An Embrace of Citrus & Snow (Fallen for a Fae #1)

6. Bo

Chapter six

Bo

Bo stepped through the front door, squinting into the late morning sunlight. If he was smart, he’d just keep walking. Everil’s pointed disappearance upstairs with Talia said everything that needed saying. ‘Fuck off, I don’t want you,’ written in every line of the guy.

Except … it was still there, even with the man gone. A thread that sang of wistfulness. Nearly smothered under waves of self-loathing and frustration, with a heaping side-portion of resignation. But there .

And every time Nimai’d come up, the negative emotions, the shame, had grown louder. It made Bo want to hang on tighter, to somehow make it better. Even if Everil didn’t want him to.

(Hadn’t it been a little like that with Robin, at the start? Trying to sort through all the shit they’d been through and learn how to be brothers, and it’d never have happened if Bo wasn’t fucking stubborn.)

It wasn’t as though Bo wanted to hogtie his soul to someone. He wasn’t a protagonist in a book about red strings or some shit. But breaking the bond meant Everil going back to the fucker who made Bo’s skin feel like he’d crawled through an oil sick. Nimai, who Everil said would kill Bo if he got the chance. Said it like he knew.

Yeah, no, fuck. Bo didn’t have loads of positive qualities, but not being willing to throw someone at an asshole wolf was one of the few he did have.

His parents always warned him the fae would kill him if he didn’t listen to the rules. It kept him in line the way the threat of a monster in the closet might have. Bo, who was special. Who saw what others couldn’t. Who smiled for the cameras and signed the books ‘he’ wrote and believed .

Death at the hands of Everil’s fucking ex felt like those bedtime warnings. Distant, but no more-so than waking up curled in a nook in your house, sugar on your lips and hands, and being told you’d been gone for days, exchanged for a bundle of sticks.

He tried not to dwell on all that shit. But, big surprise, the kelpie made the repression tricky. Fuck.

Bo took out his phone, looking up into the dense trees before picking a direction to wander in. He needed to call Robin. Hear a voice that made sense. His skin itched.

“It’s been five seconds, Bo.” Robin picked up on the first ring. “Are you stuck in a hole? Do I need to send out a wetlands-proofed Lassie to look for you in a well?”

Bo laughed. He sounded strained, if Robin’s quiet said anything. “No holes. The place is fucking weird, though.”

“It was weird to see you didn’t do a LiveReel,” Robin admitted after a beat. Grudging and quiet, two core traits of the little bastard. “You should probably put something up to let people know you’re still breathing.”

Fuck.

“I– Shit. I got sidetracked. I will when I get to my car.” Bo hesitated, picking his way over some tree roots with unnecessary focus. “Look, about next week–”

“Aunt Jan’s birthday,” Robin interrupted. “Which you are coming to.”

“ About next week, “ because Bo was, somehow, the patient brother, “I might be … late. Delayed.”

“Delayed.” Robin’s voice flattened with that single, loaded word. Bo winced.

“I’ve got a buddy and his kid in trouble. I’ve not finished shooting–shit, I barely made it fucking inside–so it might be a couple extra days. That’s all.” Silence greeted him from the other end of the line. Bo slowed to a stop on the faint trail, squeezing his eyes shut. “I swear, Robin.”

“…what kind of trouble?”

Fuck. Fuck. Thank fuck. Bo let out a slow breath, relief loosening the tension twisting like a fist at his throat. “His asshole ex is trying to get back with him. It’s apparently not great. I got myself wrapped up in the middle of it.”

Silence again, longer than before. Bo tipped his head back, studying the speckled canopy of not entirely stripped oak leaves. He hated Robin’s silence at times like this. It was worse in person, with that hawk-sharp gaze trying to bore into his soul.

“If you don’t come because you have a boyfriend –”

What the shit. “I’m going to fucking be there, Robin. ”

“–I will be so fucking angry–”

“For fucks sake. Robin .”

“You promised!” Robin’s voice broke, high at the end, unsteady.

Bo could picture Robin, that look he got when he let the quiet crack through: knitted eyebrows and wide eyes, a darker blue than Bo’s own under his mop of brown curls, so like their mother. Adjusting and readjusting his glasses, staring at nothing in particular except the years of their parents telling him and Aunt Jan they’d be around for this holiday or that weekend, only for Bo to make it difficult to get there.

Bo never knew about any of it. Those missed visits and broken promises. He told Robin and Aunt Jan as much when he showed up on her doorstep, years and a lot of fucking therapy later.

I promised as long as I didn’t die in the wetlands, Bo wanted to say. And, our parents are assholes. That wasn’t me.

He kept his mouth fucking shut, tempting as it was to do otherwise, and took long, slow breaths to keep his words in until they stopped dancing on the edge of his tongue.

“I promised,” Bo agreed once he had his shit under control. He started walking again, because he was an adult with his shit together and surrounded by nature. He liked nature. “And I will. It’s why I’m calling you ahead of time, telling you what happened. Okay? I’m being a responsible big brother. It all came up today, started less than an hour ago, and I just got a few to slip off to call you. Otherwise, I’d‘ve said something earlier. Buddy’s in a spot. I’m trying to help out.”

Thankfully, Robin didn’t come back with some shit about boyfriends. Only quiet breathing, slowly steadying out.

