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

8. Bo

Chapter eight

Bo

Right. So. Declan wanted to talk to Bo alone, no reason given. Just the dude waiting on the back porch. Smirking, if only just, when he saw them. And Bo wasn’t clinging to Everil. He was just, you know, holding on.

Everil left them with a gentle click of the door. No rusty sound of a fucking lock. No comforting, weighted warmth of his hand at Bo’s neck, either.

Declan stood at the railing like some marble statue gone too deep into the punk scene, stopped just short of safety pins through lips and nose. This close, his lipstick looked like a part of his skin. So did the eggplant tinted fingernails, matte rather than the shine of earlier.

Bo crossed his arms and pressed his back to the rough brick of the house. As if it’d provide any kind of shield from the sluagh. Standing in silence with him, alone, that wasn’t like doing it with Everil. Not even (entirely) because of the damn bond. Declan was just fucking weird.

“Everil says you want to talk,” Bo said, his words flat. “So talk.”

Declan raised a single eyebrow, a corner of his purple-black lips curling up on one side. “Everil is correct.”

Bo waited. Declan smiled and said fucking nothing.

“Well?”

“You insist on staying bonded to my friend,” Declan said, all low, rumbling mildness. “A kelpie with troubles outside of your ken, who may one day hold you under the cold water and think it mercy born of affection and circumstances. I would know why, when he offers you a safe way out. ”

Bo set his jaw, unable to help the lick of angry heat and defensive snarling. Fuck this guy. “How the fuck is that any of your business?”

“ I am what will give you time to flee tonight, wee Bo. Putting my name and neck at risk to recognize your bond and bearing witness. Playing my part to keep Nimai away for as long as I can.” Declan’s soft, lilting rasp carried ice. “I do not like Nimai.”

“Join the fucking club,” Bo retorted.

“I’d not have Everil bond to another like him.”

Bo’s head jerked up, meeting the level stare with a hard look of his own. “ Fuck you. Go share the bag of spiked dicks I reserved for Nimai, you weird fucking asshole.”

Declan blinked once. And whatever Bo expected him to do, being fae and strange, it wasn’t throwing his head back to laugh, loud and long.

“You are a fun one,” Declan said, voice rich with amusement. “Will you answer me?”

“I don’t want to break the bond.” Bo all but hissed, tucking his shoulders harder against the wall. “The kid doesn’t want the other guy as her guardian. Everil doesn’t fucking like him either. And, I get it; Everil’s not a huge fan of mine. But at least I don’t make him feel like that. ”

“The wain? Talia?”

“Look, fuck you, I don’t care what Everil says about her not being a child. She can’t be more than eighteen max. She’s a kid .”

Bo was a lot of fucking things. Public figure (and disgrace), brother, asshole, lost, all of that, yeah. But he wouldn’t leave a kid with someone who made her eyes go hard.

Declan’s smile gentled as Bo spoke. Then faded completely in favor of a slight muscle twitch on that carved jaw. The fuck was it with fae and jawlines? Did it come with the job, like freckles?

“Everil is correct that Talia is no ‘kid,’ ” Declan said slowly, those blue eyes narrowing. Bo glared back. “Nor are you entirely inaccurate. Gates are magic. They are not fae, nor do they have our lifespan. The most accurate way, I believe, is to say Talia is ‘new.’ ”

“She’s a fucking phoenix?”

“Voids and starshine, no .” Declan shivered delicately. “Reborn, aye, but not a phoenix. New incarnations. Not flames. I’ve been told memories of their past selves linger, but I’ve yet to call a Gate a boon companion.”

“New. Young. Sure, fuck, whatever. She acts like a teenager, and she doesn’t want Nimai to be her guardian.” Bo laughed, an ugly sound even to his own ears. “Besides, it’s not like the guy will let me run around anyway. Like I told Everil, jealous exes don’t like the new person, no matter the relationship. Fucking or not.”

Suddenly, Declan was very close. Almost chest to chest, with his dark lips near Bo’s ear. Bo stood frozen, only Everil’s trust in the man keeping him from hitting flight or fight. The fact his knee was in decent nut-kicking range helped.

