13. Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

The rest of the journey back to the valley was, thankfully, uneventful, and they made excellent time, stopping only to rest when they were so exhausted they could not keep moving. Gray should have been worn out by the speed of their travel, but he felt buoyant, even as they began to draw closer to their end, and his eventual return to Ardglass. Gray told himself, whenever he could not force the thought from his mind, that if he had Rory beside him, then he could face anything—even the betrayal of his father. If he felt no regret over what he'd done, then at least Gray wouldn't have to figure out how to forgive him.

Because of all the scenarios that Gray envisioned, him being able to stand in front of Gideon, the man who had so callously given him to Sabrina, and offer forgiveness seemed to be the most difficult for him to fathom. Still, he would go, if only because Evrard was right, though Gray was loath to ever mention that out loud. He'd lived his life trying to hide from that giant pit of bitterness that rose up at the most inopportune moments, waiting and hoping for a day when he could be found again. To rid himself of it, he'd come to the conclusion he would not only need to be found, he would need to make whatever peace with his father was possible. If no way forward existed, then at least he could tell himself that he had made the effort. Then, he would help Rory obtain his throne and decide, once and for all, where he belonged. Was it with Rory? Was it in the valley? Or was it where he'd always dreamt during the nights when he was too tired to deny the thought: ruling from the Ardglassian throne?

On the fifth morning, they descended into the valley, the bright purple flowers dotting the waving green grasses a balm to Gray's soul. Had he really only been gone from this place for a few weeks? It felt like so much longer, like he'd been a different man who had lived here, overflowing with resentment, even as he'd tried to pretend that this place fit him. And it had, maybe, before this journey, but now he'd been back in the world and one less soul thought he was lost.

"Does it feel good to be back?" Rory asked.

It did, and it also felt like a slightly uncomfortable reminder that nothing ever stayed the same.

"You were content here," Evrard observed, "but not happy."

It would never feel comfortable for Evrard to know him better than he knew himself, but it helped, understanding that Rory knew him, too. From behind, Rory's hand reached up and grasped his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. "You will not be the first or the last," he said softly. To settle, Gray thought, that's what Rory meant. And he knew then that while he might return occasionally to this beautiful, peaceful place, he would never again live here. Because that's exactly what it would be—experiencing a glimpse of what a true life, filled with companionship and love and purpose would feel like, and then rejecting it in favor of a smaller, less fulfilling echo.

"It was a good place to grow up," Gray finally said, hoping that his words told Rory what he wanted to say later, in more privacy—that this was no longer his home.

As they rode toward the farm, Gray was surprised to see that no evidence of the battle remained. There was only a lazy, sunshine-filled silence as they approached the first outbuilding.

"Someone has cleared the bodies," Rory said, dismounting from Evrard, a perplexed frown on his face. "Did they take away their comrades?"

Gray sniffed the air. "They certainly did not burn them. You'd still smell it."

"There is another possibility," Evrard spoke up. "Your guard overcame them and then buried them."

Just as his words faded in the air, a figure emerged from the stables, a sword drawn. Rory gave a shout and ran, falling to the ground in front of one of his guardswomen. She wasn't in her armor, Gray could tell as he approached, but was only dressed in a simple pair of breeches and tunic. Her hair was unbound, rippling in the wind, even as she kept a fierce grip on her sword.

"Rowen," Rory breathed out unsteadily. "You survived."

She still did not lower the sword, and Gray took a step closer, and then another, his own hand braced on the pommel of Lion's Breath. It only occurred to him once he was nearly between them that Rory's guard might not look fondly on a man who was not Rory bearing his ancestral sword. But it was too late to hide the distinctive lion heads, the rubies and topaz sparkling in the sunlight.

Rowen pointed her sword directly at Gray. "How am I to know you did not capture and spirit away our prince?" she demanded. "He disappeared, with no trace to be found of him, right in the middle of the enemy's attack."

Rory had stood and was staring at her incredulously. "He saved me, Rowen. I was about to be set upon in the garden, and he rode up and saved me. We could not be sure you could turn the soldiers away, and so we left."

"And did not return?" Rowen questioned, her expression hard and unrelenting. "And left us here to wonder what had become of you?"