If Bo ever got his hands on their fucking parents, he’d end up in jail.

“Sorry,” Robin muttered. He sounded … not great. But better. Bo kicked a small pile of wayward leaves. “I didn’t mean to– Sorry.”

“You’re good, kid.” Bo rubbed his face. “I’m sorry for it being a thing. You know I wouldn’t miss that sweet, sweet seventeen-hour drive for anything.”

That managed to startle a laugh from the other end of the line. “Jacksonville at three a.m. calling to you?”

“Yeah,” Bo grinned, reflex at that point. “My heart for that hellscape. Anyway, can you keep it from Aunt Jan? Just for the day while I figure out what’s going on.”

A heavy, dramatic sigh echoed through the line. Robin, once again, the put-upon twenty-something making like he didn’t have enough abandonment issues to single-handedly staff the Dad Went Out for Cigarettes annual conference. It almost drowned out a rustle from somewhere ahead of Bo, a play of shadows that made him tense.

Fuck. Nimai?

“You know I don’t–” Robin started, just as the rustle turned to a loud cough. Bo, already chin-deep in paranoia, jumped with a sharp, indrawn breath. “What? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yes, fuck, I’m good.” ‘Good,’ but Bo remained still anyway. “I’ll call you back, okay?”

“If you die–”

“Not going to die.” Yet. Probably. “Love you.”

A disgusted “ ugh” from Robin cut to silence as soon as Bo finished talking. The little shit had hung up on him. Par the fucking course. Bo turned on his phone’s recorder and pocketed it before he veered toward the path, squinting through the trees.

A guy roughly Bo’s height stood on the path, jacked to all hell under his shirt, unless the trees added fifty pounds of muscle. Dark-haired, with stubble bordering on beard territory. Tattoos showed on his hands, peeking out from the collar of his long-sleeved shirt. All that would be fine if not for the fact he was scanning the trees, obviously waiting for someone.

“Can I help you?” Bo asked, stepping out of the tree line. Like it was his fucking property to offer help on. Fuck’s sake.

The guy turned to face him, only a few yards away. The trees did not, in fact, add fifty pounds of muscle. He even lifted his hands, that automatic ‘I’m unarmed’ gesture that somehow didn’t put Bo at ease.

“Uh. Hi,” Bo tried again. “Can I help you?”

“Hey. Bo, right? I know you from the internet.” The stranger dragged his hand through his hair, wincing. “Shit, this isn’t how it sounds. I’m not going to hug you or ask you to sign my tits.”

Oh.

Oh, this was fucking awkward.

It’d been awkward from the start; three years old and recognized on the street. It continued to be just as fucking awkward thirty years later, tromping out of trees with branches in his hair to find a brick shithouse of a man talking about knowing him from the goddamn internet. The dude being obviously on edge didn’t help, either .

Bo stared at him, eyebrows arched high. And yeah, maybe he grinned a little with the option of tit signing off the table. Blame an amazing sense of humor and terrible survival instincts.

“Look,” the guy continued into Bo’s silence. “I know I’m crossing a line. But it’s important.”

“You’re– Okay, I’ll give you points for being self-aware enough to realize you’re crossing a line.” One corner of Bo’s mouth kicked up in something not quite a smile. “A pretty big line. I mean, props for figuring it out so fast, but this is rule number one of ‘don’t follow the Reeler,’ my guy.”

The man shoved his hands in his pockets with a shake of his head. “This isn’t about clout or fangirling. I swear.”

Bo hesitated, glancing back at the house, then at the man. Fuck it.

“Important. Alright. I’m down to listen while we walk to your car,” Bo tipped his chin towards the road. “So you can not blast on social media about where I am before you drive off. Or after.”

“Not looking to brag about this online,” the man promised, turning back towards the road. “Not even gonna ask for a selfie.”

“Line crossing means selfie privileges are temporarily revoked.” Joking, because this was fine. Just an additional human at a place where murder fae were supposed to be later. A dude clever enough to figure out where he was after a half-selfie in an airport and a couple short sentences. “Though you’re not a thirteen-year-old trying to be my assistant while I’m checking out a structurally unsound building, so thanks for that, guy who knows my name but hasn’t introduced himself.”

“Antonio.” Antonio looked back and, seeing Bo a few steps behind him, slowed until Bo caught up.

“Right, so, Antonio,” Bo grinned again and shoved some hair from his face. Talking helped tamp down the nerves. “Not looking for a selfie or an artistic chest piece. What’s so important it brought you down to Skyler looking for me?”

Antonio glanced at him sidelong, watching Bo with a small, forced smile as they walked.

“This house,” he admitted. “Look, man, I know you don’t believe in ghosts and shit. Know that’s why you’re here. But I know that house. It’s not abandoned. And it’s not safe.”

Well, fuck. Of fucking course .

Antonio wasn’t the first to deliver that line. Talking about what Bo did or didn’t believe in. Wasn’t like it was a secret; too many people had heard something about Bo and his loving parents.

Most meant well. They’d warn him away from places. Haunted, and they knew a kid who knew a guy who was a cousin of the person who disappeared. They were genuine, mostly. Some wanted to see if he’d finally show how much he despised believers. A couple had been dicks, but not many.

All of them, down to the last, got straight to the fucking point.

