Archive of Our Own

“Sloane.” Dain’s voice is little more than a breath, cooling against my sweat-slick hairline. “It’s quarter til.” 

“No,” I mumble, knowing what’s coming. I wind my arms around him, wedging tighter between his back and the mattress. I will barnacle him to this bed if I have to. “You said we had five more minutes.”

“Mmm. That was seven minutes ago.” He presses the words to my temple. “I don’t want to get up either, but…we don’t really have a choice. I’m leading formation today.” 

Dain’s palm slides down my bare back like it’s making a farewell tour. His fingertips tap gently over each knob of my spine in a lingering descent. But when he finds my hip, he squeezes once, with a finality I quite simply refuse to accept. 

“Sloane.” He sounds disconcertingly more alert now. “Let’s go, baby.” 

In lieu of deigning any of his nonsense with a response, I burrow my nose in the crook of his neck and breathe deep, indulging in the scent of salt and cedarwood. I’m pushing my luck and I know it; we’ve lazed about twice as long as we usually do, due to a spring rainstorm that prevented our morning run. I should be grateful for the extra time, but right now I’m only resentful there’s not more of it. I shift, nestling him deeper into the cradle of my thighs. He’s still half-hard inside me, and I want to doze off like this, curled on top of him, sated and full as he rubs my back. 

“You’re so warm,” I kiss his neck. “Do I feel warm, too?” 

He groans between his teeth and hesitates long enough that I let my eyelids close. But then his hands are on my hips, and they are moving me in the wrong direction. 

“Come on,” He jostles me gently, slipping out of me as I garble a protest. “We missed breakfast. We can’t miss formation.”

That, finally, gets me to open my eyes. 

“We missed breakfast?”

He rolls off his bed with a rippling stretch, and I scootch into the warm spot he left behind. I get one delicious glimpse of the muscles etched into his retreating back before he disappears into his adjacent bathroom. 

“I told you we were going to miss breakfast.” His deep voice carries over the rush of the shower spray. “I said if we went for round two, we wouldn’t make it to the dining hall.”

“Yeah well you were saying a lot of things,” I mutter, still lounging against his pillow. “So forgive me for missing the less exciting parts.”

My stomach rumbles accusingly. Now that I’m thinking of it, there was possibly a mention of the schedule right about the time he hauled my thigh over his shoulder. 

I curl on my side and pull the tangled bedsheets back under my chin. In the brightening windowpane, I can see the blur of raindrops; the scent of Dain’s soap billows in a warm fog from the bathroom. While a poor substitute for a naked man, the whole effect is nonetheless very pleasant and soothing. 

“Sloane? I want visual confirmation you’re up,” Dain calls in an attempt to boss me from the shower. Not that he can’t, but it’s much more effective when I’m in there with him. “Do you hear me?”

“Yep,” I reply through a yawn. “I hear you.” 

For one lazy moment, I contemplate joining him, if only to turn the tables on who, exactly, is up. But there’s little point; he takes like ninety-second showers. And I don’t know that even a soaped-up Dain Aetos can pull me from this bed. 

Instead I stretch my toes, luxuriating in the deep, blissed-out ache between my thighs. It’s accompanied today by a tender wash of beard-burn. A worthy sacrifice, though I expect it will make flight maneuvers a bit touch-and-go. Thoirt may need to make some adjustments. 

“If anyone is making adjustments, it will be the Wingleader,” Thoirt suddenly butts in with the subtlety of a long-suffering eavesdropper. “If you’re aggrieved about your thighs, tell him to shave.”

“That is the craziest thing you’ve ever said to me,” I roll to my stomach and snuggle under his pillow. “His beard is a gift, meant to be cherished.”

“Oh, is that what you were doing, then?” The bond glows pink with her superiority complex. “Cherishing it?”

I raise my eyebrow into the pillow. “ How long have you been here, exactly?”

I thought I had her blocked, but there’s a substantial chance my shields went the same way as my attention to breakfast. Thoirt’s presence doesn’t bother me; I hide nothing from her. But she certainly got an education in wakeup calls, depending on when she slipped through the bond. 

“Not long,” she says, with relish. “ Though it gladdens me to find you well-tended.” 

“What a fancy way to admit you’re a shameless busybody.” 

“Oh, Love.” She practically oozes sass. “Let’s be clear about which of us is shameless.” 

At that moment, the blanket is jerked off of me without fanfare. 

“Up.”

“What the hell, Dain!”

I flop back over, my squawk of protest shriveling at the sight of Dain at the foot of the bed, dripping wet with a low-slung towel around his hips. 

“Shower is still running, Cadet,” he informs me flatly. “You have fifteen seconds to get your pretty ass in there or I’m considering it a forfeit of the left side of the bed.”

I gape. 

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me, sweetheart.”

I narrow my eyes, but I don’t think he’s joking. A source of great consternation since he returned from the isles has been the discovery that we both prefer the same side of the bed. So far, he’s obliged me, which I thought was pretty damn gentlemanly of him. But apparently he’s just been setting me up for an elaborate entrapment. 

“You’re diabolical,” I grouch at him, finally climbing out of bed. 

The asshole just raises his eyebrow and drops his towel, thereby proving my thesis. 

“We’re leaving this room in six minutes, Mairi.” He kisses my snarl as I stomp past him. “Tell you what, if I see you apply some effort in there, I’ll even pack your bag for you.”

He’s truly insufferable. 

Gods, I’m so into it. 

I step into the waiting shower, still mightily aggrieved—though the spray of perfectly pressurized hot water markedly improves my spirits. If I have six minutes, I will be spending three of them letting this water pulverize the very few bones Dain has left me with. 

Finally, because I can be a good little soldier when I want to be, I resign myself to the burdensome task of hurrying the fuck up. 

I turn to grab shampoo.

And there they are—

My shower things, all lined up next to his. 