“I will never threaten one of Everil’s nor cause them harm,” Declan murmured, voice gentle but still deep enough to rattle Bo’s fucking bones. Like a raptor’s screech mashed together with a rockslide. “And as Everil does not think unkindly of you, I give you this advice freely: Do not be Nimai. Don’t become him. He doesn’t fear me as much as he ought. But you will, should I learn what I saw in him lives in you also.”

“I will break your dick with my knee if you do not back off,” Bo hissed.

Declan laughed. The sound ugly. Rasping and predatory. He leaned away despite that, if only enough to look Bo in the eye. Hawklike now, keen and bright and hard, so pale a blue they were nearly fucking white. “You treat Everil and Talia as you say you want to, and I think we will be the best of friends. Don’t you? And if you don’t, if you harm my friend, I will haunt your dreams.” He smiled, the expression much too wide, showing a predator’s sharp teeth. A crocodile’s smile. “You do not wish to see a sluagh in his full aspect.”

“You’ve got five fucking seconds. ”

“I’m taking that as ‘aye, Declan, I agree’,” Declan said. Bo’s space was his own again. Declan leaned against the porch railing, out of reach, as if he’d been there the whole time, his face fully human once more. “Has anyone told you what happens during oath taking?”

What in the fuck .

“You were just-. How the fuck are we switching topics to–” Bo waved his hands at Declan, thrown. “What the fuck? I– Sure. Fuck. Fine. No, no one has. You should do that now.”

“Charming,” said Declan. “No wonder he’s not drowned you yet.”

The last time Bo’d walked into Brookhaven in the dark, he’d expected rotted floorboards and dust. Maybe raccoons if he was unlucky. Funny how a day could change things.

No cobwebs in sight. No heavy air or settling sounds.

Just Talia, flopped in a chair. Everil, by the window again, the picture of calm, freckled beauty. Every fucking inch the person who definitely never had a Bo shaped indent on his shoulder.

Everil, who felt like secrets. Dust spread thick enough to drag your fingers through. Deadfall on a frozen riverbank. The sort of quiet you could curl up safe in, the world still and beautiful around you. No matter what his aura ‘felt’ like, the room felt warmer by virtue of him being in it.

He turned, when Bo and Declan walked in, a thread of apprehension fading when their eyes met.

“I applaud your taste in guardians,” Declan said to Talia, voice thick with amusement. The bastard. “Do you hold by your decision on these two?”

Bo leaned on the desk near the entry. The quick, crooked grin he shot Everil might not have been called for, but he wasn’t a man built for posing all pensively.

Bo was the bearer of hot chocolate. He didn’t think Talia’d shun him.

“Well, Bowie’s dead and Lorde’s not taking my calls. Besides, I can steal Bo’s hoodies.” She glanced between them, grinning. “They’ll do.”

Correction: Bearer of hot chocolate and gifter of hoodies. Bo needed to invest in more of those.

“Good news, gentleman: you’re acceptable.” Declan’s dark eyebrows arched, his black-purple lips the slightest bit tipped at the corners. “Three and three days given to offer forth an oath of blood and binding. If you wish to abstain, now is the time to say so. Otherwise, let the terms be set.”

“And have you come all this way for nothing?” Everil asked, stepping away from the window and standing, rigid, an arm’s length from Bo.

“I’m good,” Bo said. He glanced at Everil, offering him a faint smile. The kelpie said Bo wasn’t like Nimai. He’d curled toward him on the porch, like Bo’d done something right. “I’m in.”

“For the record,” Talia said, her gaze on Bo, “The oath thing isn’t my idea. Also, don’t, like, freak out on me, okay?”

“Okay,” Bo said.

“We non-fae gotta stick together,” she added.

“Being non-fae doesn’t make you human,” Everil corrected, mildly. Fucker should’ve starred in period dramas .

Talia only pouted at him, “You know, I could make it a part of the oath that you’re not allowed to say that. And that you have to wear a dumb hat.”

“Just so long as I’m not also required to wear a hoodie.”

Talia wrinkled her adorable button nose, “Ew. No. Matching family photos? Not happening.”

“ Talia. ”

Bo and Declan exchanged a glance. Declan simply shrugged.