So why hadn’t Antonio? Why was the dude wandering down the road, watching Bo like he might bite, side-stepping in a way that reminded him of Everil.

Bo, sucker to the last damn minute, glanced back at him.

“What’s in there, then? I’m listening,” Bo said. Antonio drew a breath, then paused at Bo’s smile, there and gone. “Seriously. I’m listening, so long as it’s not ‘a family of raccoons.’ ”

He hated to lie. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t.

“No, it’s–” Antonio sighed, reaching to grab the pendant that hung from a leather cord around his neck. Just an ugly hunk of metal from the look of it. “Shit. You’re not gonna believe me.”

“I mean, yeah. Probably not, dude. If it starts with ‘I see dead people,’ deal’s off.”

“Not ghosts,” Antonio sounded tired. Bo sympathized. “Not ghosts. I see shit. Know you don’t believe in that either. That’s fine. But I’ve seen what lives in that house. It’s not some pretty, sad, dead dude, okay? Though fuck , I wouldn’t trust one of those either. But this is– It’s not something that was ever human. Eat you alive if you let it.”

Something that Bo would’ve brushed off any other time, yeah. Total bullshit. This time around, it gave him pause, frowning at Antonio at the mention of a pretty, sad dude. Eat you alive. Everil’d said almost the same thing.

Bo, ever the asshole, asked, “What is it?”

“Doesn’t matter what you call it. Matters that things like that, they don’t fuck around. Just– Christ, man. Take my word on this one. I’ve seen it.”

Bo winced, rubbing the back of his neck. He slowed to a halt, turning to watch Antonio. Antonio stopped, too, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet when Bo didn’t start back up. Antsy fucker .

“I’m not going to argue with you about what you’ve seen. I don’t dunk on psychics, man.” He really didn’t like lying. He liked the idea of gaslighting the ever-loving fuck out of the man even less. “I’m not going to risk someone’s livelihood for a video, you know?”

“I’m a mechanic.” Antonio let go of his necklace, showing off a hand stained with oil and grease, the kind that’d probably only come out with scouring and years of soft work. “I didn’t drive two hours to read your palm.”

Bo hated the sincere ones. Fuck .

“Two hours ? How long did it take for you to figure it out? It’s not even noon.”

“Like I said, it’s important, “ Antonio insisted once more. “Look, when I was a kid, I watched your channel. Thought you were like me. Someone else who saw them . Always made it feel a little less fucked up.”

Bo felt the blood drain from his face as his apologetic half-smile slipped. He may have said something soft and small, something like, “oh.” Maybe he only thought it.

“And I know– Look, the shit you went through was messed up. Me, I had different problems.” Antonio lowered his voice, intense and on edge in equal measure. “I’m telling you, that place isn’t safe. ”

God, Bo was tempted to just step away, turn tail and run back to the house. Maybe Everil would tolerate him leaning close, just for a second. The distance pulled at him, an ache still new and tender, like scar tissue in the sun for the first time. It’d felt like comfort and safety and validation until Everil told him he wanted to break the bond.

Maybe if he played nice, he’d stop having the fun and exciting experience of being confronted head-on with his past for the second time in a single morning. Only what? A few hours since he’d walked in the door?

The world stayed in place this time, though he couldn’t quite crush down the cold twist in his stomach. This was a fan talking about his history, their history. Bo knew how to deal with something like that.

“Fuck.” Bo sighed the word. “I’m– They screwed you over too. I’m genuinely sorry for that. For the part I played in it, even if I didn’t know. I can’t imagine what you must’ve felt when I found what I did. But, uhm…”

Bo glanced once more over his shoulder, then back to Antonio. Anxious, intent Antonio, genuine concern and nervous agitation in every inch of him. It’d be intimidating if it weren’t for the fact he pointedly didn’t get closer to Bo and kept his hands away.

“I’ve been in the house, man. Don’t worry about me. Okay? ”

Antonio froze, mid-bounce, his jaw set and tense. Bo stilled as well, eyeing him warily as quiet lingered for a long moment.

“You didn’t see what you thought you saw,” Antonio said, low and fierce.

“Didn’t say what I saw.” The words came out a little too hard.

“You saw a fae. And I’ll bet it made itself look real damned pretty.” Antonio’s hand returned, white-knuckled, to his pendant. “None of it’s real. They can show you things; take you places. But it’s no different than your parents. Just a shine on something ugly. People, we’re just a game to them. And eventually, they always get tired of playing.”

This time, when things went silent, the world focused on Antonio’s words as the clouds parted, picking at an off-limit scar he’d be able to handle any other day. That morning, freshly bonded, purposefully set aside and ignored, Bo felt as if all of him paled, the universe lost weight, and gray blossomed to vibrant red in his veins.

Just Antonio and his words, picking at an off-limits scar. And Antonio knew, he knew , what that had done to Bo, same as the rest of the world did. Usually, Bo would’ve been able to handle it. Usually, he hadn’t just had everything he thought he’d known torn apart. (Again.) Usually, he couldn’t feel the absence of someone he needed, skin too tight and the constant ache of shame all that came through his sense of Everil.

“You don’t know my parents,” Bo hissed, eyes narrowed and hackles up. “Don’t you pretend you do. No shit, the fae see us as playthings. If you’ve ever read a goddamn fairytale in your life, you’d get that gist. But you know what? They’ve not fucking lied to me about it.

