Page 125 of These Divided Shores
“Why?”
Gunnar’s brows lifted. “Really?”
A door opened in Ben’s soul, one he hadn’t realized had kept him so afraid. “Yes. Really. I need to know what would make you stay with me, if duty didn’t hold you, if honor didn’t trap you, if it was just you and me and no war or responsibilities—what would you do?”
Jakes had used him. Elazar had manipulated him. Rodrigu and Paxben had been forcibly taken.
Ben had never processed how damaged he was, to have been so achingly alone, or abused by the only ones who deigned to stay.
Gunnar hesitated for one shaky breath. On a snarl, muffled deep in his throat, he stalked across the room, took Ben’s head in his hands, and kissed him.
It happened so quickly, the press of Gunnar’s mouth to his, the sudden immersion in the scent of ash and warmth, that Ben went stiff, fingers spread at his sides.
Gunnar drew back. Ben’s eyes couldn’t get wider, his heartbeat tripped.
“No oaths,” Gunnar told him, rubbing the pad of his thumb across Ben’s cheekbone. He paused, seeming to realize something, and his grip on Ben’s face stiffened. “But that does not mean we are not equals.”
Ben’s tongue was swollen and heavy with a rich flavor.He knew how Gunnar tasted. Like wood burning, like the delicate twist of a flame swelling into the midnight sky.
He was silent too long.
Gunnar ripped back, his face red—with disappointment, with anger. “That is not enough? Would you prefer I swear fealty to you, submit to you, bow and scrape to you? I thought—” He scowled, tearing a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t matter what I thought.”
He started to make for the door. Everything caught up to Ben in a jarring ripple of panic.
Gunnar thought Benwantedpeople to be beneath him. To be subservient to him as prince.
Ben snatched at Gunnar’s biceps. The look Gunnar gave him was both daring and fuming. In their time together, Ben had learned how much effort it took to make Gunnar do something he didn’t want to do. Which was why Ben had feared Gunnar would leave—he knew there was nothing he could do to get Gunnar to stay if he decided against it. Not that Ben would have forced him; but knowing the unstoppable power that Gunnar could unleash when he didn’t want something made it all the sweeter when he stopped now, waiting.
“I never wanted you to make promises,” Ben said. He was all rapid pulse. “I never wanted oaths. I’ve never had anythingbutthose things, and every one of them has broken at my feet. When I face my father, I want you there with me. That’s the only way I can do it. If you are there, not asmy soldier, but just as—asmine.”
Ben pulled back from Gunnar, unable to do a damn thing to hide how much he was shaking. Slowly, muscle by muscle, he lowered to his knees and lifted his eyes to Gunnar.
“I didn’t mean to bring my station between us,” he whispered. He couldn’t force his voice any higher, could barely breathe at all. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to bethis, without titles and loyalty. Just... just tell me what you want. Tell me what to do.”
He had never said that to someone before. Not Jakes, not his father. It should have felt foreign and awkward, this plea to be instructed, but somehow, it felt natural.
Gunnar looked entirely at a loss. His eyes flickered, and Ben grew increasingly aware of being on his knees. He’d meant it as a show of respect, equality, but—
Ben swallowed, throat working hard, and he had to drop his eyes to the floor before dizziness sent him sprawling.
A hand cupped his jaw. Gunnar’s fingers played at the sandy stubble along Ben’s neck. Heat built, and when Ben found it within himself to lift his gaze up again, silence warped the look they shared, meaning and intent and craving.
“You want me to tell you what to do,” Gunnar echoed.
A delicious tingle shot through Ben and he bit his lip. Gunnar tracked the motion.
“Yes,” Ben told him.
A smile. Dimples punctured Gunnar’s cheeks. “Kiss me,” he said.
Ben shot to his feet, his rough mouth smothering Gunnar’s. Gunnar met his ferocity and forced him back, sending the two of them stumbling until Ben slammed into the wall. Sunlight flickered through the curtains, giving life to the uptick in temperature from Gunnar.
The musk of sweat and fire made Ben breathless. Gunnar grabbed his legs and lifted to wear him like a belt, Ben anchoring himself on Gunnar’s neck, a war of bruising kisses and fingernails raking across shoulders.
Gunnar hefted his hips forward, pinning Ben to the wall so he could lift his arms over his head and peel off his shirt. It was an onslaught—the rock of Gunnar’s hips between Ben’s open legs; the press of hardness against his own; Gunnar’s bare chest and exposed clan mark flooding Ben with heat, more heat, he was drowning in the intensity. Sensation trickled down Ben’s spine and balled in his gut, driving him, unwinding him.
Gunnar was far less gentle with Ben’s shirt—a rip, and it came off in pieces. Ben sank his teeth into Gunnar’s bottom lip, and the Mecht purred as he moved his hand between their bodies. Ben yelped when Gunnar’s fingers closed around him.
