for it. He’ll probably do the same for you. It’s that easy. You fall asleep, and when you wake up, you’re a dragon shifter.”
Mikhyal found it hard to believe it would be so simple. “There’s a tattoo involved, isn’t there?”
“Ai, there is. The patterns are inked into your flesh and your mythe-shadow at the same time. But you’ll be asleep, so you won’t feel it.”
“Might I… might I see yours? I didn’t… the night you shifted for me, it was… it was too dark.” The moment the words fell from his lips, Mikhyal regretted them. Tristin had been quite upset that night, and had fled, and with the attack on his father and all that had followed, Mikhyal had never really had a chance to find out what, exactly, had distressed him so.
Was he just painfully shy? Or was there more to it than that?
He’d certainly responded eagerly enough when they’d kissed the night of the dance.
“Oh. Um.” Tristin licked his lips and his eyes darted to the door of the Wytch King’s bed chamber.
“I don’t think he’ll be getting up,” Mikhyal said. “He was very tired. But if you’d feel more comfortable, we could go into my bed chamber.”
Tristin hesitated.
“It’s all right if you’d rather not. I’m sure Vayne would show me his. Or—”
“No, it’s all right,” Tristin said quickly. “Just… yes, I would feel more comfortable if there was no chance of anyone walking in and seeing…” he trailed off and stared back down at the floor.
When they were safely inside Mikhyal’s bed chamber, Mikhyal closed and locked the door. “There. Now no one will bother us.”
“Thank you. I… I’m sorry I’m so… it’s just… I don’t normally… and you’re so… and then there’s the… oh, dear, I’m doing it again.”
“Tristin… it’s quite all right. I understand. I can turn my back, if that makes it easier.”
Tristin blinked at him in the dim lamplight. “I… no, I need to… I mean, eventually, you’ll… and I’ll just have to… Oh, bother. Look, it’s just that there are some rather ugly… marks… on my arms. It’s… it’s nothing, really, just that when I was kept captive in Shadowspire, I grew desperate. I was so weak and… and afraid… I… I might have broken the, um, window and tried to use the glass to… well, I mean…” He swallowed hard. A moment later, he shoved his sleeve up, baring his arm to the elbow, and held it out for Mikhyal to see. “There, you see? That’s how weak I am. I’m sorry I’m not…”
The scars told the story more succinctly than Tristin had, and Mikhyal instantly grasped what had happened. A wave of fierce tenderness washed over him, and he took hold of Tristin’s arm by the wrist and very gently drew it to his lips, turning it so he could kiss the scars.
Tristin’s eyes went huge.
“You are not weak, Tristin. These marks don’t make me think anything of the sort. On the contrary, they tell me how truly desperate your situation was, and how strong you are to have survived it.” Mikhyal bent his head to kiss another of the silvery-pink lines. “Don’t hide yourself from me, for you are strong, and so very beautiful.”
To his surprise, Tristin didn’t pull away. He remained still, but for his trembling. When Mikhyal lifted his head to look at him, tears glinted in Tristin’s eyes. “I do believe that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” Tristin whispered.
Mikhyal pulled him into his arms and held him tight. “You have not been properly cared for. Or loved. I would see that change.”
Tristin’s arms crept around him, and he hung on to Mikhyal. “I… I think I might like that.”
When they parted, Tristin took a step back and began unlacing his shirt.
“Tristin, you don’t have to—”
Tristin reached out and pressed a finger to Mikhyal’s lips. “I want to,” he said softly. “I believe I can trust you.”
I believe I can trust you.
Knowing some of what Tristin had been through made those words all the more precious. “I swear to you, I’ll do my best to be worthy of your trust.”
Tristin gave him a hesitant smile and slipped off his shirt, then took a deep breath and turned around. The tattoo on his back was stunning. It depicted a brilliant, ruby-red dragon with its wings sprea
d wide. The ink was like nothing Mikhyal had ever seen before, almost glowing in the lamplight.
“Beautiful,” Mikhyal breathed. His fingers itched to touch, and he started to reach out, but stopped just before he brushed Tristin’s skin. “May I… may I touch?”
“Yes,” Tristin whispered. “I’d like that.”
Mikhyal traced the lines of the image inked into Tristin’s back, noting the way Tristin shivered at his touch. When he bent to press a kiss to the top of the dragon’s head, Tristin let out a little whimper. Mikhyal moved up to his shoulder and kissed and nibbled his way to Tristin’s neck. Tristin moaned and practically melted against him.
Holding him close, Mikhyal let his hand wander around Tristin’s trim waist to brush over his flat stomach and nearly hairless chest. Tristin let out a little sigh and let his head fall back against Mikhyal’s shoulder.
“I would like to touch you everywhere,” Mikhyal whispered, “but I don’t want to frighten you away. Tell me what you want, Tristin.”
Without hesitating, Tristin whispered back, “I think… I think I’d like you to touch me everywhere. Please. Only… could we… can it be dark?”
“Of course it can.” Mikhyal reached out to douse the lamp, leaving the room in darkness but for the faint shimmer of moonlight coming in the window.
He began by running his hands over the smooth skin of Tristin’s chest and his belly. Years of addiction and inactivity had left his ribs prominent and his muscles weak and underdeveloped. Mikhyal looked forward to seeing what a few months of activity and good food would do for him.
“Can you…” Tristin sounded breathless, his voice husky and trembling. “Can you take off your shirt, too? I’ve never… I want… I’d like to feel your skin against mine…” He pulled away, and Mikhyal quickly fumbled with the laces of his shirt and drew it off. He tossed it to the side and pulled Tristin back against his chest.
“So warm…” Tristin murmured.