“Yeah, okay.” Talia heaved a sigh only a teenager could pull off. “You know, Bo brings me chocolate.”

“I’m the fun dad,” Bo agreed.

Disappointingly, Everil didn’t roll his eyes.

Talia rose to her feet and pushed her hood back from her hair. Her glamour dropped with it, pale brown eyes turning to glowing gold. Talia, with her big hoodie and small hands, damn near radiated power, from the gold surrounding her to the faint ringing of bells carried behind her words.

“Three and three and three,” she said, her gaze going from Everil to Bo, before she touched her own chest. “From myself, you get me. One of nine. Free transit across the veil unless it’s for something dumb. My promise to not use my strength in violence. My allegiance first to your blood and then to the fae as a whole. From Everil, I ask what his family has always offered. The care of myself for as long as I live, freedom to use my gifts as I will, and the guardianship of my next self, when this life ends.”

Bo’d thought he felt magic before. But Talia? Fuck. Bells and gold, golden bells. She rang with power. Real power. She was fucking real.

And a kid, no matter what Everil said, young and protective and fucking stubborn, making the best out of a situation she had stakes in. Reminded him of Robin, honestly. He’d no sooner hand her to Nimai without trying his damnedest than he would his brother.

“From Bo, I ask for regular trips to the human world with him as a guide,” Talia intoned, echoing and lovely. Bo swallowed the knot in his throat. Gentle waves of dust and cobwebs, pensive rivers and their shorn banks lined with shining bells. “A guest spot on his ReelSelf channel, and,” she paused, chewing her lip, “you’re not allowed to kill anyone of Everil’s.”

What ?

“Talia, enough,” said Everil, sharp tone cutting through Bo’s amusement and fluffy feelings. Bo glanced at him, frowning, only to see Everil glaring daggers at Declan. “You know that’s not an appropriate ask.”

“He’s not allowed. “ Talia snapped back. “Not allowed or he’s an oathbreaker.”

“Talia decides what terms are appropriate,” Declan murmured in that too deep voice of his. His stony expression weathered Everil’s glare, unflinching. “She’s not subject to Protocol or your sense of propriety, Everil. Not in this, not here. Would you prefer a stupid hat to knowing Bo may not murder me in my sleep?”

Bo edged his way closer to Everil while Declan spoke. Not touching. But close enough to reach out and brush his fingertips against ice tipped riverbanks and frosted grass if he wanted to.

Everil stood rigid, hands locked behind his back.

“I’m more than okay not killing people you consider yours,” Bo said, quietly. Made fucking sense, that ask, considering the shit he’d heard about Nimai. “We’d both look terrible in stupid hats. And if Declan laughs at my true name, we’ll all be glad she added it.”

Everil didn’t smile. If anything, he froze further, more statue than man and a far cry from the warmth of the porch. Bo felt his shame and anxiety through their bond, an unmistakable urge to run , flee, to wallow in his defeat.

Resignation and guilt and apprehension and the only thing that kept him from pulling off an impression of an Everil carving was an underlying murmur of… something.

Something that said he didn’t dislike Bo. Something warm, mostly buried and covered in shadows.

“You set the terms,” Everil said, quiet now. Resignation. Yielding. Upset. “But the oath is to you. For you. I … suggest that you serve your own interests in this.”

“I’m not changing it.” Talia glowed with power. The room was thick with it, tasting of metal instead of water, age, or undergrowth. A tang of lightning about to strike in an open field, bells in Talia’s words ringing and ringing and ringing. “You said you’d stay with me. You both have to swear.”

Bo swallowed copper and stepped closer to Everil. His attention remained on Talia, sure, but Everil was a strange kind of familiarity in the wake of everything else.

“I apologize,” Everil murmured to Bo. He raised his voice to address Talia, and the room. “My blood is yours, Talia. As it has been since the stars were first named. I, Caroves Fell Abhainn, will abide by your terms. I swear it on my name. ”

His true name fell like smooth stones falling onto moss, a whisper in the forest. Bo didn’t have time to question, not with Talia waiting, golden eyed and her terms on the table.

