“I mean—” Danny steps in close, wraps his arms around Drake’s back, presses his cheek to Drake’s. “Lady’s shroud, Colin, you’re freezing,” he murmurs. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be, does it?” His breath is warm against Drake’s ear, and he’s trembling. “If you said it wasn’t you—if you said he was the killer, and asked the mercy of the court. Julia’s family helped get Judge Colburn appointed, I’m sure we could talk to him and—”
“And what?” Drake tries to pull back, but Danny hangs on. “You want me to send Gabriel to hang for something I’ve done?”
“Listen to yourself,” Danny pleads. “He’s a killer, isn’t he? Whether or not you say so. It won’t change anything for him. But you could come home again. Even if he didn’t get—even if nothing happened to him.” He presses his lips to the line of Drake’s jaw. “Please, Colin. Come home.”
Drake tries to imagine what that would even be like, how he’d feel sleeping in his own bed again and eating like this every night; paying court to a well-bred girl, and taking on more of the plantation’s management, and not getting in any more fights or gambling for pennies on the docks or facing down men who’ve been killers all their lives. It feels like he’s two different people, Colin and Drake, the rich boy and—and the dragon. “Danny, I . . .”
As he hesitates, trying to order his thoughts enough to give any answer at all, there’s a crash from inside, and someone screams. Danny flinches, and Drake pulls away.
“Don’t,” Danny says as Drake heads for the door. “Leave him be.”
“I can’t do that.” Drake pushes the door open.
The musicians have stopped playing, the dancers crowding back around the edges of the room. There’s a table overturned on the far side, near the fireplace, and food spilled across the floor—the duck carcass, half a ham, sweet honey rolls. In front of the overturned table, in a large clear spot on the floor, Gabriel is kneeling over a young man Drake thinks he should know—Brent? Brett? something like that—holding the carving fork like a weapon, its tines pressed to the soft skin under possibly-Brett’s jaw. He’s not pushing—yet—just watching the boy try not to panic. One of Brett’s friends has a bloody nose.
Out of the corner of his eye, Drake sees motion: Sebastian pushing through the crowd, coming closer. Drake curses under his breath. There are too many things going on here.
“Not such fun after all, this party,” he says to Gabriel, crossing the room with his tread as heavy and certain as he can make it.
“Bored already?” Gabriel asks without looking up. His voice has the unpleasant flatness it gets when they’ve cornered someone on a job. “I’d have thought you could keep yourself entertained here for longer.”
“You know how it is when you get something you thought you wanted, and it turns out not to be right after all.” The escape they want is behind them, and it makes Drake’s hackles rise that he can’t watch both that and Gabriel at the same time.
“I don’t.” Gabriel shakes his head. “My Drake is so fickle.”
Movement by the table makes them both look up—and Gabriel pushes just slightly, enough to get a fearful noise and some squirming out of the boy under him.
The friend with the bloody nose has drawn a gold-hilted dagger, his eyes wide, his hand unsteady. Drake puts his hands in his pockets, touches brass, and steps between the man and Gabriel’s little tableau.
“That’s not doing anyone any good,” Drake says. “A real fight’s much nastier business than sessions in the salon. You ever cut up anything more dangerous than a crown roast?”
“I’m not scared,” the man says.
Drake smiles. “Funny.” He can’t be the rich boy here, now, but if he’s the dragon, he thinks he can bluff their way out of here. “Me neither.” He watches the way the man’s eyes flick from him down to Gabriel and relaxes, just a little. They’ve won this, as soon as the rest of the room notices. “And if you put that down, nobody has to bleed out on the floor tonight.”
“Spoiling all my fun,” Gabriel says. Without looking at him, Drake can’t tell if it’s real petulance or if he’s just playing at being bloodthirsty. They’re both acting like they’re working right now.
“What do you think, Brett?” Drake says. There’s a little murmuring from the partygoers, and he tries to tune it out. “Should we be on our way?”
The poor boy makes a strangled noise that sounds a lot like a plea. Drake raises an eyebrow at the friend: Do you want to make things worse for him?
“Please,” someone says from the crowd, a girl, and Drake would look if he could spare the attention—and the man drops his gaze, mutters a curse Drake can’t make out as he tosses the dagger away.
