Page 67 of Heart of Winter
The advisor chuckled, and ambled out, boot soles scuffing softly over the stones. The door shut. A log shifted on the fire with the quiet shush of falling ash.
Oliver was fully-awake, now, but kept his eyes shut, and his breathing slow and even. He didn’t want to give himself away, for Erik to know that he’d overhead – even if his heart thumped hard in his chest.
For a while, all was silent save the quietly crackling fire.
Then came the shift and rustle of clothes, the creak of a chair. For such a large man, Erik moved near-silently. Oliver didn’t realize he stood above him until he heard the quiet rush of a slow exhale. Unsteady, hitched. And then Oliver felt a touch against the top of his head: large fingers raking carefully through his curls.
Oliver’s mother had done the same thing when he was small. He held distant memories of having his curls petted, of her voice, warm with loving, calling him “my bright copper boy.” It had been soothing, then, and it was now – no one else had done this to him in the time since her death. No one until this beautiful warrior king.
Oliver was both electrified, and left with a lump in his throat at the same time. He failed to suppress a shiver. The gig was up, then, on feigning sleep. But he let his lashes lift slowly, in hopes he could play it off as if the touch had awakened him, and not the overheard conversation.
He expected Erik to withdraw. Instead, he stilled a moment, but then resumed, stroking along Oliver’s scalp again. His gaze, when Oliver dared to meet it, was heart-meltingly gentle.
Oliver didn’t take a breath for what felt like a minute. In this stolen slice of time, in the warm study, Erik backlit by warm firelight, his touch light and reverent through his hair, Oliver couldn’t lie to himself about the meaning of that look. It had been turned on him so rarely in his life…
No,never. He’d been looked at with fleeting lust, or dark want, furtive curiosity. He’d been looked at with fondness and love by his cousins, with regret by his uncle, and contempt from his father. His aunt looked at him like she understood his competence; it was an amenable and productive relationship, if not warm. But not since his mother had anyone looked on him with this quiet awe. Like he was precious, and special, and something to admire. A look that spoke of the potential for something so much realer and more devastating than simple, physical desire.
It was something that had the potential to break him, in every way possible.
He drew in an unsteady breath, finally. “How long have I been asleep?”Why are you doing this? I can’t defend against this.
A small, private sort of smile touched Erik’s mouth. “Only an hour or so. To be fair, talk of grain prices usually threatens to put me to sleep.”
It was a smile that Oliver couldn’t return, as another shiver chased through him. His throat had grown tight, and it was hard to swallow – harder still to push himself upright, so that Erik’s hand froze, and retreated.
No, wait, I don’t want to push you away. But he bit his lip, and didn’t say it, because it was better if he halted that moment in its tracks – it was downright necessary.
“Sorry,” he rubbed the grit from his eyes. “I’m still, er, not back to being myself, apparently.”
Erik’s arch glance said,We all already knew that. He retreated behind the desk. “More wine?”
“No, I should” – he gestured toward the door. “Get some sleep, probably. We can pick back up tomorrow?” He nodded at the table, and its spread of paperwork.
Erik inclined his head. “Of course.”
Oliver stood, gripping the chair arms until the last minute as dizziness made itself known. Erik made an abortive little motion, like he’d thought to lean over the desk and steady him. He subsided.
This…was the awkward part. This was the unspoken moment bristling with potential; Erik hadn’t drawn down a polite mask yet, and Oliver knew, heknew, that if he were to lean forward, and put his hands on the desk, and press forward into Erik’s personal space in invitation, he would get kissed to within an inch of his life. He envisioned all the ways it might unfold from there, from being dragged across the desk, to being thrown down on the fur rug before the fireplace. Thought of Olaf passing him that bottle of oil, and of Birger sayinghappiness. His breath caught again, because this could happen. It could be something real and not just a fever dream or a late-night fantasy.
But what then?
Oliver turned his face away, but not before he saw Erik begin to frown. “Until tomorrow, then.”
“Yes. Sleep well.”
He called himself a dozen kinds of fool all the way back to his chamber.
17
Preparations for the Yuletide Feast began in earnest. More and more pine boughs were threaded along the gallery bannister, and within the iron spokes of the chandeliers in the great hall. The servants bustled about, and seemed to have roped off-duty guardsmen into toting decorations back and forth. The halls smelled of fresh-cut fir; pine cones nearly as long as her arm hung from doorways, ranged in clusters tied with velvet ribbon and set with harness bells. Candles studded with dried berries and rosemary sprigs were being stockpiled in corners. In the kitchen one day, when Leif took her in to show her where the biscuits were stashed, she saw extra sacks of flower and grain; saw kitchen boys toting long rails loaded down with sausages up from storage. It was going to be, appropriately, a kingly feast.
She and Leif spent time together every day. They went hawking again, and riding – though they went in the morning, on bright days, and stayed within sight of the palace the whole time. He didn’t kiss her again, though she rather wished he would – but he slanted her looks, sometimes, when she could sense that he wanted to. He touched her more: found reasons to steady her by an elbow, to take her hand and help her up a step or over a bit of ice on the garden path. When they left the palace, he draped her cloak around her shoulders, the rough tips of his fingers gentle and warm when he fastened the clasp at her throat.
She liked the way the sunlight turned his blue eyes translucent. The way the snow spangled his golden hair. She liked that he was gentle with animals, but strong and sure in the sparring ring. He was dedicated to his studies, and when he talked about someday leading Aeretoll, it was with a proper dignity: he understood the weight of the responsibility that awaited him. When they took a sleigh into the city, a group of children ran alongside, shouting and waving, smiling and calling himyour majesty. He reined up, and offered the small paper wrapped peppermints from his own pocket – his breath, incidentally, always smelled of peppermint – and listened to their excited stories with genuine interest.
He was no spoiled lordling; he was good, and kind, and serious, and intelligent, and it would be easy to fall in love with him.
Only…