My shampoo sits next to his bar of soap on the little stone ledge. I put it there a few days ago, when it became clear that if we’re going to keep this new…relationship…under wraps, I can’t run the risk of smelling like Dain’s soap. Of course, the alternative is that I don’t shower here. But I’ve so far been unsuccessful in making that choice.

The sight of my things neatly arranged in his shower—clearly, by him, given that my shampoo is properly capped and not dripping all over the tile—is weirdly domestic in a way that makes my stomach feel like it’s in the wrong spot. 

Good nerves or bad ones?  

It’s the question I ask myself at least three times a day. 

It’s been over four weeks since the first time Dain kissed me, the blistering result of a mutually unhinged declaration of our growing feelings, unleashed exactly eight minutes before he left for the isles. In the ten days since Quest Squad’s return, things have become both more and less complicated. We’re in this, that much is plain…but whatever we’re in feels like it’s moving fast and sliding sideways. We are together every time we can be alone, and nobody else knows it. I am objectively crazed for him and also know that’s objectively crazy. 

The only thing we’re clear about is that trying is both ill-conceived and inevitable. 

“Sometimes, Love, it’s just a bottle of shampoo.” Thoirt has been extremely patient with my daily existential crises. “Also, you have two minutes.”

“Shit!”

At the prospect of losing my cozy wall-side refuge to six feet and three inches of male arrogance, I race through the rest of my shower. In record time, I’m washed, rinsed, semi-toweled off, have wrestled my wet hair into a braid, and jabbed a toothbrush into my mouth. 

Take that, Wingleader.

“You’re still naked,” Thoirt yawns. “I’d save the victory lap for pants.” 

“On it.”

I hurtle back into the bedroom and swipe at today’s uniform, now neatly folded on Dain’s desk. He’s crouching on the floor, fully dressed and dutifully reorganizing my pack. I note there’s a distinct frown on his face as he carefully rifles through my things. 

“What’s wrong?” I wriggle into my uniform top, definitely missing a button. Damn —no, I’ll fix it later.

“I can’t find your underwear,” he says grimly, tossing me a granola bar.  “Did you pack any?”

“No—” I pause to rip into the granola bar. “I need to send out for laundry. But the ones from last night are clean. I only had them on for like…four minutes.” 

“I can’t find the ones from last night.” 

I survey his bedroom; nothing is out of place except his overflowing bookshelves. Black panties should be easy to spot. “What did you do with them?”  

“Me?” He looks affronted. 

“You were the last one in possession of them,” I say accusingly, fixing the buttons on my top. It’s about the only thing I can fix, seeing as the rest of me is still bare-ass naked. “Where did you throw them?”

He squints, assessing the radius of the bed as if trying to triangulate the distance to which the offending garment may have been tossed. 

“Cath says check behind the drapes,” Thoirt offers. “They were apparently wide open last night.”

“Cath was here?”  I look down at my very naked bottom. “Wait. Is he here now?”

Dear gods. 

“Never mind—I don’t have time for this.” I hold the granola bar between my teeth and grab my leathers. “I’ll just go commando.”

“And if I don’t have time to get to my room before flight maneuvers, you are absolutely making some adjustments,” I warn Thoirt. “I’ll not tolerate chafing.”

“And yet I’m supposed to tolerate your harlot behavior?” She ruffles the bond affectionately. “I adore you, Love—but not at the expense of my flight patterns.”

Dain, still squatting next to my bag, makes a choking sound as I shimmy into my pants. My thighs are still a little damp; it takes a wiggle to get my leathers up. The beard-burn is extremely unhelpful to the whole endeavor. 

“What…are you doing?” His voice is oddly stilted. 

“I’m getting dressed.” I fasten my leathers and grab a pair of socks. “Expeditiously, as ordered.” 

“You’re just…” His tongue darts to his lower lip. “Bare. Under there.”

“Well, yeah.” I shove my feet into my socks and glance up at him. “It’s not a big deal. I’ve done it before.”

Instantly, his entire face changes. He’s now looking at me with a keen, furious hunger. “When?”

Oh, interesting. 

I bend over to lace my boots. “Who could say, really?” 

He stands, his eyes still moving over me with conflicted intensity. 

“Are you ready?” I chirp. “We have to go, like, right now.” 

“Sloane. Do you expect me to not…Fuck.” His voice is rough.  “I came inside you fifteen minutes ago. And knowing you’re all…” 

He trails off, and I grin, delighted. He shakes his head, a mutinous expression on his face. 

“We have Battle Brief together,” he concludes, as if the problem speaks for itself.

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” I kiss his cheek sympathetically. “We also have sparring together.”

Thoirt flares with pride as Dain swears in a manner befitting a grizzled sea captain. 

“You better hurry up,” I toss over my shoulder as I heft my perfectly arranged pack. “Formation is in three minutes, and I have it on good authority that the wingleader is feeling tense today.”

***

My good mood shifts into something more worn as the day goes on. More bad news from the western line, another slouched retreat toward Draithus. Violet is pale and tense, holed up with her people, whispering secrets and schemes the rest of us aren’t privy to. Cat remains understandably prickly and morose; the Aretian and Navarrian riders are snappish. 

All of it is business as usual—but that doesn’t mean the business is good. It strikes me again that this is possibly the wildest timeline in which to find myself, for the first time in years… content. 

A few months ago, grappling with all this would have absolutely sent me spiraling with guilt. But not anymore. On my good days, I decide I’m allowed to feel good. And on my bad days…well, I guess it’s okay to feel less bad. 

And today is a good day. 

Aside from my morning with Dain, the other bright spot is that Avalynn and Lynx are both fully recovered from the injuries they sustained during the first day of battle-mount training last week. Her collarbone was finally properly set by Nolan, and Lynx’s nose is no longer quite so grotesquely bruised. 

And, as I come to learn, they are hellbent on celebrating their accomplishments.

“We’re going out,” Avalynn declares, the minute I appear at the dinner table. “Chantara. Tonight. Tell me you have a slutty dress.”