Guilt swamped Rory's features. "I assumed you had all perished in the fighting," he murmured, eyes cast down low. "I wanted to return, to check on you and the others, but there were more pressing matters."

"What pressing matters?'" Rowen demanded, and Gray flinched. Rory could not say that the pressing matter had ended up being some sort of pseudo-bonding mission and the one magical artifact they'd managed to get their hands on was actually completely useless and not magical at all. Damn Evrard and his meddling, Gray thought.

Of course, that was the moment Evrard chose to involve himself. He walked up, head erect, mane waving in the breeze, and Gray knew immediately that he had not cloaked himself as he usually did. Rowen, jaw dropped, saw him in all his majestic and true glory.

She fell to one knee, her sword forgotten, and breathed out, "Marthe was right."

"Not entirely a rare occurrence," Rory said with amusement, reaching out with a hand to help her to her feet. "But I can understand your surprise."

"That's a unicorn," Rowen said, "I thought they did not exist."

"We most certainly do, kind lady," Evrard said and to Gray's surprise, he ducked his own head. "You are the lovely creature who cares for the guard's horses."

Rowen's surprise morphed into wide-eyed astonishment. "It speaks?"

"I am Evrard, King of the Unicorns," he said, "at your service. Of course I speak."

Rowen's eyes flitted to Rory and took in his amused expression. "You are not surprised! You knew he was a unicorn? A talking unicorn?"

"Not when we first escaped," Rory admitted, "but he revealed himself very shortly after. Evrard is helping us defeat my aunt."

"And you?" Rowen directed towards Gray. "You knew too?"

Gray took a deep breath and stepped into the unknown. I am found. "Evrard rescued me from Rory's aunt when I was just a boy. He raised me here, in this valley. You might know me under a different name, Graham of Ardglass."

Rowen shook her head, even as the truth dawned across her face. "But Prince Graham is dead."

"I am very much alive," Gray confessed. "I've been in hiding, in this valley."

Rory reached out and took Gray's hand. "We have a very dangerous and important task ahead of us," he said, "we must take back my throne and see if we may restore Gray to his own. Will you help us?"

Falling to her knee again, Rowen said solemnly, "I vowed to protect you with my life, Prince Emory, and that vow remains steadfast. I vow additionally to protect Prince Graham, now that he has finally been found."

Found. It felt to Graham like the word resounded through the valley—a rumble of joyous sound that could not be diminished or hidden again.

"Please rise," Rory said, and shyly glanced in Gray's direction. "Prince Graham and I are very appreciative of your service."

While Gray didn't necessarily like it, he understood the point Rory was making. Maybe he'd always be Gray to Rory—just as Rory was Rory—but he'd need to be Prince Graham to the world. Especially if they were headed into Tullamore, and then Beaulieu. Gray was a lost boy, who'd desperately wanted to stay lost; Graham was a man looking for a place to belong.

"Did any of the others survive?" Rory questioned.

A wide, deep smile bloomed across Rowen's gentle face. "Indeed, my prince. All five of us survived. Acadia sustained a small injury, but she is recovered now." Rowen turned to Gray. "Your stores here are impressive, Your Highness."

Gray held up a hand. "I'm glad to know they were able to serve you well," he said, "and please, call me Gray, or if not Gray, then Graham. I may have been born a prince, but I grew up as a simple farm boy."

Still smiling, Rowen nodded. "I shall go fetch my sisters-at-arms. They will be thrilled to see you back with us, Prince Emory."

She set off towards the fields behind the farmhouse, with Evrard beside her, and when she was out of earshot, Gray turned to Rory. "You have never asked them to call you by your chosen name?"

Rory shrugged.

"But you asked me almost immediately," Gray objected. "I believe in our first conversation, you told me to call you Rory, and you could not have known . . ."

"Known that you were also of royal blood? Of course not. But . . ." Rory hesitated. "I know what Evrard said, about how I thought of you back then. A handsome, pleasant diversion. But he was not being entirely truthful. I knew you were important the first moment I met you. I knew your appearance in my life would change it."

Gray had figured out as much; Evrard's machinations were not as opaque as he usually hoped they were. "Your face revealed as much," he admitted, squeezing Rory's fingers. "I knew you never believed me to be a simple farmhand you could enjoy and then dismiss."

