Page 85 of Close Quarter
Rhys pondered that answer while they worked their way through the ship to Silas's cabin.
He turned it over in his mind when they undressed, heaped their bloody clothes into a corner of the bathroom, and washed blood and ash off themselves in the shower.
When they crawled into bed, Rhys finally spoke. "For as long as I wish?"
"True Thomas never lies."
"You're not Thomas." Rhys snuggled into the length of Silas's warm body. "And you do lie."
"Yes, but not well. And not now." Silas spoke the words into Rhys's ear. "I promise not to leave you if you wish me to stay."
"And if I wanted you to be with me forever?"
He breathed in the scent of shampoo on Silas's wet hair and kissed the curls stuck against Silas's forehead.
Breath tickled Rhys's neck. "Then I best not get myself killed, eh?"
"You'd better not. Te amo." He paused and then added, "Je t'aime. Seni seviyorum. Ich liebedich..." By the fifth phrase, Silas trembled. By fifteen, Rhys's eyes stung. Only this time he could not pretend that the salt water on his cheeks and on his lips was sea spray.
He kept speaking, up to the fiftieth language.
With daylight streaking across the walls of the cabin, he whispered that phrase one last time into Silas's ear. "I love you."
Chapter Eleven
For the first time in decades, Silas didn't wake from a nightmare. Isatis's lemur wasn't standing in the shadows of the room. Strange.
Strange, too, was the delightful sensation of another person burrowed against his side and the smell of pine and sea grass that permeated the room.
Rhys.
The previous day's events rolled over Silas, waves of memories crashing over the moment of serenity, breaking it down and washing away peace.Anaxandros.
Silas slid his hand down and rubbed where the soulless had ripped into his side. Smooth skin and an intact liver, thanks to Rhys.
He should be dead. They both should be dead.
Rhys snuggled closer in his sleep. Silas resisted the urge to run his fingers through that tangled mess of hair.
Very few people had handled his gladius and only with his permission. No one--not a single soul--had ever used it before. The Messengers had been rather explicit that this task was his and no other's. But Rhys had been correct; Vasil would have died.
Still, watching Rhys burn because of his own inability to fight--that pain had been worse than Anaxandros's claws crushing his liver. Worse than the humiliation of Rhys snatching the sword from his hand.
Silas rolled sideways to look at the man tucked under the covers with him. Glorious, blissful in sleep. Rhys's fae nature--the copper strands of his hair, his narrow face--peeked out from behind very human stubble and a whorled mass of hair.
No, he'd not ever get tired of waking up to this man in his bed.
Silas's cock, already semierect, hardened when Rhys's lips parted and a content snore issued from the sleeping man. Unable to resist any longer, Silas brushed a finger over Rhys's rough stubble, savoring the glint of red among the brown hairs.
Rhys opened his eyes.
"Good morning," Silas said.
Rhys stretched, his leg sliding against the hard length of Silas's erection. "Is it still morning?" Vestiges of sleep slurred his words.
"No idea." Silas cupped the back of Rhys's head and drew him forward for a kiss. No resistance, just a murmur of pleasure that vibrated Silas's lips. He plunged his tongue into the hot cavern of Rhys's mouth and sucked on each of his lips until Rhys squirmed against him. "Good morning," he whispered again against Rhys's swollen lips.
Rhys exhaled. "Very." He rolled, pulling Silas on top of him. "God, you're still here. This isn't a dream." Joy in his voice.