“They’ve not told my little brother I’m the reason they don’t love him. They haven’t strung him on for years because they were too fucking indifferent to his existence to see him. The fae didn’t do shit to make the entire fucking world think I’m a liar, a fraud, and a laughingstock by the time I was old enough for a driver’s license.”

Bo took a step forward, eyes bright and furious, jaw fixed, and absolutely fucking done. Hurt, and yeah, fury, and Bo, shaking with it, being told what he knew .

“So,” he bit out, meeting Antonio’s resigned look with his own glare. “Fucking tell me. Tell me how much like my parents they are. Say it to my fucking face. How much will they tell me they love me while they poison everyone else in the world against me? How long will I need to work to earn any kind of credibility?”

“They will,” Antonio answered. And fuck, some other time, Bo might wonder about the bitterness in his voice. The pain in his eyes. “They’ll tell you they love you, that you’re so very special.”

“ Fuck you.” Everything hurt. Seventeen years and everything still fucking hurt. The world shook. Or maybe it was just Bo, trembling.

“Yeah. Fuck me. But maybe wonder why the hell I’m here. Consider that maybe you’re talking to the only person who knows what’s in there. That maybe when I say they’ll fuck you up I–”

Antonio cut himself off, looking past Bo’s shoulder, eyes wide with sudden fear. The tilt of the world turned to a rush of power, a thundering of swift currents and cold wind, followed by a warm hand on his shoulder.

“I believe that’s quite enough.” Everil still spoke softly. But the careful, apologetic man was gone. His voice held the force of a river, the unfettered wildness of a stallion. The wind picked up, making the leaves rustle with displeasure. “You have harmed my guest on my lands. That is an offense that requires redress.”

Everil’s anger blistered, sparked like a lit match in the shell of a home left to the elements. A fucking inferno about to catch.

The tight, twisting ache faded into relief, faint as it was under the shitshow of everything else. Sunburn gone with the heavy weight of Everil’s hand. Bo could breathe again. Deep, sharp lungsful, ragged things, but he could.

Bo’d steal as much as he could, the absence of that wrongness, something to hold on to when Everil remembered he was touching Bo and stopped. He reached up to Everil’s hand, tracing knuckles and impossibly smooth skin. Continued back until his fingers curled loosely over the fae’s wrist.

Antonio stared at Everil, transfixed, fear tight in every line of him. His eyes were fucking huge. More whites than anything. This was Bo’s fault. He lost his fucking temper. That didn’t mean he relished the idea of Antonio on the business end of a murderous, man-eating horse.

“He came out of concern for me.” Words scraped raw, too fucking formal. He needed to not fuck this up. He could taste Everil’s fury, cold water gone to ice and grass grown wild. Still that fucking fire, too. “Even though my parents wronged him.”

“He upset you.”

In that moment, Everil looked every inch how Bo imagined a fae would: power and control and able to fuck you up without blinking. Complete with the rustling trees and wind that cut.

In Antonio’s shoes, Bo might’ve pissed himself.

As it was, he squeezed Everil’s wrist and looked at him properly, searching for the right fucking words to say. The fae’s gnashing desire to lash out sang loudly in his ears.

Bo wouldn’t mind it. He got it, did just that before Everil arrived. But he didn’t want it.

“Not my land,” he said, voice low. “Not my house. But he came because he wanted to keep me safe. I just want this over.”

Everil squeezed back, though he kept his stormy gaze on Antonio. “What would you have of him?”

To go away. To never try this shit again. To never have told Bo there was another person he’d fucked up when he was a kid.

“Don’t fucking talk to me about my family again,” is what Bo actually said, turning his attention back to Antonio. “Not how you did. Not like a goddamn weapon.” He needed to use the right fucking words, or Everil was going to rip the dude’s throat out. “Swear it, and I’ll accept that as recompense for you running your mouth to me about something we both know you shouldn’t have. That’s what I want.”

Everil nodded once. He wasn’t satisfied with it. Bo could feel his twisting anger, a dry-ice burn on his tongue. Bared claws and hissing lurked there, under the surface.

“Your name,” Everil commanded Antonio. “Your true name and your oath on it.”

“No fucking way.” Antonio’s voice shook, and he stepped back, down the path, away from Bo.

Everil tightened his grip on Bo’s shoulder before letting go. He covered the distance between Antonio and himself in two long strides, catching his shirt. The material stretched under the force of his grip, Everil dragging Antonio in close.

“Do not try my patience, human.” Soft and fucking deadly, that unwavering voice. “I have none. What I want from you is the weight of your struggle as I drag you under. The sound of you choking as the water fills your lungs. I want my teeth on your throat and your bones for the fish. He wants your oath. You may choose which of us to satisfy.”

Steady words about drowning, blood, fish, and all the other shit on the pages Bo told Antonio to read. He still had his old books, packed away in storage somewhere in upstate New York. But, fuck, Everil took the sanitized tales and made them very fucking real. Bo wanted to see him by a river, in his element.