"I did think you were quite rude," Rory said, laughing. "But never simple."

"Tonight," Gray said, lowering his voice even though there was nobody to overhear, "tonight, come to me."

Rory's eyes shone as he looked up at him, the sight more precious than any gold or riches accompanying his resurrected title. "I would like that very much."

"There are some things I would like to show you, and some things I would like to say. And . . ." Gray leaned down and brushed a kiss across Rory's sweet mouth. "Much I would endeavor to enjoy with you."

Rory nodded, but before he could reply, movement out of the corner of his eye must have caught his attention, as it caught Gray's. He turned and saw Evrard cantering towards them, and on his back was Marthe, the leader of Rory's guard, followed by the other four women, running behind the unicorn and his rider.

Evrard stopped in front of them, mane rippling, and face as smug as ever. Marthe dismounted, her face glowing with happiness. "My prince!" she exclaimed and belying her words, reached out to embrace him. Rory did not hesitate for a single moment before embracing her back, tightly. And Gray remembered the bronze dagger had been a present from Marthe, who had so clearly hoped that even if she could not save him, then her gift could.

Here was someone who cared as much about Rory as he did.

Gray dropped to one knee and bent his head. Marthe gazed at him in confusion. "Captain," Gray said, "thank you for all your foresight and care of the Prince. I am most grateful for it."

It was the sort of speech that Gray would have made if he were Rory's betrothed—a formal acknowledgment of the captain's services, before the task could be turned over to his husband. Of course they were not engaged; Gray did not know what he was doing the next day and the day after, or where he would belong, as much as he wanted desperately to belong with Rory. Still, he hoped his words would show Rory a little of how much he'd come to care for him.

Marthe reached down and offered a hand, helping Gray to his feet again. "And you have my gratitude for saving Prince Emory's life outside of this valley. It seems he has been on an important journey, and still has another remaining, before we may return to Fontaine and banish his aunt from the throne."

"It is true," Gray acknowledged.

Acadia, bearing a bandage on her arm, Diana, and Anya arrived, breathless. "Your Highness!" they exclaimed, all exceedingly glad to see him.

Anya, whom Rory had mentioned was originally from Ardglass, quickly switched her gaze from Rory to him. Gray tried not to flinch. Telling Rowen was one thing, confessing his lineage to another of Ardglass? That felt much harder.

"You," she said, directing her words towards Gray, "you are very familiar, sir. Are you from Ardglass?"

Gray bowed his head briefly. "I am, good lady."

"You have the look," Anya said speculatively. "I have not met many of our country outside the borders, though that surprises me still, as difficult as the situation is within Ardglass itself."

"Anya," Rowen hissed, and Gray assumed she wanted to tell her friend that such speculation was entirely unnecessary.

But it wasn't Rowen's place to confess who he truly was.

"I have been living here in this valley for many years," Gray said slowly. The words were still difficult, and he was not entirely comfortable with the truth they contained, but it was time. Evrard had not been wrong about that. "Before I came to live here, I indeed lived in Ardglass, in fact in Tullamore itself. I was also known by another name. Graham."

Anya breathed out in shock and awe. "You cannot be," she said, "but you have his look, very much like King Gideon, and I saw the young prince once, when he was touring the clans with his father. He had your eyes. You must be the lost prince." She knelt, and Gray's heartbeat thudded uncertainly in his chest. Duty, Rhys had told him more times than he could possibly remember, duty is tempered with honesty and loyalty and kindness.

"While I might have been Graham a long time ago," he said, setting a hand on Anya's shoulder, "you must still call me Gray. It has been many years since I was a prince, and I must accustom myself to the title again."

"I pledge my sword to yours," Anya said, "as I am pledged to Prince Emory."

Gray looked over at Rory. It was technically not correct, as Anya had not asked Rory for his permission to resign from his guard, but since Gray had no intention of leaving Rory's side now or at any time in the near future, there could be no harm in it. In fact, it would be meaningful to him to have a countrywoman at his side as he rode back into Tullamore.

"I am very pleased you have found each other," Rory said softly, the happiness in his gaze making it clear he was not worried at all about precedence.

"As am I," Gray said, discovering that his words were astonishingly accurate.