“My blood’s yours, Talia, and a couple hoodies, too.” Bo bit back a sigh when he spoke next. He’d said he wouldn’t. Declan had been adamant he not. “I, Oberon Cedardusk Gardner, will abide by your terms. I swear it on my name.”

To the side, Declan smirked. Asshole.

“I, Teorainn Ceathrú, accept you, Caroves Fell Abhainn, and you, Oberon Cedardusk Gardner, as my guardians.” Talia spoke with all the arrogant benevolence of a queen, before erupting into giggles. “ Oberon ? Do I curtsy? Kiss a donkey?”

She didn’t mean anything by it. Bo knew she didn’t, deep in his gut. Knowing didn’t stop the heat from creeping up the back of his neck or keep his eyes from cutting away.

“He prefers Bo,” Everil said. Not sharp this time, just firm. Everil shifted closer as he spoke, no longer holding his own wrist in a death grip. Not touching. Just, nearly so. “Declan, are you satisfied?”

Bo’s fucking hero. He closed the gap between them, arm brushing arm. It was stupid, how grateful he was for the interjection and change of subject.

“Quite.” Declan’s smirk disappeared, at least. Oh, he smiled, but it was slight and probably more to do with Bo’s glare for his fucking tone than Bo’s first name. “I stand witness to oaths given in blood and binding, terms offered and agreed, true names and trust given.” His lips twitched. “Congratulations. It’s a girl.”

Everil laughed, a quiet huff of sound, accompanied by a small shake of his head. He laughed . Yeah, he’d done it before, once, a lifetime ago with Bo’s hand on his neck and talking about how everyone was damaged.

It’d been bitter and frayed, threadbare. Nothing like the near soundless thing there in the living room. Bo would hear more of the genuine amusement, if he could figure out how.

There had to be more than one way to get a kelpie to giggle, for fuck’s sake.

“Pity. I was hoping for a cat,” Everil said, a smile still playing at the edges of his lips. “Well, we’ll make do. Apparently, Bo is responsible for taking her for walks.”

“He better.” Talia’s glamour settled back into place. She beamed at Bo and fell back into her chair. “Declan can come too. ”

“Declan needs to wear a stupid hat if we’re taking him anywhere. Cat ears, maybe.” Bo made a face, grumbling without any real heat. He pressed his arm against Everil’s in the gentlest of nudges.

And Everil … didn’t shy or freeze. He breathed in, slow and steady, and stayed where he was.

It meant something. Like: Bo read far too fucking much into Everil taking in some air and not treating him as if he had the plague. Shit people did when they didn’t want to risk asphyxiation. That’s what it fucking meant.

“As lovely as that sounds,” Declan said, smiling at Talia and interrupting Bo’s spiraling thoughts, “I’ve an old friend to intercept for a wee bit while the three of you are on your way. Perhaps on your next adventure to this world.”

“We can do that,” said Talia. “With hats.”

“Would you be so kind as to escort me back?” the sluagh asked. “We can discuss the hats.”

“Declan,” Everil interrupted, the faintest note of hesitance in his voice. Declan looked back at him, an eyebrow arched. “We’ll speak soon. Thank you.”

Bo watched Declan falter at Everil’s thanks, his smiling fading. He studied Everil, head tipped to the side. A bird of prey, no matter how human he looked.

“Thank you for trusting me, my friend,” Declan said at last, dark smile soft. His hand twitched, as if to reach out, but he hooked a thumb in a form fitting pocket instead. “Stay safe. I will see you soon.”

So maybe, possibly, Bo could forgive the shithead smirk. Declan wasn’t coming with them, as evidenced by his attention turning to Talia. He spoke to her like a person and obviously cared about Everil, and it left Bo feeling somewhat generously towards him.

“I’m going to need to hide most of my hoodies, aren’t I?” Bo asked softly, daring a glance up at Everil.

The other man didn’t answer immediately, watching Declan and Talia with a small, nearly invisible smile. He appeared almost happy, watching the two of them head up the stairs, gaze following them with that lingering look, soft as Declan’s voice had been.

Everil watched Declan, and Bo watched Everil smile, listened to his gentle, “I wouldn’t recommend it. You’ve already sworn them to her.”