“Also tell me that,” Ridoc swivels in his seat. 

“Tonight?” I look over my year-mates with avid interest. I could do Chantara. I could do the shit out of Chantara. “Who’s going?”

“All of us.” Avalynn confirms. “Kai, Lynx, Baylor…” She pauses, frowning. “Aaric, will you have to bring your guards?” 

Aaric grimaces. “I’ll stay behind.”

“No!” I grab his chair. “Just bring them. Who cares?”

He looks like he’s ready to protest again when Ridoc reinserts himself. 

“Request denied,” Ridoc jerks his head toward the end of the table, where Aaric’s somber detail is surveying the dining hall as though wyvern are in line for the mutton stew.  “I’m making progress with the taller one.” 

“Okay, yes.” Avalynn claps her hands, very into this development. “That’s the enthusiasm we need. We are taking lemons and turning them into lemonade.”

Ridoc raises his mug. “And I, for one, am thirsty.”

“What are you guys clapping about?” Maren asks as she and Cat slide across from Ridoc. I’m relieved to see Cat’s got food on her tray, which is at least an improvement from the last few days. I may not be her biggest fan—or even really her littlest fan—but she certainly doesn’t deserve the month she’s had. I think of Trager and my stomach clenches. 

We really do all need a night away from this place. 

“Chantara. Nine o’clock. We’re getting sloppy.”

“Nine?” Sawyer butts in. “No fucking way are we going that early.”

“I’m in.” Cat declares gravely, and that seems to invigorate everyone else. “And it better not be fucking lame, Gamlyn.”

“Okay , now we’ve got stakes,” Ridoc declares, swiveling around to get a headcount on second squad. “Imogen? Quinn?”

“I’m out,” Rhiannon calls from down the table. “I’m way too behind with stuff. And I’ll check with Violet, but I’m guessing she is a no, too, and I don’t think we should push her on it.”

A series of tense nods between the second years, which is, as usual, weird as fuck but not surprising. 

There’s a lot of chaos as everyone starts debating about locations and times. Apparently the second-years have a physics test tomorrow that half of them want to finish studying for. I use the cover of poorly-made plans to turn discreetly to Avalynn. 

“What about Aetos?” I say, extremely casually as I pick through my stew. 

“Aetos?” Avalynn looks like I’ve suggested we bring Tairn. “ Why ?”

“I mean…” 

I shrug, a hot rush of panic sliding down into my belly. We’re obviously inviting, Dain, right? But if I’m the one who suggests it, does that look suspicious? 

“This place has been a godsdamn tinderbox lately,” Avalynn declares. “We need to blow off steam. Not drag the fucking kettle with us.”

Irritation spikes, closely followed by a surge of defensiveness. It hardly matters that a month ago I would have verbalized worse. Sure, Dain might be an overly pedantic tyrant sometimes, but anyone with some fucking sense can see that he almost always does it so the rest of us don’t have to worry. 

“Oh come on. He’s not that bad.” I sincerely hope the crowded dining hall is masking the strange tension in my voice. 

“I know you two are like involved,” Avalynn starts, and I choke on my stew. 

“What—”

There’s no way she knows. We’ve been careful. I’m actually being more publicly waspish to him than ever, and there is no such thing as a strategy Dain can’t perfectly execute.

“Your runs,” she waves her hand, dismissively. “Or whatever weird fucking workout routine you’re doing with him. But you can’t tell me you want him hanging over your shoulder all night.”

My hand spasms on my spoon, but Avalynn, taking no notice, only leans conspiratorially closer. 

“We need to get laid, Sloane. Well, not me so much, but you, definitely.” She shoots me a sympathetic look. “You’ve got to be basically desiccated by now. Gods, when’s the last time you’ve been with someone?”

Eleven am, in the empty office down the hall from Battle Brief. And she really wouldn't feel so sorry for me if she knew I had that particular memory burning through my brain. 

Fortunately, Ridoc seems to be having the same thought as me. Or, hopefully not the same thought, but a tangential one. 

“—And I’ll tell Aetos,” he says, with a flourish that indicates he’s concluding his plans. “Ten at the Fiddler’s Run. First round is on Greycastle, and that includes his security.” 

Aaric lifts his spoon in a salute. 

When Avalynn looks ready to argue, Ridoc only shrugs. 

“Quest Squad,” he says simply. “Like it or not, Aetos is a real one.” 

The relief I feel is immediate. And it’s not only because this unfolded without much steering from me. It’s that I can plainly see how ready I was to meddle on his behalf—and how immensely cheered I am that I didn’t have to. Ridoc gets it. Dain is a real one. 

I’m the last person who ever expected to be in Dain Aetos’s corner, but now that I am, I’m basically redecorating. 

“Besides,” Ridoc continues, lifting his eyebrow. “If anyone needs to get laid, it’s the Wingleader.”

And nobody can argue with that.

Least of all me. 

***

Fiddler’s Run is the kind of establishment that’s dark, loud, and laced with a heady fog of churam. Upon entering with my year-mates, my boots stick to the floor and my hair to my neck. The tavern is practically overflowing with bodies and noise, with voices climbing the walls over the sound of the music. I spy a crowded bar, a quartet of maniacal looking fiddlers, and Ridoc waving us over to a table that’s missing one leg. 

In other words, it’s perfect. 

My friends start pushing toward the rest of our squad, but I’m distracted by the sight of a familiar-looking pair of shoulders waiting at the bar. They are very broad, very rigid, and look like somewhere my fingernails belong. 

Yes, please.

“Don’t tell me what you want, because you’re getting what you get,” I shout to Avalynn and the guys, who all shoot me an assortment of thumbs-up as they push through a swarm of infantry and Chantara’s finest citizens to join Ridoc and the others. 

I elbow through the line, making my way toward Dain, my heartrate spiking as I take him in. 