“I suggest you pick me,” Bo interjected. He managed to sound almost steady this time. It was easier to not want violence when the threat of death was a very real thing. “ I’d pick me. ”

“Antonio Silva Reis Junior.” The words were forced out through clenched teeth, Antonio somewhere between wide-eyed terror and defiance. “I swear, on my name, to never mention Bo’s family to him again.” He glanced toward Bo then, his expression shifting to something more in line with the defeat in his voice. “Not that I think I’d get the chance anyway. You’re making a mistake.”

“Are you satisfied, Bo?” Everil asked without releasing his grip.

Bo met Antonio’s look with one of his own, shoving his hands in his pockets. Ballsy fucker, tossing that last bit in there with Everil still close. “Yeah. I’m satisfied.”

Everil nodded, silent acknowledgment. The roiling ugly emotions from him didn’t quiet.

“That is one wrong addressed. I require a separate reckoning.” He reached up with his free hand, touched Antonio lightly in the center of his forehead. “Are you aware that you’re marked, Antonio Silva Reis Junior?”

“Happened a long time ago,” Antonio answered, trying, and failing, to draw back from Everil’s touch.

“I highly doubt that.” Everil tilted his head curiously, studying the man. “Protected from air and fire but not claimed. Not protected from the fae themselves.”

“He won’t care,” Antonio objected, still tugging fruitlessly against Everil’s grip. He should’ve been able to pull free. Everil held him with seemingly no effort. Slender and tall, far softer looking than Antonio, in his flowing clothes and hair loose down his back. “You can’t hurt him through me.”

“Oh, good. I have no wish to.” Everil pulled him closer, ignoring his struggles, and pressed his lips to Antonio’s forehead. “Friend of air and fire. Fitting. Be mindful of running water, Antonio Silva Reis Junior. You’ll find it doesn’t welcome you.”

He let go, and Antonio staggered back.

The kelpie’s anger started to clear like fog on a bright morning after he did whatever he did. Only then, with his own rage quieting, did Bo catch whispers of the other emotions lurking beneath the snarling.

Protective. Concerned. Tasting of dust and old wood, cold water on a throat parched by sharp winds. No desperate, clutching hands on Bo now. Everil’s gaze remained, unwavering, on Antonio.

‘Matters that things like that, they don’t fuck around.’

“Go home, Antonio,” Bo said, quieter, taking a step closer to Everil. They weren’t far apart. Bo was just… He was just. “You’ve said your piece. ”

Antonio threw one last searching, resigned look at Bo, backed up, and left without another word. But he could leave. That, Bo’d managed. Everil might not like Bo, but he’d listened enough to not kill Antonio.

Bo’d take that. He had to.

Bo waited until the sound of Antonio’s car faded before he dropped his gear in the rental. Everil stayed near the tree line, off the sidewalk, his watchful gaze like a touch.

The fucking squall of the kelpie’s emotions left Bo feeling freshly scrubbed, skin too pink and sensitive. Goddamn whiplash, being left on his own for a few hours, Everil off with Talia, getting into it with Robin, and then Antonio .

He needed a nap. The day’d been too long already, and he was done.

“C’mon,” Bo said once back in hearing range of Everil, the watchful. “Let’s head in.”

No protest, not that Bo expected there to be one. Everil nodded once, silent, and Bo did them both a solid by not heading into the denser trees for the third time that day.

“When you take the kid gloves off, you go fucking hard, huh?” The words came unbidden, and Bo … yeah, no, fuck it. Bo ran with it, his eyes forward and skin tingling at the nearness a bond kept just out of reach. The man had a personal bubble. Which was fine. “Not that I can say fuck all about it. Antonio probably thought I was a wholesome, misguided dude before this.”

Bo worked hard for that image, too, dammit.

“No,” Everil answered, once again quiet and the kind of level made to hide dust-thick guilt and the icy curl of need just below the surface. “He’s alive. That was me being gentle.”

Dude needed therapy. Self-loathing like a cloak, heavy on his tongue and shoulders. Fuck.

“I was surprised you showed up, gentle or not.”

Being an asshole helped with the itch to reach out and touch him. Some, anyway.

Everil slowed, let Bo get a step or two ahead. Which, fucking fair. Bo paused, turning to look back at him. Intense gray eyes met his own.

“I owe you a grave debt, Bo. And you have good intentions, however ill-conceived and undeserved.” Everil’s lips tightened, studying Bo for a beat. Something that sounded like hurt tinged his next words. “Why would you expect me to leave you to face harm? ”

For all that Bo felt its sincerity, the question was almost funny. Everil didn’t want Bo dead , but he also wanted him gone. Not around. Broken away and tucked somewhere else despite that pesky “soul” business.

“You might’ve liked him, is all.” Bo shrugged, shoved his hands in his hoodie pockets. “Same message and all. ‘Leave.’ You gave me a specific name before you fucked off, though; Antonio was against the whole species.”

“Wise of him,” Everil said, tone begrudging. “But beside the point. You thought I’d leave you to harm?”

“I generally take fucking off as a sign that dramatic acts of saving someone from punching a very strong jaw are off the table. I appreciate it, though. The dramatic swooping.”

Everil’s lips parted, then closed. The silence stretched. Bo waited, trying not to let his jaw set. He wasn’t mad at Everil. Not really.

“Allow me to be direct,” Everil said, at last, dragging his gaze away from Bo. He started walking again, his hands folding behind his back, probably clutching at his wrist again. He looked as he had in the living room, holding himself while Bo pawed and clutched. “You felt it, at the start. The drain on you?”

