by M. L. Rhodes
Logan stared at him, brown eyes wide with shock. "Only me?" he whispered.
"That's right. Elves don't love aimlessly or often. Many are lucky to find one love in their whole lifetimes, and when they do love, it's forever. When one partner dies, some lose their will to live without their mate and die, too, of a broken heart. And the ones who go on face a long, lonely existence, their lives stretching out before them like an endless road with little comfort. Very few find another to fill their heart. Very few ever want to." He brushed a loose curl away from where it hung over Logan's eyes. "Why do you think I'd risk everything to come through that mirror to see you?"
* * * *
Logan stared at Hallan, struggling to pull air into his tortured lungs, his heart so full it made his chest ache. "I..."
Hallan framed his face with his hands and kissed him, taking away the need for the words that wouldn't come. His mouth was soft, warm, the kiss tender, and yet it reached down into Logan's soul with a fierce passion and love that almost scared Logan it was so intense.
How did a human who lived the simple life of a shopkeeper and who'd dreamed of one day meeting a nice, simple, genuine man to spend his life with, respond to something so powerful and so much bigger than anything he'd ever imagined? How did one overcome the shock of a six-hundred-year-old elf telling you that you were the one and only love of his life and he'd risk everything for you...and he meant it?
"I don't understand why," Logan whispered against Hallan's lips. "You have so many more important things in your life, in your world. So many problems of your own on your plate. And yet you come into mine and take time to put me to me to bed when I'm drunk, make a potion so I won't feel like crap the next morning, and make another to help me save my store from going out of business. Why would you care about someone like me?"
"You already know why." The heat and love in his gaze stole Logan's breath. "I love you, Logan."
His eyes burned with unshed tears. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."
"I feel the same way about you," Hallan said. "I've spent the past hundred-fifty years dancing to the dictates of an angry, vengeful king, and the past three years living as a virtual prisoner because of that same king's paranoia. Every week it gets worse. I wake up every day and wonder if this will be the day he decides I'm a threat he's no longer willing to live with. Sometimes watching you through that mirror, seeing you smile, hearing you talk to Zeus, has been the only thing that's kept me sane. You have no idea what a gift you've been to me."
Logan leaned back and studied Hallan, fear knotting his gut. "You think he would kill you?"
Hallan sighed and took several steps away to look out over the meadow. "I think if he finds out the truth or even suspects it, yes."
"What truth?" Logan's hand was on his back.
"My mother refused, all my life, to tell me about my father. She said it was better if I didn't know and I wasn't to ever discuss it with anyone. Naturally, I wondered. She kept me away from the high court in spite of the fact she worked there, and as soon as I was old enough, sent me off traveling all over Lamerion to learn as much as I could. But there were times, when I was home, that I'd watch her as she talked, and whenever she mentioned a certain name, her face would soften and she'd get a look in her eyes. And sometimes she'd get that same look when her gaze fell on me. And then when she was exiled she left me a letter and in it she said, 'Keep your silence. One day there may be questions, and if they find out, you'll be in danger.'"
"If she never told you who your father was, what would she want you to keep silent about?"
"I think she knew I suspected."
"Who do you think it is?"
He drew in a deep breath and spoke. "I think Aestorian was my father."
Chapter 8
* * *
A prince.
Logan had been sufficiently shocked at Hallan's bombshell. If Aestorian were his father, that made Hallan a prince.
But when Logan said as much, Hallan had shrugged it off like he neither cared nor wanted such a title. Aestorian had had two other children with his wife--a daughter and a son. If Zolotan hadn't misaligned them and taken the crown for himself, one of them would have ascended to the throne. Hallan, if he were a son, would be a distant third in line because he was far younger than the other two, and Aestorian wasn't mated to his mother. The "illegitimate" son, was how Logan thought of it, though it seemed that to the elves this was less of a scourge than here.
Logan had questioned him about Aestorian's wife, though--it had bothered him about Aestorian being with two women after Hallan's revelation that most elves were lucky to love once in their lives. As it turned out, unlike the rest of the race, those of high blood were usually matched for power or security or political favor--not unlike old-fashioned arranged marriages on Earth. Aestorian had been mated with the daughter of one of the eastern elf lords for political reasons, and though they'd been companionable and produced heirs, theirs was a bond of practicality, not love. A few hundred years into their relationship, she'd parted ways with Aestorian on good terms and moved back to her lands. And eventually, Aestorian, who'd still been a prince at the time, had fallen in love with Hallan's mother...at least that's what Hallan believed. From everything he'd told Logan, Logan agreed it was likely. Hallan believed the reason his mother hadn't fought against being exiled was that when Aestorian died, her heart had no longer been at the high court and she wanted to go away and grieve in peace.
If the king delved into Hallan's parentage and found some evidence that Hallan's father really had been Aestorian, the king would see that as a direct threat to his crown. Especially with the nephew already stirring trouble for him. Hallan's fear was that the king would believe Hallan was a plant who'd been put there to feed inside information to the rebellion. King Zolodan had banished Aestorian's daughter and imprisoned his son to get rid of them because it was against the law to put royalty to death for any crime. Hallan, however, would get no such leniency. No one would know he was Aestorian's progeny, therefore the king could, and probably would, have Hallan killed.