He’s the picture of casual expectation—elbows propped on the bar, eyes sharply surveying the crowd. For some reason he’s still wearing his leathers, though his sleeves have been rolled to reveal the fine muscles of his forearms, a rippling stretch of tan stamped by the pale handprints of Jack Fucking Barlowe. My eyes move to his hands—one easily wrapped around an amber-filled glass, the other tapping a gold coin between two broad, long fingers. In the humid air of the bar, his hair is curling in earnest, and he’s undone the top two buttons on his shirt. 

He’s so fucking gorgeous I feel temporarily sick to my stomach. 

I duck under the arm of a lanky redhead and find myself nearly pressed to Dain’s side. 

“You’re wearing your uniform,” I say, angling my mouth an inch too close to his ear. 

He lifts the corner of his lips, still watching the bartender.  “I rolled the sleeves.”

“You’re lucky you look hot,” I tease. “Because otherwise—”

“Otherwise, what?” He finally looks down at me, and I’m gratified to see his eyes do that slightly unfocused thing that means I’m getting all his attention. “Oh, Sloane. Speaking of hot.” 

His voice curls over me, far more intoxicating than the churam. 

I lift my shoulder, glancing down at myself. Black dress—sleeveless, mid thigh. Nothing flashy, but an old reliable. It looks good with my boots and my relic. My hair is brushed out, I’ve got kohl smudged along my lashline, and I fortunately found some underwear, which I fear are about to become a wasteland. 

I felt pretty when I left my room. But with his eyes on me like this, I’m a walking blush. 

“This?” I run my hands over my dress, until my fingertips trail my thighs. He’s looking, and then his hand is falling there too, his knuckles slightly brushing against mine beneath the bar. “This is just good sportsmanship. For the benefit of the group, if you will.”

He ducks his head closer under the pretense of being heard over the noise. “How do you figure?”

The bartender finally sees us. Or rather, he sees me. I slide Dain’s glass toward me, beaming full tilt at the heavily-tattooed man now leaning over the bar across from me. “We just need to settle up for this, and then six shots of the same.”

“First round’s on the house,” the man says, waving aside the coin I’m flicking between my fingers. “Have fun, darling.”

He busies himself dumping a bottle over six dusty glasses. I smirk, nudging Dain’s whiskey back to him.

“Do you, or do you not, want to pay for your own drinks tonight?” 

“Unequivocally, I want to pay for them,” he rumbles, shifting to block the way his palm rotates, his fingers replacing mine along my thigh. “My drinks, your drinks, the drinks of every jackass in this pit. If the alternate currency is your attention, I’m opening a godsdamn tab.” 

Good gods. To think he leads formation with that mouth. 

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” I say, conversationally, if only to mask the wild thrash of my pulse. I pick up my shot glass and dangle it between three fingers. “Cheers.”

He turns to face me fully, my boots touching his. His brown eyes glint the same color as the liquor in his glass.

“What are we toasting?”

“Subterfuge.” I toss back the whiskey, savoring the burn. “I mean, this is objectively top-tier sexiness. Out with everyone, having to keep our hands off each other…it’ll be fun.”

I pointedly slide his hand out from under my hemline, and he groans.

“I think we have diametrically opposing ideas of fun.” 

“Hmm.” I tilt my head, letting him look down the line of my bare throat and collarbone. “We’ll see about that.”

“If you want to see about it, you’ll meet me in the washroom in one hour,” he mutters, drawing his nose a hair’s breadth above my ear before pivoting a quarter-turn from the bar. “Third door down the side hall.”

Fire ignites, deepening the blush at my throat. “You completed reconnaissance?”

“I’m thorough. As you well know.” 

He raises one slow eyebrow, and I’m very aware that the tables just turned. 

The bartender slams down a tray of sloshing shots. I slide one hand under it, lifting it above the crowd. With my free hand, I trace one swift fingernail down the inside of his forearm.

“You’re on, Aetos.”

If I’m being perfectly honest, I didn’t really want to come out tonight. 

I have a stack of reports to finish for my section leaders, and, more to the point, I don’t think my cadets were thrilled about the prospect of me showing up. But I’m trying to figure out who I am—who I can be—in this new landscape. Certainly, my old crowd wants nothing to do with me. So when Ridoc invited me, Sloane standing just behind him giving me her big eyes, I felt the least I could do was try. 

But now that I’m here, it’s not exactly a sacrifice. 

I’m two whiskeys deep, I’ve won three hands of cards, and Sloane is on the ale-soaked dance floor looking like a godsdamned heart attack. 

I will not be joining her. Not only is it very much not my scene, there is no conceivable way I can pull her body against mine without drawing every bit of the scrutiny we’re trying to avoid.

But that’s okay. 

She doesn’t need me to dance with her. 

In fact, I’m pretty damn sure she’d much rather I watch.  

She’s with Avalynn and Cat and Maren. Together, they paint a dangerous palette. Sloane is golden and bright, her blood high and her hair damp. The musicians are rowdy, playing one fast song after another, tearing at the fiddles as the crowd roils. It’s hard to look away from her, but I’m doing my best to keep one eye on the cards. For all intents and purposes, she’s with her friends—a lovely tangle of loose hair and bare arms and intermittent bubbles of laughter. 

She’s so fucking pretty it makes my teeth ache, especially because the most I can do is sprawl in my chair, making damn well sure she knows how much I like the view. 

Every time my gaze lifts to hers, I’m ransacked by blue. 

I glance at the crooked clock behind the bar, where I’m counting down our hour.

Thirty-four minutes to go.

Sawyer swears and I look over to see that Hughes, Aaric’s light-haired security guard, has laid down four of a kind. The fucker is cleaning up tonight, but I can’t really begrudge him his success. He has to endure the mayhem of Fiddler’s Run completely sober, and the perks of being assigned to the detail for a wayward prince at a war college are probably few and far between. 

