Page 21 of King's Man

Sam imagined taking his face in his hands, the scratch of stubble against his palms, the way Nate would melt when Sam kissed him. He imagined pushing Nate backward, fingers curling into his coat —

And he imagined slamming him hard against the seat, shaking an apology out of him, howling his pain and fury until Nate understood.

You betrayed me. You abandoned me. You let them destroy me.

“You still what?” Nate prompted softly, ghosting fingertips across Sam’s knee, stirring the hair on his arms, the back of his neck. “Sam? You still what?”

His fingers gripped the edge of the bench seat. “I still hate you.”

Nate stared for a blank moment, then turned away with a sharp twist of his body and a flash of hurt in his eyes.

Hell, but that felt sweet — harsh and sweet like vengeance or victory. Or punishment. Sam didn’t know whether he was ashamed of himself, or proud.

After some time, Nate spoke. “Well, that’s a shame,” he said in a strained voice, “because we were good friends once.”

“Yes.” Sam’s voice scratched in his throat, rusty as old nails. “We were. Real good.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence.

Chapter Eight

Hate. Such a hard word. Nate felt it like a punch to the heart, like the shock of diving into cold water. It stole his breath, even as it clogged his throat and stung his eyes.

He couldn’t look at Sam, and avoided his gaze when they finally disembarked from the carriage to make their weary way into the bustling coaching inn. While Sam lingered outside, ostensibly organizing the horses for the morning, Nate secured two rooms for the night but declined the landlord’s offer of supper. The last thing he wanted to do was sit across from Sam and try to eat; his stomach was in knots, a churning mash of hurt and anger.

I still hate you.

What right did Sam have to say that, tofeelthat, after everything they’d once meant to each other? It wasn’t fair. And it hurt, deeply. Because Nate still loved Sam. Or, at least, he loved the memory of Sam, and of what they’d once shared.

But a memory was all that remained, and he was a fool to think otherwise.

Sam stepped into the inn just as Nate was making his way towards the staircase that led upstairs to their rooms. They eyed each other obliquely, both slowing. It wasn’t crowded, although a few people sat eating late meals, filling the room with quiet chatter. But Nate could easily hear when Sam said, “Did they have any rooms — ?”

“Yes, I secured two.” Nate’s voice sounded normal, no betraying hitch or catch. “Ask the landlord for your key.”

Sam nodded, cleared his throat, and said, “Are you having supper?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You should eat.”

He stared. “What?”

“You should eat something.” Sam wasn’t looking at him, he appeared to be contemplating the toes of Nate’s boots instead. “I don’t know when we’ll be able to stop for breakfast.”

And why do you care?He might have asked the question, had they been alone, but what he said was, “I dare say I’ll survive.”

Sam didn’t respond, so Nate turned back to the stairs. He’d made it halfway up before Sam called out, “Tanner…?”

Gooseflesh prickled across his skin. Cautiously, he turned around to find Sam standing at the bottom of the staircase raking a hand through his hair. Their eyes met, clashing like struck flint.

For no good reason, Nate’s heart began to pound.

“I —” Sam’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “I ordered the horses for seven. Don’t oversleep.”

It was a struggle to keep his disappointment from showing, but, Christ, what had he expected? An apology? With a curt nod, Nate said, “Alright. I’ll be ready.”

But Sam didn’t walk away, he just stood there studying him with an expression difficult to read in the twilight. Did he expect Nate to say something? Well, he wouldn’t. What was there to say? He’d made his case in the coach and Sam’s response had been quite clear.

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