“Yeah.” Bo’d felt it. Though mostly, he’d been focused on clinging to Everil, petting at him like a goddamn creeper.

“That was me, taking what was not mine to ask. I was not well.” Everil licked his lips, his gaze fixedly aside still. “I am still not well. And our bond makes it all too tempting to repeat that mistake.”

“To… take my energy?” The heaviness, the feeling of studying too long, eyelids weighted but body still able to push further.

“You could call it that. Energy. Magic. Yours is very,” a flicker of pink tongue over full lips, “sweet.”

Bo laughed, startled out of the tangle of his own mind. “Sweet? That’s one fucking description no one who knew me ever used. Fuck. What do I taste like? Guessing not grass, water, and houses.”

A shiver of surprise ran through their bond, laced with something Bo couldn’t place.

“Like a confection,” Everil offered quietly, a sigh on his lips. “Vanilla and citrus. Honey. Summer, as the sun sets.” He kept his gaze pointedly on the trees. “It’s quite pleasant.”

The word brought to mind the fancy bakeries and candy shops, the sort where they sold only things made in-house. Nothing pre-packaged. Bo’s eyebrows rose as he studied the man who so fucking firmly did not look back, despite boring holes into the side of Bo’s face a couple minutes earlier.

“ ‘Quite pleasant’ is also not something I’m usually called by people who know me. I’ll take it.” Bo offered him a crooked smile, not that Everil saw it. Confections and summer sunsets. Summer, when Everil lingered on Bo’s tongue like a crisp winter morning. “Fae can taste people’s souls, then?”

“Not precisely. Intermingling energies so closely influences one’s perceptions. Tastes, colors, sounds, scents. But it requires a bond.” Everil looked at him at last, a quick sideways glance. “You need not fear any other fae will be so … tempted.”

“Good to know I’ll probably not have many wanting to lick my energy.” Bo didn’t know who the fuck allowed him to make words. He had no excuse himself, except that he was trying. “You’re, uh, more like a winter morning.”

Everil glanced sharply at Bo, expression openly confused.

“That isn’t how I’ve heard myself described.” A softness made its way into Everil’s voice. A crack in the mask. Confusion and a touch of warmth.

No negative feelings coiled in the moment and Everil slowed to a stop, reaching out to touch the trunk of the nearest tree.

“Cold water?” Bo offered, slowing to a halt again, his eyes on where Everil’s long fingers rested against the bark. “Grass. Sometimes frozen. Cut. Old places.” Freedom. Safety. “Ones with history.”

The maple Everil touched curved towards him, and the other trees shifted in restless accompaniment. The creak and groan of branches nearly drowned out Everil’s quiet, “I see.”

Bo glanced at the trees, rustling in a wind that existed nowhere except in the branches. He’d thought maybe he’d imagined it with Antonio. He wasn’t imagining this.

“You good?”

“I will be.” Everil took a slow breath, a splash of red against his cheek. A leaf. “There’s something you need to– That I wish to explain to you. If you’ll allow me.”

“Sounds fucking ominous.” Bo rocked back on his heels, hands deep in his pockets, while Everil cuddled into the trees’ reaching branches. “I can’t promise to keep my mouth shut if you get mean, but you haven’t done that yet. So, I think our chances of me keeping quiet are good.”

Everil shook his head so slightly Bo would have missed it if not for the shiver of the leaves.

“I’ve no intention of being cruel. Only honest. Sometimes, it’s difficult to distinguish between the two.”

“Okay,” Bo agreed, already uneasy.

“I know you don’t … appreciate my telling you how to feel.” Everil’s words were even but halting. He watched Bo the way most people might watch a snake. “I will attempt not to. But can you accept that it behooves you to understand some of how the bond between us functions?”

“Sure.”

“You’ve already experienced the pull a bond exerts. The need for closeness. I told you that it would fade, and it will. But it won’t stop. Do you follow?”

“Okay,” Bo said again, jaw set. Nothing to say except, “So, we’ll want to hold hands all the time.”

Everil looked away again. Bo waited, uncomfortable and unsure. Maybe this is what Antonio had felt like, why he’d bounced and moved and looked around so much.

“It is worse than that. I could betray you egregiously. Still, you would wish to be in my presence. Against your will, you would wish it. Always , Bo. That is what a bond is. Manipulative. Coercive.”

“That’s the real reason you don’t want to break it,” rang unspoken between them.

“That why you ‘disengaged’ your first bond?” Bo asked. He didn’t look away from Everil. “So, you’d stop wanting to be near him.”

Branches curved further around Everil, groaning in their effort. Everil didn’t seem to notice. He wasn’t looking at the tree, or at Bo, or at anything along the quiet little path that led to the house he’d been shut up in for fuck knew how long.

“Not precisely. It took generations as you measure time. Generations, and the only thing worse than being near him was being apart. In the end, it wasn’t really a decision.”

Ice on water, cold enough to freeze the edges of his mouth. The quiet wilting of grass freshly cut, left in the sun without rain. He’d stepped inside a house, expecting solid ground, only to feel the ground give way beneath his feet.

“What was it?” Bo asked.