How fucking unfair. From how Bo’d heard it, Declan didn’t have a bond. Everil was obviously fond of him, the man who sidestepped his complaints with what Bo decided was a very fucking fae air, and he somehow still got stuck with roughshod Bo and fuckface Nimai.

“A couple,” Bo countered, grinning. “I swore a couple. They just might need to rotate.”

Everil looked to Bo, then. A brief glance of freckles and considering, dark eyes, and then he turned his attention back to the window. Hands still loose at his side, instead of held tight.

Robin sometimes looked like a deer in headlights. Everil apparently sometimes stood like one.

“I need to visit the river before we depart.” Everil kept his gaze on the window. Bo itched to lean in and put his forehead against Everil’s shoulder as he had before. “You’re welcome to stay here, of course. But if you desire to see a kelpie in truth, you may join me.”

The fucking phantom stallion, always spotted by the goddamn river.

Bo liked to believe he’d have said no if it felt like an obligation. And, fuck, maybe he would have. But Everil held open that door and didn’t feel as if he dreaded the idea. The guy who’d talked to Bo about refreshments in a way that Bo (now) knew meant ‘leave, please’ invited him along. And Bo would’ve sworn that he meant it. That there was a cool thread of welcome, ice crisp and curious, there beneath the surface.

“That would be fucking awesome,” Bo agreed, no little amount of pleasure in his voice. “I’d love to.”

As far as nights to flee into the darkness went, they could have chosen worse. Clear and crisp, the evening wind a gentle nip rather than a sharp bite to exposed skin. Everil was quiet as they made their way into the forest. Well, except a murmured ‘If I may’ and the offer of a hand at Bo’s elbow after the second time he’d nearly tripped over a fucking root in the dark.

Fucking gorgeous, the whole of it, and their silence a comfortable one. Everil seemed more at home in the darkness. He was warm and sure beside Bo, those long fingers the only thing preventing Bo from stumbling straight into a broken nose.

“The river’s just ahead,” Everil offered, releasing his careful hold on Bo’s arm. The trees thinned only a few steps after he spoke, giving way to the rocks of the riverbank. The burble of running water joined the soft sounds of insects, leaves and shadow giving way to the gleam of moonlight on dark water.

Bo closed his eyes and breathed deep, dimly aware of Everil’s equally full breath beside him. It smelled like the kelpie. Growth and damp, fresh earth and cold stone, the wash of clean, chilly water over thick moss.

The nagging twist of tension in their bond eased, so consistently tight that Bo’d stopped noticing it, that constant sharp note of anxiety. This felt like a sigh, let out slow so your limbs loosened. Except replace ‘limbs’ with ‘souls’ or whatever it was they had tangled between them.

He opened his eyes to see Everil watching him. His attention akin to the rush of a river, sweet and tempting on a bed of fresh greenery. Bo tasted it on the tip of his tongue, the sifting of loam and moss over fingertips. Something to sink into. He could feel the beat of Everil’s heart through their bond, rushing in time with the river. Heat shivered under the icy swirl of his aura.

“I’ll not be long,” Everil said, slipping out of his loose sweater and folding it into a neat, precise square. “Are you cold? I can weave a bit of warmth for you if you require.”

For a moment, Bo thought of taking that half step closer, reaching out to touch newly exposed skin burnished gold under the stars. A brush of fingertips just to see if Everil welcomed an answer to the way he’d briefly looked at Bo.

Fucking tempting, the thrum of Everil’s response to the river in his core, want unfurling along the seam of their knitted together magic.

“I’m good,” Bo answered, holding out his hand. He managed to sound steady. That in and of itself was a win, his eyes still trailing over Everil’s torso. “I can hold your stuff? Keep it safe from raccoons. And cats.”

Talking meant not thinking about Everil stripping under the night sky. It even helped to pull Bo’s gaze back up to the man’s (disgustingly pretty, freckled) face, as if Bo were someone who wasn’t a creep.

Everil swallowed hard, shifting again to glance at Bo. Want and the river licked at their bond, parched throat sated, and the world grown anew. Everil handed Bo his shirt, his fingers burning where they brushed the inside of Bo’s wrist.