A shout comes from the next table over, where most of the non-dancing squad is congregated. I’ve deliberately set myself slightly apart—playing cards with Aaric’s guards and Sawyer, who’s a real good fucking egg—because I’m trying to be mindful of giving everyone some wingleader-free space. 

I’m considerate like that. 

Unlike Sloane, who’s currently treating the dance floor like it’s my burial site.  

She looks over her shoulder, finding me, giving me a front row seat for the deliberate trail of her fingers over her collarbone. Maren passes her a bottle and she sighs, pressing the cold glass to her flushed throat. She’s rolling it over the exact spot where I know she’s most sensitive; I have a core memory of teasing my freezing lips there while pinning her against the rough bark of a fog-shrouded oak tree. 

I watch the condensation dew between the bottle and her skin, and turn instantly and irrevocably ravenous. That single bead of moisture commands my full attention. 

I want it on my tongue. 

“Aetos, it’s your deal,” Sawyer raps at the table with his knuckles. 

I tear my gaze away, but not before I see Sloane’s victorious smirk. Her dimple pops, sweet and evil. She’s trying to kill me, and that’s fine. I’ve got thick skin and a bottomless well of patience. 

But I do need another fucking drink. 

I fold the next hand and push back to the bar. The crowd is three deep. When I finally muscle through, the bartender is already sliding a whiskey my way. 

“From your blonde,” he says. “She’s on at least two cadets’ tabs, and I’m supposed to take care of you, too.” 

I sigh. She’s such a godsdamn menace. 

“I sure hope you’re going to seal that fucking deal, man,” the bartender says, leaning forward like we’re friends. “Because let me tell you, she’s—”

My eyes snap up, holding tight on his face. 

“By all means. Finish that sentence.” 

My tone is light but my glare is anything but. 

He hesitates, newly wary.  “Nothing,” he finally says. “She’s…nothing.” 

I exhale a grim laugh, running my hand over my beard. 

“Wrong.” I lift my whiskey and toss a handful of coins over the scarred bar top.  “Reimburse the other tabs, then put her on mine.”

It occurs to me, not for the first time since she summarily told me it would be fun to keep my hands off her, that I could be at my desk right now, serving as a productive member of the war effort. Instead, I’m in a hovel, cleaning up Sloane’s shrapnel. 

And I’m doing it gladly. 

Mine, my traitorous blood sings again as I watch the bartender settle up with the men Sloane is wreaking havoc upon. I’m here, with-and-without her because, somehow…I’m pretty damn sure she’s mine. 

Of course, it’s too new to say it. It’s too new to even think it. After all, not a soul apart from us and our dragons has any inkling of what’s newly, resolutely, unfolding between us. 

But I’ve always been lousy at setting reasonable expectations. 

By the time I get back to the table, Sloane and some of the others are taking a break. She’s perched in my seat, frowning at my cards. 

I snag the stool next to hers, and she makes a point to glare, presumably in commitment to the bit. 

“Gods, Aetos.” She moves two cards around. “Your hand sucks as much as you do.”

I take back my cards and rearrange them how they were. “You’re playing the wrong game.” 

Her knee finds mine beneath the table. 

“Fuck, it’s hot.” Avalynn appears, draping herself around Sloane. “How is your hair still down? Aren’t you dying?”

“Yes.” Sloane twists her hair off her neck and puffs a soft whine. “But I don’t have any of my hair bands.”

Before I can think better of it, my hand is already in my pocket. “Here.”

One of her bands dangles from my index finger. 

Avalynn frowns. “Why do you have a woman’s hair band in your pocket?”

Sloane is flushing a deep shade of pink. I can only assume she is also currently remembering the reason her hair band is in my pocket. 

But because I can’t tell my squad that I have it because I like fisting her hair when she comes, I instead offer the next-best explanation. 

“I…don’t know.” 

Every pair of eyes turns to me, including Hughes, Aaric’s guard, which I think is pretty fucking judgmental of him.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Aaric raises his eyebrow. “Are those not your pants?” 

Instantly and too late, a half-dozen other responses come to mind: I found it. I’m holding it for her because she doesn’t have pockets. It’s part of my first-aid kit. None of your fucking business. 

I take a long pull from my drink. 

“Well, well, well.” Ridoc seems to find this a delightful development. “No, wait—wait. Let’s follow this to its logical conclusion.”

He turns to the table at large. 

“A woman’s hair band in the Wingleader’s pocket implies a woman has been in the vicinity of the Wingleader’s pocket.”

“Maybe she was attempting to castrate him,” Sloane offers. 

I slide her a look. 

“Oh my gods.” Maren, of all people, leans forward excitedly. “I know who it is.”

Sloane’s leg tenses beside mine. 

“There’s no woman.” I say, with full authority that everyone ignores. 

“It’s that scribe—Jesinia’s friend.” Maren turns to Sawyer. “The one you told us about, right? But I didn’t know you guys already introduced them…”

“Oh she’s so fucking cute,” Avalynn exclaims. “The really quiet one?”

“Yes.” Ridoc snaps his fingers. “She’s like, demure. And blonde.”

“Demure and blonde is perfect for you, Aetos,” Cat interjects, tilting her head appraisingly. “Classy. Grounded. I see it.”

“It’s always the quiet ones,” Hughes adds, discarding a queen. 

For the love of Dunne. 

“Stop being so fucking weird.” Sloane scoffs, snatching the hair band from my still-extended finger. “We aren’t setting up Aetos.”

Her tone is cool, but her leg is bouncing nervously beside mine. I let my hand float to my leg, my pinky reassuringly brushing the edge of her bare thigh. I hold it there, making her feel the way she has nothing to worry about. 

“What’s wrong, Mairi?” I tilt my head. “Don’t think I’m the demure type?”

“I think we should just oil up a copy of the Codex and let you go to town,” she hisses, back to spitting fire. 

Her thigh presses harder to mine, and I physically have to bite back my smile. 

At that moment, Avalynn grabs Sloane’s shoulder. 