The more they'd talked, the more Logan had begun to understand the truly difficult situation Hallan was in. Held prisoner as he was, with guards constantly watching him, there was no way for him to escape in Lamerion. The king and his guards were too suspicious of him to ever accept a potion or trust him with their food or drink, so there was no easy way for him to even slip anyone a sleeping draught.
His only way out was through the mirror.
But because of the mirror's rules, he couldn't stay. All he could do was seek brief reprieves.
* * * *
After he and Hallan had awakened from the dream, though Logan hadn't truly expected it and had thought it was a joke, Hallan had gone downstairs, then returned a while later and rubbed something that had been deliciously cool and hot all at the same time on Logan's backside.
As he'd lain there in the dark letting Hallan take care of him yet again, he wondered what, if anything, he could do to take care of Hallan and make things easier for him. Hallan was the one in danger, the one taking the risks, and it killed Logan to think about what could happen to him. He kept asking himself over and over what he could do, but aside from promising to be here for his lover, he didn't know. He felt like one small insignificant and ordinary human had no role to play in a power game such as this. A power game that was taking place in another world--a world he couldn't travel into--with immortal beings who had magick powers and with stakes far higher than anything Logan had ever had to deal with in his simple life here on Earth.
When it was time for Hallan to go that night, the single hardest thing Logan had ever done was let Hallan leave when neither of them knew when or, God forbid, if he'd be able to return.
* * * *
A week passed...and nothing.
The storm had blown over, the electricity had come back on, and life had continued. Logan had almost cried the morning after Hallan left when he found a dozen bottles
of the PASSION oil sitting on the table. He'd cursed the elf, though not out loud, for risking more time to make it. If he'd been able to, Logan would have liked to smack him upside the head and tell him to get his priorities straight.
After discovering how Hallan lived his life, he felt guilty for ever having felt so sorry for his own. He loved his store with a passion and didn't want to lose it and would do whatever he could to keep it afloat. If it closed, however, it wouldn't be the end of the world. He'd get another job like everyone else did when times were bad. He'd be sad and he'd hate it, but life would go on. Nobody would get hurt. Or die.
But as fate would have it, sales at Shoemaker's Magick Shoppe took off with abandon. It was as if Hallan's PASSION oil had put something in motion that was above and beyond sales of the potion itself. Logan had more customers that week than he'd had in all of December put together. And most of them made purchases of some kind, not just the people who bought the PASSION oil, though many bottles of it sold as well. For the first time in months, Logan was able to pay all his bills on time, and he'd started working on a small merchandise order to replenish some of his stock. If things continued to go well, he'd place it next week. He'd been able to afford to step up from ramen noodles to the occasional peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and one night even splurged and had mac-n-cheese.
But the victories, as nice as they were, weighed heavily on him. He never kidded himself or forgot for even one second how the turnaround in his store had begun, and who was responsible for his boost in sales. Every time he sold a bottle of the PASSION oil, he thought of what price Hallan might have to pay for it, and another little piece of his heart chipped away.
Every night he waited, hoped, and then hoped some more that Hallan might come.
And every night he slept alone in his bed.
By the following Saturday night he'd taken to spending his every waking minute that he wasn't in the store, in the kitchen near the mirror. Even if Hallan couldn't come through, maybe he'd be able to see Logan. It made him a little self-conscious to think he might be looked at, to know that he'd been observed for months like this. And yet, somehow being near the mirror was like being near Hallan, even if he had absolutely no way of knowing if Hallan was free to look.
He went to bed that night worried sick that something had happened to Hallan. The last time it had been two days on his side and six on Hallan's. So if a week had gone by here, then it had to have been close to three weeks or more there. Three weeks. He could barely stand to think what all might have happened in that time. By the time he finally closed his eyes and slept, it was a fitful doze at best.
Which was probably why he sensed the heat of the body above him a second before the warm mouth crushed his.
Logan's hands curled around the familiar, beloved back, one tangling in the long hair, the other clinging at the waist, and gave himself up to the sensual onslaught like a man finding sustenance at last after a famine.
Hallan's mouth gave no quarter, and Logan didn't want it to. He wanted every thrust of the tongue, every bite of the teeth on his lower lip, every sweet, suctioning lick over the wounds to make them better.
No words were needed. Bed covers were thrown aside. Clothes disappeared. And then it was hard, hot flesh against hard, hot flesh. Nipples sucked and twisted and nipped. Wet suctioning mouths on cocks. Lube coated fingers delving into dark tight places. Guttural growls, moans and whimpers. And then heaven on Earth when Hallan drove hard and deep into Logan's aching, welcoming body.
It wasn't about tenderness or leisure or talking. It was about raging loneliness, raw need, and an urgency driven by fear and relief, love in the form of lust, and bittersweet desperation that for all they knew, this might have to last them for a long stretch until they could be together again, or it could be the last time ever.
The bed banged against the wall. The wind blew outside, heralding another snowstorm.