No fucking wonder people followed kelpies to the water’s edge.

Not even a half hour earlier, Bo’d wondered how to draw Everil out. He’d thought about how not many expressions seemed to linger for Everil, especially not the positive ones. How his shifting towards Bo with his hands at his sides was a big deal .

Apparently, the answer to all of that was rivers . At least this specific river for this specific kelpie. Bo didn’t want to assume. He had Everil’s touch burning on his wrist with the curl of those long fingers, damn near scalding, and a tidal rush in his ears.

Rivers loosened the line of Everil’s bare shoulders and rivers were why Everil stepped out of his pants without a moment’s hesitation. To swim, or splash, or whatever he planned to do that probably didn’t involve eating Bo.

The kelpie folded the pants with the same care as his sweater, handing them to Bo without the accompanying drag of fingers.

“The raccoons know better,” he murmured, soft voice gone husky, a line of heat up Bo’s spine. “But I appreciate your intercession with the cats.”

More than one way to fucking drown a man. (At least this way Bo could still breathe and survive. Each inhale tasted like Everil.)

Lean lines and long limbs belied the strength Everil had shown earlier, when pulling Antonio around. Freckles splashed intermittently on his smooth, moon-gilded skin. Bo watched the spill of dark hair over his shoulders as Everil moved, still feeling that touch .

He didn’t think about what Everil’s skin might taste like under his tongue. He didn’t shiver at the near purr of his words, either.

Fucking voice the man had on him, pretty as he was, smooth and level, even when standing in front of Bo without a stitch of clothing, hard and wild. Beautiful, that voice.

It’d sound so much better if just a little more breathless and wrapped around Bo’s name.

“I like to knock shit off counters too,” Bo said, just this side of rough, unable to look away from Everil’s face. He took that half step closer, reaching for Everil with his free hand. “We get along.”

Everil didn’t move, still but not frozen like he’d been on the porch. Cold fingers met too-hot skin, jarring and so fucking right . The bond caught between them, lit like a flame. Careful, Bo slid his hand back, palm light against Everil’s soft cheek, fingers curving along his jaw and the shell of his ear.

The contact did nothing to smooth the edges of Bo’s voice. Neither did the way Everil parted his lips, the hint of his tongue touching teeth as he breathed deep, like he could taste Bo on the air. Fuck, maybe he could.

“Need to tell you something before you go in,” Bo said, quiet. “Nothing bad. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Everil leaned into the touch, his attention fixed on Bo’s lips. “I’m listening. ”

And, fuck. Fuck . The two of them fed off this. That was the only way to say it. Everil leaned in more under Bo’s study, lips still parted, all invitation. They’d be warm under Bo’s, soft and eager. Everil would welcome his kiss, same as he did Bo’s touch at his cheek and temple.

Just a nudge. A little push, the slightest pressure, and they could fall together, touch and taste. Everything they both wanted.

No. Fuck. That was what Bo needed to talk to him about. Not fuck there by the water.

(But it’d be so good.)

Bo swallowed and licked his lips, disappointed they didn’t taste like water straight from a frozen stream. He allowed himself the pleasure of stroking Everil’s cheekbone with his thumb, slow and electric. Also allowed was the lie that he had a choice in the matter.

Everil’s eyes fluttered at the caress, though they didn’t, quite, close. A fucking vision, the kelpie naked and hard and almost nuzzling into the touch. Lust mirrored between them and intensified with every new refraction.

“I like it when you touch me,” Bo murmured, voice steady as he could make it. “Like the porch, and how you just did. Thanks for letting go this time so I can keep your shit dry and cat free. And ’cause I don’t want to fuck if it’s only because of where we are.” Fingertips, gentle down his cheek and jawline as Bo made himself gradually pull back. “No matter how much we fucking want it.”

Everil shivered under his touch but didn’t move away. He watched , dark eyes intent like he was drinking in each dip and slope of Bo’s face, the way Bo did his.

“You mistake what’s happening,” Everil said, still quiet. Not touching Bo. Not stepping back, either. “The river does not ride me. It only looses the reins for a time.”

“I think the river’s missing out.”