“Those cadets are coming back over,” she whispers. Or at least, she thinks she’s whispering; Avalynn, I suspect, is in for a very unpleasant formation tomorrow. “Sloane, that tall one is so into you.”

Sloane licks her lip, eyes darting to the cadet, then to Avalynn, then to me. Something distinctly wicked flickers on her face and slides down my spine. 

“Okay.” She stands up and downs her drink. “Let’s go.” 

Demure my godsdamn ass.

At that moment, a spark of embers flares as Cath unexpectedly rolls into the bond. We’d agreed to be quiet tonight, so the intrusion has me tensing—until I hear how absolutely world-weary he sounds. 

“Peace, Seeker. There’s no emergency.” He’s faintly rankling with irritation. “But the Daggertail would like me to relay a message from the Hellion.”

Oh, here we go. Cath is so over Thoirt’s meddling by now that I can hardly wait to hear what’s coming. 

“What?”

“Make no mistake—I will be parsing words,” he warns, and I work my jaw to cover my grin. “But the Hellion would like to know how…confident you’re feeling.”

It’s all I can do not to laugh. Confident? With Sloane looking at me like that, I’m ten fucking feet tall. 

“Tell her she’s got sixteen minutes. If she wants to play, now’s her chance.”

Cath heaves a sigh and withdraws. I have no idea what he actually says to Thoirt, but when Sloane’s eyes snap to mine, the blue is burning. 

With one lift of her brow, she joins Avalynn on the dance floor. 

Around me, the squad begins dispersing—some to go smoke, some to go dance. 

But I have nowhere else to be. 

Forget the cards. The real game is taking place four feet in front of me.  

Sloane is dancing again, buoyant and carefree and pressed close with her friends. Her body is lethal—toned, graceful, languidly rolling against Aaric, who has one fraternal hand on her bicep. Her own hands are in her hair. The sight tugs at me, poignant and possessive. 

She still won’t touch anyone but me. 

She’s stunning, shooting sparks in a way that’s so undeniably magnetic, it’s only a matter of time before the infantry cadet who’s been circling her all night finally moves into her space. He leans in to shout in her ear, and she smiles, then shrugs. The cadet moves in as Aaric moves out.

My adrenaline surges fast—faster—racing twice as fast as the music.  

And then she half-turns, repositioning herself with her back to his front. 

With sinful intent, she looks straight at me. 

My heart slams into my chest as I realize what in Malek’s name Sloane’s after—

She wants to give me a fucking show. 

I scramble for my self-possession, wondering if I am, in fact, confident enough for this. But there’s nothing malicious in her wide-open gaze. Rather, there’s something coaxing about it. I told her to play, and gods, she’s doing it. 

Sloane doesn’t want to make me jealous. 

She wants to make me wait. 

Her eyes stay fused to mine as she lets that hapless jackal spin her around and tug at her hips. He leans over her, his thigh pressed to hers, and all the while she’s paying him no mind.

My blood is surging south, my entire body crackling with tension. But if Sloane wants an audience, I’m sure as hell giving her one. I sit back in my chair until I’m half in shadow and spread my legs into slightly wider V.  My message is clear, so loud it could have been brushed over her ear.

All yours, baby. 

I lift my drink, and take a slow swallow. 

Sloane’s face goes slack. 

It’s immediately clear this is a dicey fucking game, and I’m not sure we should be playing it—but she’s so visibly turned on and I’m so loose from liquor that I can’t really set my mind on an alternative. It’s intoxication of the highest order, to have this heady secret thrumming between us. 

The bartender, our squad, this cadet—everyone thinks they know best. 

But none of them have a godsdamn clue who she’s going home with tonight. 

She’s undulating faster now, a sinuous line of gold and black that’s pulling a fog through me. I become distantly aware I’m in flames. I can’t touch her in public, and watching this cadet try—knowing he’s doing it wrong, that her glassy eyes and quickened breath have nothing to do with his hand on her hip—is so excruciatingly hot that I’m half-hard before I even clock it’s happening. 

Her gaze stays on me, urging my complicity. I grit my jaw and inhale tightly, keeping a sharp eye, making sure Sloane’s the one calling the shots, that this lucky bastard isn’t taking an ounce more than she offers. She’s loving this, that much is clear, and I don’t know if it’s the wickedly sexy risk or the implicit trust I’m giving her, but she’s turning flushed and heavy-lidded in a way that means I can’t take this much longer.  

Gods, she must be aching. 

For me. 

As soon as the thought hits, the spell breaks. As if reading my mind, her hand moves to her thigh. With two fingers, she gives three deliberate taps. 

Oh fuck me—she’s tapping out. 

Instantly, I’m on my feet. 

I can only imagine the look on my face, but whatever it is, it has her pupils blown black. She wriggles away from the cadet, offering him a breathless wave, something about needing air, something about the washroom. I stride for the dank hallway, scanning for our squad. But at this point in the night, nobody is paying us any mind. 

Good. 

I glance at the clock as I pass the bar. 

We lasted fifty-two minutes. 

Sloane’s at my elbow by the time I’m down the empty hallway, jostling open the third door on the right, which I know is out-of-order and thereby as clean as we’re going to get here. 

“I swear to the gods, Sloane,” I rasp as I slam the door closed with one flat hand. “Get the fuck over here.” 

“Mmm,” she moans happily, finally all pressed up against me.  “That was insane,” she whispers, frantically tugging at my shirt. “You made me feel insane.” 

And then her sweet and eager mouth is on mine. All thought collapses. Fuck, oh, she tastes so good. I wrap my hands around her waist, reveling in the feel of her silky dress under my palms, the way her skin is burning and too far away. 

“Sir.” A sudden loud knock shatters the euphoria. “Excuse me.”

Sloane squeaks, pulling back and hiding her face in my chest. 

“Shit.” 

Another pounding. “Sir? Miss? You are in violation of security protocols.”

“What the hell?” Sloane pulls back, scanning my face in confusion. “Dain, what are they talking about?”