“I was–” Everil shook his head, dragging in a long, slow breath. “I lost my temper and tore myself for him.” Grief. Sorrow. Anguish. Some word that didn’t exist yet, to capture the crash of emotions bleeding from Everil. “It was a reckless, foolish act. It’s only luck that I didn’t damage him. ”

Self-reproof rose, a clawed hand from the depths, nails dug deep, and still with the pockets of raw sincerity in warning Bo, the why , and…

Bo didn’t like the idea of bonding someone who didn’t want to be near him. The thought of Everil wanting to be near him only because of a bond twisted his stomach sick.

But, fuck, Bo knew good and fucking well he couldn’t cheerfully send anyone off to a person that created the emotions Nimai did for Everil. Bo didn’t want anyone’s soul damaged, luck or not, his or Everil’s, and he could at least manage not to be an absolute fucking shithead.

He took a couple steps closer, mindful of the protective trees. He spared them a wary, quick glance before looking back to the fae, partially hidden by the fall of leaves and branches.

“Shit luck you didn’t,” Bo agreed. “I’m– Yeah, fuck, Everil. That sounds like a miserable few generations and a lot fucking more you’re wanting to sign up for.”

Everil stiffened, shoulders set. He took his hand away from the bark, both man and tree straightening up in time with the other.

“Yes,” Everil said without looking at Bo. At anything. “But it is, as you say, what I signed up for.” His smile was bitter. “You, Bo, have not signed up for this. Our oaths are not for play. If you set yourself as Talia’s guardian, you guard her with your life.”

“She doesn’t want him as a guardian.” And Bo couldn’t leave a kid with a parental figure they didn’t trust or like.

“If you don’t allow me to break this bond,” Everil continued, a touch of steel behind the mellow, soothing fall of his words, “then you are tied to me. You will either be at my side or wishing you could be. Always . It is a very bitter existence, yearning to be near someone against your own will. I don’t recommend it.”

Except Everil had torn himself away. In a fit of temper, like he said, he ripped the bond apart.

What would happen when Bo pushed too much? He played nice in front of the public, because he wasn’t that kind of huge fucking asshole, and people like Antonio weren’t looking for him at his home. But he wasn’t easy to be around outside of that. Bo wasn’t enjoyable . A mouthy human didn’t sound ideal in the long run for a bond; however much it might not be the worst now.

It wasn’t like he was going to live for ages, the way Everil sounded like he would, being alive for a century or more in Bo’s world.

Shit like this was why Bo knocked . This and drug dens.

No fucking wonder Everil prefaced this little pep talk with ‘honesty, not cruelty.’

“Yeah, fucking sounds it,” Bo snapped. Everil winced, looking away from him. From Bo, the bond he wanted to be near and couldn’t fucking stand. Just like the one he’d torn himself away from. “I’m– Fuck. I’m going inside. It’s fucking cold out here.”

And maybe Bo didn’t start walking right away, struggling with himself and his too-tight skin. The burn of irritation and the sting of fucking everything. But he managed to turn away from Everil. Even if it took a beat, the ache of it tugging at him. That yearning . The sense of wrongness.

The house wasn’t so far away. No trees tried to stop him.

In the end, Bo didn’t stalk off on his own. Everil trailed behind him, up the path and into the house, quiet as a winter night. The house sat warm, because it was a good house, and Bo dropped into one of the armchairs he’d watched turn gray and dusty only a few hours earlier.

Fucking awkward, the silence clinging to the room between the two of them. It prickled at him, left him sulky enough to pull out his phone and throw up a quick message of I’m alive, filming delayed , rather than try to engage.

It didn’t help that he was very fucking aware that not only could Everil feel his irritation, but the asshole teetered on the same edge as Bo himself. The ever-present self-loathing and guilt paled in the light of nerves.

Nerves and that fucking protective thing again, anticipation jacked to the fucking nines, and Bo with very few tools to break through.

“How long does–” A heavy footfall sounded upstairs. Bo cut himself off, his head tipped back on the chair to try and get a glimpse from the parlor entry. “The fuck?”

Two sets of footsteps then, with one a solid clunk and the other Talia’s lighter, more energetic step. An impossibly deep, rasping laugh echoed down the stairs.

“It’s a good thing I’ve no wings, so it is.” The voice was frayed at the edges, damn near resonating in the hall, a distinct twist of Northern Ireland in the words. Declan, at a guess. (And fuck, Everil was going to have a goddamn heart attack from nerves soon if they didn’t get there.) “Otherwise, these stairs would be grossly inconvenient. ”

Bo caught a glimpse of a slight, pale figure with dark lips and a flash of robin’s egg blue seconds before Everil’s back promptly blocked it.

“Declan,” said Everil’s back.

“Your ward is a wee bit persuasive.” answered a voice from beyond Everil’s shirt, dry as the fucking desert.

“And cute,” Talia piped up, stepping into Bo’s line of sight and grabbing a chair for herself. She waved at Bo, grinning. Bo grinned back. “Don’t forget cute.”

“I assumed that was public knowledge. My mistake.”

Talia damn near twinkled in the voice’s general direction before she turned back to Bo. “They’re going to be all fae at each other now. Boring. Get me one of those drinks you had?”

“Talia. Bo’s our guest,” Everil murmured in mild reproof, sparing Bo from the guilt of admitting that, sadly, he didn’t know magic. “I will take care of the refreshments.”

“But Bo’s looked good .”