“Good choice,” Drake says. They need to hurry. Someone must have gone for the guard. “Gabriel?”
“After you, Drake.”
Drake steps backward until he can see Gabriel again—reaching down into Brett’s pockets—and then turns to make sure their exit is clear. Danny’s standing by the door, looking stricken, and Sebastian is beside him, watching Drake with the cool little half smile he always wore at the gaming table. “Terribly sorry about this,” Drake says.
“Think nothing of it. You’ll be the scandal of the season.” Sebastian winks. “I won’t tell our dear friend the captain I saw you, but I can’t promise the same for my guests.”
“You talk too much,” Gabriel says. He pushes past Sebastian and wrenches the door open.
“Happy New Year,” Sebastian calls after them as Drake follows. How, Drake wonders, did he ever have the patience for that nonsense?
Gabriel takes a jagged, purposeful route back to the water, moving at a steady wolf-trot, and it’s not until they’re crossing the bridge—Drake’s not even sure which bridge, in the dark—that Drake catches up with breath enough to ask, “What was that about?”
Gabriel makes an angry spitting noise, and slows to a brisk walk. “I don’t care for them much, these friends of yours.”
“Right now, honestly, I don’t either,” Drake says. He hurries to keep up. Was it always that . . . hollow? That obnoxious?
They take a few more turns, and even if Drake isn’t sure of the street names, he can tell by the steady downhill slope that they’re headed more or less toward home. They turn from one half-lit street down a crooked little alley, and a dozen steps from the next block Gabriel pivots all at once, lunges for him, and shoves him up against the wall, knocking the breath from him.
“I think you’ve been lying to me, Drake.”
Drake holds very still, resisting the urge to deny it immediately. Gabriel’s hands are on him, thin and hard, clenched in his jacket and curled around his shoulder. So far he hasn’t drawn a knife, and Drake wants to keep it that way. “Lying about what?” he asks. He wishes he could see Gabriel’s expression better.
“Your friend Nobody.” Gabriel’s voice is low and urgent, fierce, the flat coldness from earlier completely gone. “He does matter after all, doesn’t he?” His hands knead at Drake’s clothes, at his shoulders, hard enough to hurt.
“I’m sorry,” Drake says. Of all the bizarre things for Gabriel to find upsetting. “He’s—he used to be a good friend of mine.” Here he was expecting the problem to be something outlandish and touched—Gabriel deciding not to believe in dragons after all, maybe, after the banality of that scene—and instead it’s—
Gabriel presses Drake’s back into the wall, like he’s trying to hold Drake still with the weight of his body. He feels so lean, bone just under his skin. So fragile, despite how dangerous he is. “I won’t let him take you away,” he whispers. “I won’t. You’ve made things better. I don’t want you to go.”
Black rot. Instead it’s serious.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Drake reaches up, slowly, and rests one of his hands on top of Gabriel’s. “I’m still here. You don’t have to worry.”
“I’m not worried,” Gabriel says, and his voice cracks unhappily. His grip doesn’t ease. “I’m just. I
don’t need you. But you should stay. It’s better. Warmer. Less hungry. I don’t lose so many days.” He lets go of his death grip on Drake’s shoulder, as if it’s an effort, and pets Drake instead, too hard, still as much of a plea as before. “Your Nobody wants to steal you away.”
“Nobody’s— I’m not going to let anybody steal me,” Drake promises. It’s tricky to phrase things right, with Gabriel in a mood like this. “I’m not a thing to be stolen, and I’m here with you on purpose.” He rests his other hand on Gabriel’s back and strokes, carefully, and thinks about how strange this is, how close to an embrace. “Let’s go home, Gabriel. I’m tired. I want to go to bed.”
Gabriel slumps a little, leaning his forehead on Drake’s shoulder. “You’re right,” he says after a minute. “This night is no good. We should sleep.” He lets go of Drake and steps back. “Lead the way home.”
This is probably another test, either to see if Drake does know his way back or if he’s willing to call the Cypress Street room home—but that’s all right. He can do this. Even with Gabriel at his back and clearly in a reckless mood. He keeps to the smaller streets, avoiding people as much as possible. He doesn’t want to deal with anyone right now, and he doubts Gabriel has much patience left, either.