I swear fantastically and wrench open the door. 

“You’ve got to be shitting me, Hughes.”

If Aaric’s security detail is surprised to see me half-feral and fully hard in an out-of-order washroom, he does not comment. 

“Wingleader Aetos, we have conducted a prior sweep of this area and require this space to remain cleared in case of an emergency.”

“You’re going to shove the prince of Navarre into a defunct bathroom in the case of an emergency,” I repeat. “Fuck off.” 

Sloane’s face is pressed between my shoulder blades, and I can’t tell if she’s laughing or hyperventilating. 

“These are our protocols, Cadet.” He looks around me and tips his head politely. “And...Miss.”

He doesn’t know it’s Sloane. For all I know, he thinks I’m in here railing a demure scribe. 

Thank Amari. 

But even still—

“You cannot tell a godsdamn soul,” I breathe, tucking in my shirt and reaching for Sloane, making she’s still tucked behind me and the door. “Do you hear me, Hughes?”

“Not my place, Cadet. So long as this hallway remains cleared, your business is your own.”

I give him a lethal once-over. I have two inches on him, and use them both with relish.

“Turn your back, please.” 

Hughes hesitates, but if he’s going to argue that she deserves anything less than privacy, he’s going to do it with my fist. As far as I’m concerned, everyone better damn well treat Sloane like a lady. Except me, the man who was about to bend her over a sink. 

With some hesitation, he rotates his back. 

“Come on.” I yank her after me, keeping her mostly tucked under my arm. 

Back down the hall, back into the bar. 

I’m so hard I fear I may kill somebody.

“Dain—do we—are we going back to the quadrant?” 

She sounds terrified that I’m going to say yes.

“No.” I survey the back entrance. “We’re not.”

***

“Where the hell are you taking me?” Sloane mutters thirty seconds later, as I tug her down the outside back steps of the tavern. “Is this…safe?” 

She’s pretty complicit for someone ostensibly worried for her wellbeing. 

“There’s a storage shed behind this row of buildings,” I grunt.

Sure enough, when we skid through the cobbled courtyard, there’s a sagging shed.

“How did you know…”

 “I once wrote a report on Chantara’s architectural layout for my primary school tutor.” 

“That’s….kind of a weird full-circle moment.” She wraps her arms around my waist as I twist open the padlock with lesser magic, and all trace of humor evaporates. “Hurry up. Dain, I’m not kidding. If we get interrupted again I’ll—”

But what she’ll do I don’t find out, because then we’re inside, the shed door is swinging closed, and I have ten seconds to take in the scent of stale, earth-musty air before I’m kissing her again.  I grasp her jaw in one hand, her hair in the other, holding her close as I helplessly lick her open and slide my tongue to hers. Hell —yes. Yes. 

“Now,” she pleads, wrenching away to tear at my leathers. 

But I can’t. I finally have her in my arms again, and I just—I can’t rush it—

“Kiss me,” I protest, chasing her breathless cries. “Please. Please.”

And I know she doesn’t need it, I know she’s half-unraveled, but I need it, and oh, gods, she knows. She holds my face and gives me her mouth, one long, aching kiss after another.  My entire chest constricts. My sweet girl—fuck, she’s perfect , letting me hold her, kiss her, savor her.

“What do you need?” I finally manage to pull my lips from hers. “Go ahead. Show me, sweetheart.”

With a desperate little whine, Sloane turns in my arms and slams her palms to the door, arching her back as she pushes her ass against me. She rolls back and forth, chasing the friction, sliding herself over the rigid line of my cock. I throw my head back, gritting my jaw to the point of pain. I’m so hard I’m leaking into my leathers, and the drag of her exposed panties and sweet, hungry whimpers is so good and so terrible my vision temporarily whites out. 

“Signet,” I manage, tightening my hands around her waist. “How’s your signet, Sloane?”

Ever since the first time, we check. There haven’t been any other close calls, and Sloane’s learning to read the signs of when her desire tips too close to a draw. But we’re moving fast now, and we’ve been drinking. 

“I feel okay,” she pants. “But I’m not putting my ass on those shelves.” She moans as I fist her skirt, sliding the fabric up around her hips. “Take me against the door.”

I press my mouth to her temple, hooking my thumbs into her underwear. Sloane’s breath hitches into a full cry when I slide them halfway down her thighs. Her arousal scents the air between us, and I waste no time slipping my fingers right into that divine slick. 

“Dain —”

She’s so damn wet. I feel out of my mind. I can hear my grunts leaving my chest, I can smell her hair against my nose. I’m aware that I’m living, breathing, holding her against me. But I’m no longer capable of any sensory inputs except the soft, soaked need between her thighs.  

“Fuck—baby. Sloane. Is that all for me?” I rasp low in her ear, closing my eyes as I circle and stroke.

“You,” she agrees, clutching my forearm and turning her head to drag her lower lip over my chin. “All for you, Dain. You did it without—without even touching me. I swear. I couldn’t even see that other guy. I couldn’t even feel him—”

“Shh,” I susurrate into the side of her throat, drawing tight, unyielding circles on her clit.  “None of that. I know it’s mine.”  

I’m a little drunk, but the feeling of her desire all over my hand is bringing me right the fuck around. With my free hand, I unfasten my leathers, unfurling my cock, hissing as the cool air hits the moisture sticking to my skin. It’s possible I’ve never been this desperate. All night, watching her, wanting her, unable to just fucking take what’s mine—

I slot my entire palm over the gentle curve of her pussy, and she wails into her own fist. 

“Gods. I know. I know. Can I take care of this, Sloane?”

“Yes. Please. Do anything you want. Do it, do it —” She’s chanting, babbling, grinding back on my cock, messy and unmeasured.  

“Turn around.”

Instantly her back is to the door. She winds her arms around my neck, her mouth on my mouth as her legs wrap around my waist. She gives me all her weight as I bring her down on my cock, easing her open as she compulsively clenches her thighs. 