"We will convene after the evening meal to discuss many important plans," Evrard announced, "but until then I would very much like to retire to my stable."

Gray thought of his large tub and could not help but nod enthusiastically at Evrard's simple request. A bath and a bed. Rory. "I think we could all use some rest," he said.

Steam rose from the surface of the tub, and Gray eyed it appreciatively. On their journey, there'd been cool streams and the even colder lake, but the one time he'd hoped to find a hot bath—in Nargash—the thieves had inconveniently gotten in the way. He'd missed his big tub with its clever pulley system he'd designed, more than he'd even realized. Another bucket dumped into the tub, water sloshing over the side, and Gray's hands hesitated on the ropes.

If he stopped filling the tub now, the water would be a little shallow for just him, but if he added another to the warm water? Like someone . . . Rory-sized? He'd initially intended to spend a quiet hour alone in the tub, trying not to think of what faced him in Ardglass, but what he really wanted wasn't silence. It was that particular wrenching sound of pleasure Rory made when he was close to exploding.

Gray tied the ropes off and was about to reach for his shirt so he could go find what he truly wanted—who he truly wanted—when a knock on his door surprised him.

He was in the middle of slipping his shirt on when he opened it and smiled when he saw who it was standing in front of him.

"You said . . ." Rory said, flushing, and fidgeting with the hem of his tunic. "I wasn't sure when you meant, but I thought if the planning goes late tonight then right now might be . . ."

Gray didn't let him finish his sentence, which was surely that it would be far more advantageous to indulge now. Instead, he reached for Rory and pulled him inside, nudging the door shut with his foot. He bent down and kissed Rory thoroughly, who melted against him like he'd been afraid at how he'd be greeted but wasn't anymore. And the very last thing Gray wanted was for Rory to ever be afraid of him or think that he wouldn't want to see him.

The truth was Gray always wanted to see him, with an all-consuming focus that probably should have scared him more than it did. Instead it just felt . . . good. Like he wasn't alone, for the first time in a very long time.

"I guess you agree," Rory said as Gray lifted his mouth, his voice breathless and edged with anticipation. "Oh!" he exclaimed suddenly, and Gray realized he must have just spotted the full bathtub. "I've interrupted your bath."

"No," Gray said softly, and reached for the hem of his own shirt, pulling it back over his head. "It's our bath."

"Oh," Rory said again, and that breathlessness had tripled, leaving him starry-eyed and flushed. He plucked at the edge of his tunic. "I guess I should . . ."

"Yes," Gray confirmed, smirking impudently "You definitely should."

He was already picking at the laces to his breeches, his socks and boots already sitting next to his bed. Glancing up at Rory, he grinned. "Why does this feel like the lake? Me nearly naked and you hesitating?"

"I'm not hesitating," Rory claimed, though Gray had seen him undress much more quickly than he was doing now. "I'm . . ." His words died as Gray shucked his breeches, and bare as the day he was born, stepped over to the tub. "I'm just appreciating the view," he said in an impressed voice.

"You can look any time you want," Gray said, pleased. "But let me look too, please."

Gray's pleading must have worked because suddenly Rory's fingers were flying, untying his breeches and pulling them off, and suddenly, he was just as naked as Gray.

Their gazes met, and maybe it was the steam or the heat of the water, but Gray's palms grew damp. He wanted to touch, his fingers itching with the need to feel the expanse of Rory's cool, smooth, pale skin. But it wasn't just his skin Gray wanted; he wanted to crawl inside Rory and understand his thoughts and his logical analyses. He wanted to understand how his heart beat, and how he could remain so kind when the world kept conspiring to destroy his life. He wanted so much more than just the fleeting physical pleasure, and that might have scared him, but all his fear was reserved for the possibility that he'd never get the chance to have it.

"Come here," Gray said softly, and Rory fell into him like he'd been waiting for exactly those words. Rory's leg was a long, cool brand against his own, his cock a wet, hot reminder of just how much they both wanted from each other.

Rory kissed him, soft and sweet and trusting at first, but with their bare skin pressed together, his kisses quickly grew hotter and deeper and dirtier, until Gray was drowning in them. There was so much he wanted to show Rory—how good it could be between two people, even though Gray had an inkling that he'd barely touched the real possibilities, at least where Rory was concerned. He'd kissed men and women and taken momentary solace in them before, but he'd never felt like this—a driving, undeniable need to possess this man and let him possess him in return.