A soft huff from Everil, nearly laughter. Fucking gorgeous.

“If you were not alluring back at the house, I might still wish to … play.” He lingered on the word. Bo shivered with it. “But it would be a somewhat different game.”

Alluring . Bo would’ve laughed if they weren’t by the river that smelled of Everil, tasted like him, with the fae in question bared to the moonlight and so fucking close. Bo reached again, pushing some hair back from Everil’s ear. His fingers were only a little unsteady.

“Knowing you found me attractive really isn’t helping me hold strong on the ‘we aren’t fucking on the riverbank in late autumn’ stance. Playing. Whatever you want to call it.”

Bo spoke, and Everil took a step closer. Just one, but that was all it took. His arm at Bo’s back, hand against his neck, drawing him close with a deep, shuddering breath. His lips brushed Bo’s hair, an almost kiss, as he spoke.

“A confection.” The bastard almost sounded amused . “You’ve no idea.”

Amused and holding on, his touch a blazing path along Bo’s neck, back, and chest. He felt Everil’s words as much as heard them, all windy winter days and soothing shadows, the curve of his lips almost brushing Bo’s neck.

And, yeah, Bo leaned into him like he’d done on the porch, one hand skating up the length of Everil’s arm in retaliation. And, sure, maybe Bo made a noise. If he did, it was quiet. And he was fucking allowed with Everil breathing him in, holding him close, and … yeah … that was the guy’s cock, caught between them.

When Everil stepped away, Bo stayed standing. A little flushed and breathless, but he kept on both feet. Didn’t even fucking waver.

“Uhm,” he said, distant and low to his own ears. “What now?”

Do we fuck? Do you frolic? What the fuck just fucking happened, I don’t tend to neck in the goddamn woods?

“Wait here.” Right. Yes. Or that. “And if you find yourself desiring a swim, don’t . There are limits to my self-control, and we have already exceeded them.”

Any doubts Bo might have had about what Everil meant dissolved in the wake of his heated gaze and quick, flickering look from top to toe.

“I promise to stay dry,” Bo managed to say, half of it on a laugh, “Show me a kelpie in truth?”

Another sound that was little more than an exhale, an almost curve of full lips, their bond loud and clear as the quickening stream. Bright as the night was dark. All sorts of metaphors for the longing and joy of the river in Everil and the sight of his back, flecked with stars, hair a dark tumble with that not-quite laugh on his lips.

He stepped into the river as Bo shifted further back, closer to the grass.

Stars and moon and man became stallion. Or water. Maybe both.

Everil rearranged , the way the coffee table had with the appearance of Bo’s mug of hot chocolate. One second, naked man, the next a horse, and water somewhere between.

Everil made river made stallion, except it was always Everil, wasn’t it? Huge, and pitch as his fucking hair had been. Thick tufts stuck to his hooves when he reared and splashed back down, head swiveling to look at Bo. Everil’s fangs flashed, moon white, seeing Bo.

Only then did it occur to Bo that, not only was Everil’s head now approximately the size of Bo’s entire torso, but he had teeth like a fucking shark.

Robin would say something like, “This is the part where I should get the fuck out of here.”

Funny, but Bo’d figured he was done being shocked. Done having his world twist and resettle. There was the world tilting soulbond, some magic hot chocolate, that thing with Antonio. Fucking Declan and Talia with her metal-touched power. He’d assumed that he’d wrapped his mind around everything from the last twelve hours. That he was prepared for this.

He had sixteen years of practice, after all.

And there, in the river, there stood Everil. Hooved and fanged and velvet black, with the river lively around him, licking the banks and sending stones tumbling. Dangerous, even with the playful splash of a single hoof coming down, sending up a spray of silver.

Come play , the stallion that was Everil seemed to say. Come ride. Look how the water shines.

Bo’s eyes stung, blurred hot. He pressed his fingers over his mouth to keep from laughing or screaming or who the fuck knew what else. Only idiots got choked up over a kelpie offering sport, inviting them to watery death and play.

It’d been fake for so long. Everything he’d believed, a twisted lie, a scheme to milk money from a too-credulous kid. And still, Bo’d ached for something to be true .