Bo mouthed ‘ later’ at Talia, which seemed to satisfy her. She flopped back further into her chair in triumph.

“Apologies. She’s undersocialized. Declan, I–” Everil took a step back, closer to Bo. “Thank you. I wasn’t sure you would come.”

A riot of emotions filled their bond in a flurry. Good ones, mostly, gratitude and remorse and affection and apprehension. It reminded Bo of himself years ago, nearly seventeen, on his aunt’s doorstep, stomach in knots at seeing her and Robin for the first time in years. He asked to come to live with them, and she’d agreed. Thank fuck for that. It hadn’t helped the sick war of happiness and shame, nerves and want and defensive walls all at once.

Bo stood when Everil stepped back. He moved in closer, fingers reaching for Everil’s elbow. A gentle brush of fingertips to ungodly soft fabric, that was all.

“If it were to witness your bond to a certain other individual, I’d not have.” Blunt fucker, unlike Everil under the damn tree. “Imagine my relief when I learned that wasn’t the case.”

Cold water in a shaded room, thick with dust, and Bo tucked the feeling away to think about later. He slid his fingers over the crook of Everil’s elbow, leaning to catch a full look at Declan.

Instead of another tall fae with flowing clothing and sad eyes, Declan apparently tumbled straight from the ’90’s punk scene into the Victorian sitting room.

Lanky and nearly bone white, skin and hair both save for a few generous handfuls of freckles. Black eyeliner smudges and lips so deep purple they bordered on pitch. Four silver hoops in his right ear, two in the left. Camo pants rolled up to reveal hefty combat boots, studded and buckled, and a tank top that looked like he’d taken a pair of dull scissors to a pale blue button-up, hacking off the sleeves and half the sides. The man leaned against the entryway, all sharp, comfortable insolence.

All he lacked to complete the look was spiked hair. Instead, Declan had close-cropped sides and something not unlike a short, modern fucking pompadour. The hair and boots put him at Bo’s height, so he’d probably hit 5‘7“ with them off and undone.

“The fuck,” Bo murmured, staring. Everil and his soft, flowing hair and soft, flowing clothing, the colors as gentle as he’d been most the day, stood in impossible contrast to the newcomer.

“It is … not … the case,” Everil said. The word ‘yet’ left unspoken but heavy as the tension between the pair. Or, maybe just from Everil. Declan looked right at home. “Even so, you would have been justified in refusing.”

“I’d have no social life at all, were I to shun everyone I quarrel with.” Declan, far too fucking small a man to have a voice deep enough to rattle floorboards if he weren’t careful, held Everil’s gaze. “The horror .”

“You were right. And I was a fool. I’m sorry,” Everil said. Declan pushed away from the doorframe with a handwave, though not a dismissive one. “Truly, Declan.”

“I don’t doubt you, Everil,” he said it almost gently. “Truly.”

Finally, Everil stepped back to stand at Bo’s side. His hand came to rest on Bo’s shoulder, a solid, comforting warmth. Bo’s skin hummed with the contact.

“This is Bo, as I’m sure Talia told you,” Everil said, the thrum of anxiety and bristling protectiveness smoothed over some. “Bo, may I introduce Declan.” A beat and Everil squeezed his shoulder. “He’s a sluagh.”

And, okay, Bo was still irritated. But he leaned in, allowing himself a moment to enjoy Everil’s nearness.

The last time Everil’d faced someone like this, there’d been death in the air. This time, Death stood apart and cocked his head, birdlike, his ice-blue eyes finally landing on Bo.

“It’s a pleasure, Bo.” Declan smiled, his slightly too sharp teeth a startling white. “I’ve heard a distinct lack of unflattering things about you.”

“Bo’s my favorite person right now,” Talia agreed. Bo scoffed .

“Give it time. You’ve known me for less than an hour, kid. Nice to meet you, too.” Bo gave Declan another quick once-over. “You actually made up of the souls of the undead?”

Everil made a sound not unlike a stifled sigh.

“Very likely,” the sluagh murmured with that same smile. “No bat wings for me, alas. Nor do I go hunting with a pack, crowned in antlers and calling for a feast. Everil, may we speak privately?”

Everil released his grip, his fingers brushing along the back of Bo’s neck as he pulled his hand away. Bo pressed into it, looking away from the amused Declan in favor of Everil, his eyes a touch wide.

Bo didn’t fucking get him .

“If you’ll excuse us,” Everil said, low. “We’ll only be in the next room, should you need me.”

“Yeah.” Bo managed to say. And, belatedly, the two of them already halfway out the door to another room, “Have fun.”

“He forgot the hot chocolate,” Talia said once the door clicked shut.

“Think he’s got other things on his mind. I’ll go and get some. Maybe grab some stuff I left in my room. Hold down the fort while I’m gone?”

“My price is extra chocolate,” Talia answered promptly, cheerful as anything. She stretched out on her chair, looking for all the world as liquid as a cat. “That’s the cost of a fort.”

That was fine. Extra anything, so long as he could go and get his stuff. Get away for a little while.

He needed to breathe air that didn’t taste like snowmelt in the silent comfort of winter. He needed not to think about any of it. Not quiet, guarded Everil. Not jittery, determined Antonio. And not fucking punk reaper Declan, here to decide whether to help them or screw them over.