"Tub," Gray said, pulling away from Rory's mouth with a desperate gasp. "We should really . . . it's here."

Rory shot him a demure look from under auburn lashes. "Whatever you want."

Chuckling, Gray offered a hand to help Rory into the tub. "If you knew what I've imagined, you wouldn't be so cavalier about it," he teased, and Rory smiled serenely as he settled into the water, his back against one curved side.

"Maybe, maybe not." Rory watched intently as Gray climbed into the tub, facing him. "I seem to like most of your ideas so far."

"And what about you?" Gray murmured, reaching for soap and cloth and Rory's leg, starting at the foot and beginning to cleanse it. "Do you have any suggestions we've neglected?"

The cloth traveled higher, and then higher still, and Gray's hand paused at the top of Rory's thigh. His head had fallen back, his reddish curls shining in the candlelight, his mouth falling open in pleasure.

It was an image that Gray knew he would remember forever—Rory lost to the world, only from Gray washing his leg. "You're killing me," Gray ground out, and let the cloth fall into the water.

This time it was his hands coasting along that sweet, wet skin, until they nudged up against Rory's erection. Rory moaned, his eyelids fluttering in supplication. "Please," he begged, and Gray had never heard anything sweeter in his whole life. Carefully he began to pump him with one hand as the other fished for the cloth and made quick work of Rory's other leg, until he reached the apex of his thighs and the hard cock he was stroking.

Then he shifted lower, fingers brushing up against his balls, and then lower still, until they found Rory's hole, tightly furled against his inquisitive fingertip.

"Oh, oh," Rory moaned, and Gray, fire burning through his veins at even the thought of breaching Rory there, took that as enough encouragement to continue.

"You like that?" Gray asked, hearing the desperation in his own voice.

"I've . . . I've . . ." Rory gasped and his words were lost as Gray slipped just the tip of his finger in and Rory's erection pulsed to completion in his hand.

Rory opened his eyes slowly, the deep amber of them hypnotizing in the low light of the room. He took a deep breath. Slow, Gray reminded himself, he's never done this before, he's never felt this way before—and neither have you—but don't you dare scare him away.

"I've read about that," Rory finally said softly. "I . . . I wondered what it would feel like."

"It feels even better than that," Gray said.

"You've done it?" Rory's voice wasn't judgmental, but inquisitive. Curious.

"There isn't much I haven't done," Gray admitted. Then hesitated. It was a bit like earlier today, when he'd come clean with Anya about his lineage. Being honest wasn't always easy, but there were some watershed moments where if you pushed truth away, you simply couldn't live with yourself after. And this, Gray realized, was another one of them. "But it's different with you. It's . . . I care about you, Rory."

Not entirely what he'd meant to say, but close enough.

Rory stood, water sluicing down his slender, perfect body. "I want to be the one you do it with, I want you to make me feel even better," he said. "Can you do that with me?" He'd taken a very brave stance, but Gray could tell he was slightly nervous, because his voice wavered just the tiniest bit at the end of his question.

"Yes, but . . ." Gray hesitated. It was a big step. He'd be the first, and if he listened to the rumblings of his heart, he'd want to be the last. Would Rory allow that? Would Rory even want that?

"No buts," Rory said and held out a hand. "Take me to bed, Gray."

A stupid man would continue to hesitate, once their greatest desire made their own wishes known, but Gray was definitely not a stupid man. He stood and pulled Rory fiercely against him, his own cock heavy and hard between them. "It would be my honor," he said, picking Rory up and cradling him against his chest as they made their way to the bed. He deposited Rory gently on the bed. Their skin was wet against the rough sheets, but Gray didn't notice as he knelt between Rory's legs and with one hand gently opened them, while the other rummaged in the chest by his bed for the little vial he used when nothing else would satisfy him except being filled.

"This," Gray murmured as he finally pulled it from the depths and began to slick up his fingers, "will make it easier."

"Is it hard?" Rory asked with a giggle, his innuendo seeming to relax him as Gray began to massage the oil into the skin around his hole. Every few rotations he would dip his fingers in, and after the third or fourth movement, Rory was moaning again, his chest flushed against the pale sheets.