Gabriel doesn’t say a word to him all the way back home, and when they get there, he sits on the mattress, silent, staring into the corner while Drake fumbles in the dark to light the stove. When the fire catches and there’s light enough to see, Drake thinks perhaps the look on Gabriel’s face is melancholy, like whatever fit it was that made him angry earlier has passed, and now he’s just worn down. He looks miserable.
Drake shuts the stove door so the light won’t keep them awake, and crawls over to the mattress. “Good night, Gabriel,” he says as he takes his boots off.
“Oh,” Gabriel says, and shakes himself. “Yes.” He kicks his boots off and crawls under the blanket, facing away from Drake, pressing close to the wall. “Good night.”
Drake hesitates. He should just leave this be, and in the morning things will be normal again, or as normal as they ever get where Gabriel’s involved. He’s already too close, too tangled up in Gabriel’s world.
But thinking like that only makes him ashamed of himself. Gabriel has tried to be good to him. So instead of turning his back, Drake reaches out and rests one hand on Gabriel’s shoulder, carefully, gently. Gabriel doesn’t move at first—and then he grabs Drake’s wrist and pulls, dragging him closer and holding Drake’s hand to his chest. His grip is tight, his fingers cold. His breathing shakes.
“It’s all right,” Drake whispers. “Sleep well.”
“Thank you,” Gabriel says softly. “I will.”
But Drake lies awake in the dark for a long time, and he doesn’t hear Gabriel’s breathing settle into sleep.
When he wakes in the morning, it’s to the smell of damp wood and plaster, and the faint patter of the leak over by the window as rain drips onto the floor. It’s light enough outside that he can see fairly well, and he finds he’s looking at the curl of dark hair against the dusty skin of Gabriel’s neck. Since he came here, he’s grown better at keeping still when he sleeps—moving around a lot just risks losing the blanket—and now it seems he’s spent the entire night holding Gabriel.
It’s a sobering thought. After last night—after last night, he thinks maybe he’s been trying too hard not to see the obvious. In anyone else, anyone normal, that episode after the party would have seemed like a fit of jealousy, and Gabriel is touched but he’s still human. He might not act on it the same way that other people do, might not know how to show it, but it’s strange to think that Gabriel might want to be . . . might want to . . . Drake can’t even finish the sentence in his head. It’s going to lead him to doing something he can’t take back, if he keeps thinking like that.
Gabriel stirs and stretches, making a sleepy, mumbly noise. “Drake?” he asks. “Have you been there all night?”
Drake swallows. “I have.”
“You’re very warm.” Gabriel turns over onto his back, which takes a lot more squirming than it should as he tries not to slip out from under the blanket himself.
“Thank you,” Drake guesses. It seems like a safe answer. Gabriel looks over at him, alert but calm now, and it’s not so hard to meet his eyes this morning. “How are you feeling?”
“I don’t want to go anywhere yet,” Gabriel says. “You’re not hungry, are you?”
He’s always hungry in the mornings, but some days are worse than others. “Not much. I don’t mind waiting.”
“Good.” Gabriel shifts under the blankets, and slowly—tentatively—lays his hand against Drake’s side. “This is all right? I thought you didn’t want me to. When you first came here, you got up and tried to leave, after.”
Drake blinks. Gabriel has been waiting on him? “I barely knew you then,” he protests.
“Hnn.” Gabriel shakes his head. “You barely knew that whore, and you touched a lot more of her.”
That was at least a month ago, and Gabriel hadn’t seemed to be paying much attention at the time. Drake blushes, and hopes it’s still too dark for Gabriel to see. “What about you? I thought you didn’t like people touching you.”
“Silly Drake,” Gabriel says gently. “I don’t like people touching me.” His smile is wistful, sweet. “You’re different.”
That’s reason enough to stop, and Drake knows it. Gabriel’s mad, and Drake’s not going to be much better if he keeps on like this. And yet—they say no man ever caught the Maiden’s eye by playing his cards safely. Drake shifts, and Gabriel just watches him move, and his heart pounds as hard as it ever has when he leans across that last little distance between them and kisses Gabriel’s mouth.