“You’re fucking real,” Bo said thickly. Everil was fucking real. Was death , yeah, meant his warnings. But he was real . “Fuck. Fuck. Everil, you’re fucking real.”

And yeah, Bo laughed, broken and a little wild, clutching Everil’s clothing to his chest. If he didn’t laugh, he’d cry, and Bo was too happy to cry just yet.

Everil splashed in response. This time, it seemed aimed purposefully at Bo. Fucker.

“I’m not getting near your pretty river. I can listen sometimes, you cheeky fuck.” Another choked laugh and, “You’re real . Fuck. Everil. ”

There was a soft nicker, something flittering through the bond like curiosity. Muted, presumably because Everil was a fucking stallion , but there still. Then the kelpie stepped onto the riverbank, lowering his head as he approached Bo.

“Of course you look like a fucking Clydesdale,” Bo said, still with a note of wet laughter in his traitorous voice. The stallion snorted, hot breath clouding the late-autumn air. “Big ass fucking Scottish bastard. You’re real , holy flying fuck.”

Fucking huge was what he was. That playful, splashing hoof alone could smash Bo’s fragile little skull. Thick muscled and towering, near to ink in the night. And Everil, he’d only warned Bo about going to the water. Bo’d assumed, stupidly, he’d turn back when out of it, like some mermaid legend.

Idiot. Idiot who didn’t fucking move when the kelpie moved closer, inquisitive rather than trying to lure Bo onto his back. Hopefully.

“Don’t got a rope, funny guy.” Bo scrubbed awkwardly at his face, trying to keep Everil’s clothes dry even as his voice wavered on hiccupping tears. They’d be wrinkled anyway, other hand holding fast.

The stallion’s nostrils flared at the word ‘rope,’ but he didn’t shy or stop. Instead, he nickered again, a sound that came close to laughter. It gave Bo enough (fucking idiotic) incentive to lift his hand slowly, palm down and fingers relaxed.

“Nothing to tie or ride with.” Except maybe a very loose sweater with long sleeves. Bo kept that thought to his fucking self. “Don’t bite me, okay? I can’t drive with one hand.”

Another sound, part nicker, part chuckle, or something like it, and Everil snapped at the air. Fangs closing a good distance from Bo’s extended hand, it felt worth noting.

“You’re hilarious,” Bo said. He couldn’t fucking help it, the wonder in his voice, like a little kid all over again. Fucking struck, was what he was, since Everil was fucking real and Bo felt like his chest might burst from it. “Secretly hilarious.”

The murderous, flesh-eating stallion ignored Bo’s hand, leaning down to lip at his hair instead. Bo let out a shaking breath, surrounded by dangerous streams and the shelter of old homes. Lost places.

Fuck it. He turned his hand, resting it on the stallion’s neck, fingers splayed over muscles and heat. Everil’s breath huffed in his hair, then the stallion lowered his head further, catching the fabric of Bo’s jacket in his serrated teeth and tugging hard.

Bo laughed, stumbling but held up by stallion and balance alike. Found his feet, even, leaning more into the cold river that was Everil’s magic, fucking everywhere.

“You’re also a punk,” Bo rasped, curling in towards the asshole horse best he could. Small, compared to the giant fucking four-legged Everil. There was another sound very like laughter, echoed by the river, running faster than it had only moments before. “Yeah, yeah, fuck. Fuck . I hope you know this fulfills any obligation you have from taking my energy.” And yeah. Bo fucking sniffled. “I’ll say whatever words need saying. Tell you when you’re human too. Pulling me back from the brink wouldn’t match this; that’s just a life.”

Snowmelt flooded Bo’s senses almost before he finished speaking. The run of power, moon-kissed, snowmelt running on drought-dry streambeds. Taking and giving in turns, playful as the tugs at his jacket and huffs at collar and hood, fangs going through fabric without touching skin.

Bo felt himself washing away. Swept under. Bo curled his fingers tighter in the stallion’s thick mane, shaking, holding on. The fucking rush of it, of thick grass freshly short, lush underfoot by the river, cold running down a hungry throat, parch until sated, lips wet with chill , back and forth between them until Bo swore he could taste citrus.