Page 18 of Astaroth
Briar closed his eyes, nodding. “Yeah—yes, probably. Most likely.”
“Definitely.”
“Definitely,” he echoed, defeated.
Aster kissed him, just once, and guided him through the candle-lit corridor, pastThe Nightmare, to Briar’s room in the west wing. His lips brushed Briar’s mouth. “Get some sleep.”
Briar wrung his hands, nodding through the uncertainty squirming in his chest.I could sleep beside you.The words calcified on his tongue.I could share your bed.Instead, he said, “Goodnight, Aster.”
Chapter Six
“What, exactly, are you doing with those?” Briar asked. He couldn’t possibly imagine why Aster needed one sword. Nonetheless two.
They hadn’t crossed paths since last night, but Briar had seen him through the window—his black coat whipping as Saga’s hooves kicked through the snow. Breakfast had come and gone, and Briar had spent the morning chatting with Jennifer over fruit-topped waffles. Shortly after, while he’d arranged books in the library, Aster had swept through the door, sporting two swords with beautifully jeweled handles. Excessively jeweled, actually. The same kind Briar had used as an Angel of War.
“We’re going to spar,” Aster said, matter-of-factly. He tossed one of the blades.
Briar snatched it from the air, fingers curled tightly around sunstones and carnelian. “Pardon?”
“Medic or not, you’re trained for battle, aren’t you?”
“I am. I’ve been in battle, by the way. Not much, but—”
“Actions speak louder. Ready?”
“You’re not serious, are you? Are we really. . . ? Oh my—” Briar raised his sword. Metal clashed. He kicked over a book, regaining his balance with Aster’s weight suddenly bearing down on him. “People usually spar withfakeweapons!”
“Oh, boo-hoo. You’ll live.” He leaned forward. One clear, gray eye closed in a wink. “Channel your anger. Use it.”
Briar panicked, pushing against Aster’s sword. “Againstyou?I can’t suddenly be angry with you, I—” Aster kicked his feet out from under him. Briar’s rear hit the floor. He caught himself on his palm, jostling a rolling ladder. A book tumbled from a recently organized shelf and smacked Briar’s shoulder, flopping sadly in his lap. Aster smirked. Briar’s cheeks blistered. “You’re infuriating.”
“So I’ve heard,” Aster said. “Are you properly pissed yet or—” He blocked a mean upward swipe. Metal sang. “Ah, there we are.”
Briar surged against him, jumping to his feet. If he wanted to duel, they could certainly duel.
Their swords clashed. Briar’s wrist ached, bones rattling from every hard smack and furious block. He expected to be toyed with—subdued by graceful maneuvers, out-witted by Aster’s mastery of the blade—but Aster didn’t shy away from combat. He engaged at every turn, smashing his polished shoe against Briar’s chest, hissing when Briar drove the handle of his sword into his gut. They vaulted furniture, kicked over sorted books, fell against the window. Briar circled his wrist, trapping Aster’s sword with his own, and drove forward, sending the handle careening out of the Great Duke’s hand. For a moment, Aster’s eyes darkened. He gathered heaving breaths, glancing from Briar to his sword, lying abandoned near the secretary.
“You’ve been disarmed.” Briar stepped forward, pressing the tip of his sword to Aster’s throat.
“Have I?”
“Which means you’ve lost,” Briar said. Silver glinted, quick as a snakebite, and Aster closed the space between them, knocking Briar’s blade toward the ceiling. Briar fumbled, taken aback, but drew his blade in close, pressing the edge to Aster’s throat again. A pocketknife needled his stomach. Briar swallowed, applying pressure. “That’s cheating.”
“Did you forget who you were fighting, Briar Wright?”
Briar pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. He slid his sword higher, resting the edge beneath Aster’s chin. “I could cut your throat. Right here, right now.”
“And I could open you like a fish.” Aster pushed the knife under his shirt. A cold, sharp line moved from sternum to hips. The small blade tripped over his belly button, sending heat fluttering between his legs. That tiny, insignificant action steered his focus to Aster’s fingers digging into his hip, his labored breathing, how he held himself, close and capable, and lowered the blade, threatening the soft flesh below the line of his pants. Briar’s breath shallowed. He wanted to pull away. Inch closer. Cut the clothes from Aster’s back. Knick his skin, right there, behind his ear, to see if he’d bleed.
“You’re allowed to feeleverything,” Aster said, biting the words at him. “Especially here, especially now.”
The sensation—being out of control, being in control—seeped into his hollow bones, his tense muscles, and glowed red hot in his chest.
Briar tossed the sword away. He latched his hand around Aster’s knuckles, guiding the knife closer, pressing it intimately against his pale skin. “I don’t want to feel everything, you idiot. I’m here with you. Let me feel you.”
One moment, the knife was there, the next, it was gone.
Aster shoved him backward. Briar’s spine met the shelf. A book toppled to the floor. Pain shot through the root of his clippings and he hissed, clinging to Aster’s biceps. Like this, withAster’s mouth hot on his own, Briar’s heart surged. Chewing, biting kisses left his lips swollen and tender. Aster caged him there, digging his thumbs beneath Briar’s hipbones. Desire pooled between his legs. He pitched his waist, grinding hard against Aster’s ridiculous bronze belt-buckle, and his stupidly expensive pants.Touch me,he thought. The words echoed, driven by his pounding pulse.Touch me, touch me, touch me.