"It's very hard," Gray teased back. He wasn't even lying. He didn't think he'd been so engorged in his life, so tightly drawn that it felt like he could pleasure his man all night.

"More, please," Rory finally begged. "You don't have to be so gentle."

But Gray absolutely did. He wasn't small, and the last thing he wanted was to hurt Rory. Not when this was a moment primed to be full of ecstasy. Still, he could do a little more, he reasoned, and slid one of his thinner fingers in, rotating it as Rory grew used to the sensation.

One finger grew to two, and then to three, which had Rory restlessly pushing against Gray's hand, desperate and hard again, leaking profusely at the tip of his cock.

"I'm ready, I'm ready," he insisted. "Please, please."

How could he resist when Rory was begging him, his forehead dotted with sweat, his eyes wild? It was impossible.

Gray slicked himself up with the oil and then carefully positioned himself at Rory's entrance, pushing in as slowly as he dared, even as his blood boiled at the need to go faster, to claim him, once and for all.

His thoughts were a cacophony of nonsense, but the one that stood out the most clearly and the loudest was, you're mine now, as Gray finally slid home.

Rory thrashed in his grip, overwhelmed, and it was only a control born of so many years' waiting that Gray was able to hold back. "Is it okay?" Gray whispered. He didn't want to hurt him; he wanted only the opposite.

Golden eyes locked onto his, unbelievably determined and hazy with pleasure. "Move," Rory insisted through bared teeth.

So Gray did as directed and moved, short little strokes at first, stoking the fire higher in both of them, leaving Gray panting and sweat-slicked as he began to let go and go harder, deeper. Rory keened, reaching down to touch himself, only the barest touch of his sending him spiraling into bliss. Rory's body—hot and tight and unbelievable—before this moment, tightened even further, rippling around him, and Gray lost it, thrusting hard and spurting deep inside Rory.

For a breathless moment, neither of them moved, they simply stared at each other.

Gray didn't think he had words for what had just happened. There'd been heat between them before, an inescapable, driving need, but what had just possessed them? It was bigger than that, and not only did it have claws, demanding more, if not now, then very soon, it was somehow also soft and kind and unbearably sweet.

How could a feeling be all those things at the same time? Gray didn't know, and he thought from the wonder in Rory's eyes that he didn't know either. It was something, maybe, that they were both lost in this together.

Slowly, he climbed off the bed and fetched another cloth, cleaning first Rory and then himself.

"They were right," Rory said quietly as Gray climbed into the bed next to him, pulling him against his chest. Rory went pliantly, his face settling against Gray's pectoral muscle like he'd done it a thousand times before—and intended to do it a thousand times after.

"Who was right?"

"The books," Rory said, with an amused giggle that made Gray smile. "They always said it was earth-shattering and all-consuming and I didn't really believe them. But they were right, after all."

"It's . . ." He'd said as much before, but that had been in the heat of the moment, and now it was quieter. Softer. The words, which always held meaning, held more now. "It's not usually like that."

"I assumed as much," Rory said thoughtfully, surprising him. "If it was, nobody would ever leave their beds."

Gray grinned, this time the smile nearly splitting his face. "Unfortunately, I wouldn't be surprised if Evrard has us up at first light tomorrow."

"I know." Rory seemed quite disappointed at this. It warmed Gray's heart. He not only wanted to do it again, he was upset that they couldn't immediately. "And I don't suppose we could on the road."

"With Evrard and your entire guard present? I don't think so," Gray said. He didn't want anyone else to hear Rory's gasps of pleasure. They were his, and his alone.

"I suppose we will just have to defeat my aunt, and then we can do it whenever we like, wherever we like," Rory said, his voice growing sleepy. "One of the perks of being a prince, you know."

It was funny, because Gray had spent the last fifteen years thinking of all the negatives of being royal. Holding on to the reasons why he never wanted to reclaim his lineage. But here was one: Rory.

Rory, everlasting.

It wasn't a particularly honorable reason, and Evrard would have been appalled, but Gray, who had wondered if his doubts over returning to Ardglass would ever cease to trouble him, decided there was at least one reason he didn't need to dread it. And with that thought, curled around the man he loved, Gray fell asleep.