Somehow he hadn’t thought that Gabriel would feel so soft against his lips, but the kiss is delicate and cautious, close mouthed. Gabriel doesn’t react, not really, until Drake starts to pull back, and then his hand tightens on Drake’s side and a tiny noise escapes his lips. Drake leans back in, and this time Gabriel tilts his head to meet the kiss, so Drake presses harder. When his tongue brushes Gabriel’s lips, Gabriel takes a sharp breath like he’s startled. His mouth opens uncertainly, and Drake feels dizzy—he’s kissing Gabriel, and Gabriel is letting him. It’s awkward and slow, as if Gabriel’s still not sure about doing this, as if he doesn’t know how, oh, Fates, that’s a terrifying thought. Drake pulls him a little closer, carefully, and Gabriel clings to him, holding on tight. He leans into the kiss, deepening it—and yet the sounds he makes are tiny animal whimpers, like he’s frightened, like he’s in pain.
Drake pulls back. “Gabriel?”
Gabriel’s eyes are wide and wary. “Why did you do that?”
“Why?” Drake repeats, more to buy himself time than anything. He’s pretty sure Gabriel didn’t mind, pretty sure he’d know in no uncertain terms if it really weren’t all right.
“You see men do it to girls in taverns,” Gabriel says, “and Nobody did it to you at the auction. But there isn’t anyone here for you to show off to. So why did you do it?”
“Was—” Drake catches himself as he realizes what he nearly asked: Was the Lady showing off when she kissed you? But that’s madness and no answer, either, and for all he knows Gabriel thinks she was. “It feels good. Isn’t that reason enough?”
Gabriel stares at him for a moment as though he’s the one who’s touched, and then laughs. “Sometimes I almost forget how strange you are. How long do you think you would last here, if you just did whatever felt good?”
“All right.” Drake tries to laugh, though it feels forced. “That’s fair enough.” It would lead to trouble in a hurry, that’s for sure, with the guard as likely as anything else. Gabriel’s hand is kneading at his side, the way a cat would, and it’s hard not to squirm when it tickles. “But it was . . . I liked it.”
“It means you want something,” Gabriel says. “Even the Lady wanted something when she kissed me. What do you want, Dr
ake?”
Drake imagines himself suggesting, for one giddy instant, that he and Gabriel mess around the way he and Danny used to, offering to reach into Gabriel’s trousers and take hold of his cock and— He can’t do it, can’t bring himself to push his luck that far. The Mother only knows what Gabriel would think that means. “I want to do it again,” he says instead.
Gabriel doesn’t relax, not really, but he nods. “Go ahead.” He does move this time, leaning into it as Drake presses their mouths together, and he keeps his eyes open, focused and dark.
Drake slides his arms around Gabriel, slowly, trying not to startle him. Then Gabriel’s other hand clutches at his shoulder, and Gabriel’s tongue slips into his mouth, and he forgets to worry. He leans into the kiss, feeling Gabriel press close against him, lean and bow-taut. He’s hard already, aching, strung so tightly—there’s been no one since the whore, and he hasn’t even had time alone to take care of it himself, with Gabriel always there. If Gabriel—if they—if Gabriel makes any move to take this further, then he’ll gladly go along with it. He’s not quite foolhardy enough to push for it, but he wants—
Gabriel nips at his lower lip, digs bitten-short nails into his shoulder, growls in a way that sounds almost playful when Drake rocks against him. “You like this,” he whispers, still close enough that his lips brush Drake’s. “It makes you happy.”
“You too?” Drake asks. He’s shaking, lightheaded like he gets when they’ve just escaped from someone who nearly caught them stealing or when he used to bluff high on hands he had no chance of winning honestly.
Gabriel nuzzles him, biting delicately at the line of his jaw, the arch of his cheekbone. It’s completely bizarre, but Drake would swear they’re friendly bites, and somehow that’s charming. “Yes,” Gabriel says decisively. “I’m happy.”
Drake smiles, letting the warmth swell in his chest, and for once not even fretting about it much. “Good.” He rolls onto his back, pulling Gabriel with him, and—oh, sweet Black Ket, he can feel Gabriel hard against his hip. A shiver runs down his spine, and he tilts his head back, holding Gabriel right there.
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