Inside, the personal storm exploded like bolts of heat lightning, searing through the air, through the hot sticky bodies clinging together, ripping hoarse cries from raw throats, and bathing deep passages and yanking hands with scorching bursts of ropy seed.
And somewhere between the last spasm of rapture and the calm that settled over their spent bodies afterward...Logan finally knew what he had to do.
Hallan's lips found his again, gentle this time, soft caresses that wrenched at Logan's already aching heart.
"Missed you," Hallan murmured between kisses. "So much. I thought..." His voice caught. "I thought I'd never find a chance to get here."
"I was scared," Logan admitted, finding it hard to speak after so much emotion. "Are you okay?"
"Lonely. So damned lonely for you."
Tears stung Logan's eyes. "Me, too."
"I've had someone with me constantly. Even in my rooms now. There've been more questions."
"How did you get here?"
"There was an attack on the high court. The rebellion. All extra guards were needed, so the one in my rooms was called away. There was still one outside the door, but as soon as the other left, I locked the door, went to the bathing room and turned on the water, then shut that door, too, so they'd think I was busy in there. And then I came here. Logan, I don't..."
"Have much time. I know."
"I'm sorry." Hallan's lips pressed to his again, offering an apology of their own. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't apologize. It's not your fault, Hallan."
"I know. But that doesn't make it any easier. I dread it more every time. The going back." He clung to Logan in a way Logan had never seen him do before.
As he cradled Hallan's head against his chest and stroked his hair, Logan remembered the afternoon they'd spent in the dream, how Hallan's dimpled, quick smile had stolen his breath. How the sunlight had glistened on his blond hair. How his eyes, that striking shade of amethyst, had alternated between a mischievous twinkle and searing, knee-weakening passion. So beautiful. So alive. So damned giving.
With a piercing pain in his chest, Logan knew this was the moment. The moment when he could finally step up to the plate and do something to help Hallan.
He gently nudged Hallan off of him and slipped from the bed.
"Logan? What is it?"
He didn't answer--was afraid if he tried to speak the hot, painful knot in his throat would burst and he'd lose it. Instead, in the dark he crossed the room and reached for the jeans he'd tugged off before bed. They lay in a heap by the closet door. He dug into the back pocket and found his wallet. He usually laid it on top of the dresser but had been so distracted worrying about Hallan when he went to bed he'd forgotten to. Swallowing hard, trying to breathe deeply and hold his emotions at bay, he pulled it out, opened it, and found the thick wad of cash he'd put in there when he'd closed the register tonight. It had been a long time since he'd had that much cold cash in the till, and he'd stuck it in his wallet to use for grocery shopping tomorrow, then whatever was left he'd deposit at the bank.
Its purpose now was far more important.
With a final quiet breath to find that place of calm inside himself, he turned. Each footfall on the cold wood floor hurt because each step brought him closer to what he most wanted and most dreaded all at the same time.
Hallan had moved to sit on the edge of the bed. Logan felt him in the dark. It was odd how he'd grown to know Hallan's shape, his scent, the pattern of his breathing so well that now he could find him almost unerringly in spite of not being able to see him.
"Get dressed," Logan told him, finding the words and somehow managing with Herculean effort to keep his voice steady.
"Wh--at?"
Logan's chest ached. "Hallan, please, get dressed."
"Why?"
"Because I'm asking you to." His bare foot brushed against something on the floor. Hallan's pants? He bent to pick them up, then held them out. "Here."
Hallan's hand caught his wrist. "Logan, what's wrong? Talk to me."
Please, Hallan. The tightening in his chest
grew worse, making it hard to breathe. He pulled his wrist free, still feeling the tingle of Hallan's warm fingers where they'd pressed against his pulse.
"Please." His voice was betraying him now, hoarse with pain. "Trust me."
"Logan..." Hallan stood. Stepped closer.
Logan stepped away. If Hallan touched him again he'd fall apart.
"Okay, now you're scaring me. What's going on?"
"I'm not trying to scare you. I'm trying to save you, damn it." A sob escaped. "So put your clothes on and...and just let me!"
He threw Hallan's pants at him, but heard Hallan bat them aside. Felt him step closer. "Logan, what's this about?" His voice was tight with worry now.
"Hallan, for fuck's sake, will you please just do what I'm asking!" Logan squeezed his thumb and forefinger against his eyes, trying to make the tears stop, but they came anyway. "Just put on your clothes. Do it!"
"Why?" Hallan asked again. This time a demand.
Logan took another step backward. And another.
"Tell me why."
"Because you have to leave. Right now." A hoarse sob tore from his chest. "You're going to put on your clothes. You're going take this money I'm holding. You're going to go downstairs. And you're going to open the front door and walk out."
"What?"
"You heard me. Get dressed and do it! I want you to walk out that front door and just keep on walking and don't stop. And never, ever look back."
"No! What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about a way, the way to save you, damn it! You can't go back, Hallan. It's just a matter of time and the king's going to kill you. And you can't stay here with me because I can never see you. If I see you you'll get sucked back into that fucking hateful mirror to your world and then the king will still kill you." Another sob wrenched free.