“Come on, baby, stay open for me. Let me in deep, there you go—that’s my girl. Gods. So beautiful. Arch your back for me, a little more—”

I can’t stop talking to her like this, can’t stop taking her like this. It’s a fog, a subliminal state that drags me back to the edge of awareness. She unlocks something primitive, and I’m powerless against it. I’m made to take care of her. Whatever she needs, however she needs it. Hands, mouth, cock, words—

She gets anything she wants. 

“Good?” I suck beneath her jaw when I bottom out. I hold it as long as I can, that precious moment when I can’t get deeper, but I’m too far gone now, and I can’t keep it slow. I slide through her wet heat, over and over, savoring the warm pulses of pleasure that push through me and into her. 

“Dain.” My name is her sigh, warm against my cheek. “You feel so good. So good…oh gods, I needed this…”

I brace myself against the door with one hand, using the other to palm her ass, tilting her to put the friction of my body against her clit.  I try to hold back, to let her stretch, but it’s impossible. She’s already moving with me, meeting each upstroke with ferocious intent. Each rock of her hips only settles me deeper, and I groan, grinding hard where I know she wants pressure.

Her head hits the door.

“Dain—sound shield.” She manages to pant. “We need—

“Mmm, no.” I scrape my teeth along her jaw. “I want it like this.” 

“Gods,” she writhes, twisting my shirt in her fist. “You’re insane.” 

“Shh.” I move my mouth just over hers, then trail to her ear. “That’s the thing about secrets. You have to keep—so—quiet.” 

I punctuate my words with three long thrusts, and she’s bearing down in a way I know means she’s close. 

Malek knows I am. 

It’s too much, too good: Sloane, stretching around me, moving in obedience to the tight grip of my hand under her thigh, trying and spectacularly failing to stay quiet. I thrust deep— deeper—making space inside her then taking it all up. I become nothing but instinct; no rational thought could make headway against this furious surge of need. 

“Dain,” Her breath smells faintly of whiskey as she moves it over my cheek. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry I teased. You know, don’t you?”

“Don’t be sorry.” My chest cracks. “You were perfect, sweetheart. Making me feel so damn good. Letting me want you like that.”

“And you do?” she moans, her fingers gripping tight in my hair. “You do want me?”

The certainty settles in my bones, and the relief that comes from this one instinctual understanding is as sharp as the pleasure funneling to my cock. 

“You,” I breathe. “You—and only you.”

She spasms at those words, a long, hard clutch around where I’m pulsing deep. I take her mouth with the same relentless drive as my hips. She tightens, keening into my shoulder, sinking her teeth into the thick muscle there—and then, yes —she’s shuddering, cooing something broken as she finally falls all the way apart. 

I grit my jaw and let go, losing my rhythm, jerking her hips to mine until I’m rutting up into a well of boundless heat, until I feel the space between us close, until I’m spilling inside her in a sublime rush. 

My gods. 

Gradually, I return to myself—hair a mess, shirt unbuttoned, fully clothed thighs bracing Sloane’s boneless body against the door. Our breath is coming hard, echoing in the close air of the shed. 

“Fuck.” Her head lolls back against the door. “Fuck, Dain.”

I carefully withdraw, trying not to worsen the mess. She uses her underwear to wipe her thighs, then, with a grimace, slides them back on. 

“Sorry,” I mutter, kissing her forehead. “I thought we were going to be in the bathroom.”

“It’s okay. I’ll shower later,” she shrugs, tugging at her dress. The sweet way she’s trying to fix herself fills me with a rush of unfiltered affection. 

“I somehow think Fiddler’s Run has seen worse than you,” I tease, drawing her close enough to press my forehead to hers. 

“Not by a long shot,” she laughs softly. “I mean…Avalynn is still in there.”

I pull her into my arms, tucking her head under my chin. For a long time, we stand like that, wrapped up together in the only pitiful place we can be. 

“I want to go home with you,” she whispers. “But I know…”

She trails off, breathing hard into my neck. 

I swallow. 

“I know it’s hard,” I murmur, gently touching her hair. “Keeping this quiet, worrying what people say and think. It fucking sucks.” I pause. “But I want you to know....it's worth it for me.” 

She leans back slightly, and though I can’t see her clearly in the deep shadows, I sense her eyes moving over me. She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she takes my hand, moving it to her face. She slots my palm against her chin, gently curling my fingertips to her temples. 

“I want to show you something,” she whispers, her meaning clear. 

“Sloane—no. You don’t have to.”

“It’s okay.” There’s a soft brush against my littlest finger as her lashes lower to her cheek. “It’s a really small one.” 

Nothing about this feels small. 

But she presses harder to my hand, so I set my jaw, and carefully, so fucking carefully, reach for Cath’s power. Light moves through me, and it takes tremendous effort to funnel it to the tiniest possible thread. I feed it toward her, feeling only for what she’s offering. 

What I find is, indeed, small. 

A single moment, really—no longer than three heartbeats. 

The place where Sloane takes me is a morning. This morning. We're together. In my room, in my bed. The memory is hazy, because she’s not really awake. What she gives me are sensations—the warm pressure of my chest beneath hers, the comforting weight of my arms around her back. But mostly what I feel, radiating all through her first waking moments, is an enormous, shattering swell of bone-deep contentment. 

The part of me that’s sentient is shocked by it—the strength of that golden glow, the fact that it’s me who gave it to her. 

And then I realize it’s exactly how I feel, too. 

Gently, Sloane lowers my hand and kisses my palm. 

“It’s worth it for me, too, Dain.”

I lean down and kiss her one more time, lingering until I can’t. 

“You head out first,” I whisper. “I’ll wait until you’re clear, then go around the side.”

She squeezes my hand and slips out of the shed, silently crossing the courtyard and darting up the outside staircase. 

I watch her until she’s gone. 

And all the while, beating inside me, is the new and tender place where she remains.