Harbor (On the Wind #3)

28. Tybalt

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

TYBALT

I felt better after sleeping. It wasn’t like anything had become clearer in that time, but I could handle my swirling thoughts now that I wasn’t panicked and reeling.

Someone had tried to kill me.

If I’d been smarter, I might’ve searched the body Orestes had dropped on the snowy ground for any sign of who or why. In the moment, all I could think of was getting Orestes somewhere safe, where neither the cold nor anything else could hurt him worse than the knife left sticking out of his side.

Then, well, there had been the fire and the stitching and the sleeping.

So when the sun rose beyond the grated windows, piled with fresh snow, I stared up at the ceiling. Someone wanted me dead. I could only think of one person who cared that much and who had reason to want me out of the way. All right, maybe two—Lady Penelope surely wouldn’t want to deal with her husband’s wayward son. But she didn’t strike me as the murderous type. She’d been... kind.

That left just the one person, and try as I might, I couldn’t wrap my head around the possibility of that .

Better to distract myself.

I didn’t even mean to, exactly. Just, as I thought through my predicament, my hand sneaked closer to Orestes beneath the blankets, until I could trace my knuckles across the warm bend in his hip. He’d turned over in the night, curling toward me. And, even with his scars, his skin was smooth and warm, and the satisfied rumble he gave in his sleep drew my attention away from less pleasant topics.

I rolled toward him, tucking my arm beneath my head. He was still asleep, likely exhausted by yesterday. Yes, it was probably the wound that’d done it to him, but it was hard to imagine becoming a different creature entirely didn’t drain one’s energy as well.

Orestes hadn’t seemed bothered by the transformation in the slightest. No, changing form seemed to be the most natural thing in the world to him.

How was that possible? The practicalities of it didn’t make sense to me. Well, except the clothes. Obviously, he’d had to leave those behind.

But the priests droned on and on about the magic of gods, how if we displeased them the winter would stretch out all the longer. Hells, when last winter had turned especially bitter, half the court had looked at me distastefully, as if I’d brought some curse down on us all.

Still, if Nemedans could fly , it was hard to imagine that they weren’t gods themselves. It would explain the strange, silvery beauty of Killian, or Orestes’s formidable size.

They were something other than what I was. More than what I was.

Still, Orestes was right there, just a man nestled beside me, so maybe it wasn’t that at all. They weren’t gods , but he was still more than me.

I sank beneath the blankets. Orestes’s torso stretched out, firm and dense. The way his muscles stacked when he lay on his side was far too appealing. I let my fingertips trace up the ridges of his abdomen, then dance across the bottom edge of the bandages.

From the outside, they still looked clean. I’d help him change them soon, if only to get a better look. I might not know what I was doing, but I’d feel better knowing his stitching held and his skin didn’t look inflamed.

But right then, I was more interested in the way his lower abdomen cut in a pretty “v,” drawing my eye straight to his cock, half hard and resting against his thigh.

He really was unfairly pretty. A man ought not get to have all the advantages of perfect masculinity and be such a treat to look at.

Maybe him being a god wasn’t so far off...

As I stretched my hand to cup his hip and dip my fingers into the hollow beside his damnably firm ass, I leaned down to kiss his neck. It was broad and firm with muscle and when he sighed, the sound tickled my lips.

With my elbow, I pushed my weight up, tilting against his shoulder until he fell on his back and looked up at me, still sleepy and dazed as I crawled atop him.

“Tybalt,” he sighed, the sound sweet as he combed his fingers through my hair. I kissed his neck, his shoulder, his collarbone, while he stretched out beneath me.

But when he woke, he eased me back enough to meet my eye. “What are you doing?”

“I thought—” I bit my lip. “You don’t have to move much. I won’t... press or anything. I could just take care of you.”

Orestes raised a brow up at me. “Take care of me?”

I huffed through my nose. “I can do that, you know.”

He chuckled. “I do know. I know, Tybalt.”

He cupped my cheek, firm and steady, and drew me down for a soft kiss.

“So would you, um, like that?” I mumbled against his lips. “Me taking care of you?”

“Mmhmm.” His thumb swiped across my lips, and I whimpered, warmth rushing beneath my skin.

It all disappeared when he opened his mouth again. “But, I—I hurt, Tybalt. I can’t right now.”

“Oh.” Of course he did. He’d gotten stabbed, and there I was trying to—well, I didn’t want to fuck him.

All right, I always wanted to fuck him. But I wasn’t trying to. I just wanted to be close, feel his breath against my lips, know that he was well and happy.

“Right,” I said. “Of course. That’s—I should find something for us to eat anyway. We can’t just lay around and hope to survive without a decent meal.”

I swung my leg over his hips and crawled out from beneath our nest, rushing to the kitchen. Thank the gods I wasn’t as naked as he was. To be retreating so hastily with my ass on full display would’ve been too much to bear.

The pantries weren’t well stocked. Father hadn’t made use of this lodge in years, and though I’d stayed once or twice to see if anyone would even notice I was gone, it hadn’t been the sort of place I wanted to bring servants. Part of its charm was that it was empty and peaceful. Dusty and abandoned as it was, like this, it was still my own.

I managed to find some dried oats, some spices, and the kind of coarse brown sugar often used in tea. It’d work fine to give the porridge a bit of taste, and it was better than nothing. I carried all my ingredients and a small cauldron back to the parlor fire and set it up.

I’d dumped everything into the cauldron and was feeling quite good about the whole endeavor until Orestes’s nose scrunched up. “Is something burning?”

I glanced into the cauldron, where the oats had blackened and the spices burnt and the sugar was putting off a bittersweet smell.

“Shit,” I cursed, dragging the cauldron off the fire and setting it on the stone hearth.

Orestes pushed up on his hands, stretching out his neck to peer into the mess I’d made.

“Did you”—he cleared his throat—“use any water?”

I stood back, grimacing. “Was I... supposed to?”

Orestes laughed, pulling a blanket around his shoulders as he scooted over toward the hearth to get a better look. “Why don’t you go fetch some? I think we can fix it.”