7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Evander knew this whole process would have been much simpler and easier if he still had the full extent of his powers.

Even with the inherent power of this form, Evander had trouble grasping at the edges of the magic as he reached out with his mind, and tried to touch it. It kept sliding and slipping and squirming away from him, avoiding any attempts he made to hold on to it.

Whoever had made it was powerful. Extremely powerful.

Perhaps even more powerful than Evander had been at the height of his skill as a Guardian.

Marcos had said, unequivocally, that whoever had trapped them could not be Deimos, but he had not encountered such pure, unadulterated magic for a thousand years—not since he'd brushed right up against Deimos' power as Deimos had stripped him of his own.

Evander shook his head in frustration as they passed by the large boulder again.

"Nothing?" Marcos' voice was clear of inflection. There was no judgment in his voice whatsoever. But Evander found he was judging himself.

"Nothing," Evander said. They'd been traveling this strip of road, aware now of their problem, for several hours. This was the twenty-fourth pass they'd made past the boulder, and Evander was no closer to figuring out who had sprung this trap, and how he was going to release them from it, than he had been on the first.

The urgency meant he was trying very hard to focus on the problem at hand—considering they were currently entirely at someone's mercy, and had been for a good portion of the day—but his brain kept wandering off.

Wandering off in the direction of Marcos.

The answer to all his questions had ended up being simple enough.

Evander knew people felt love. He'd felt it himself, in various forms, over the years. But not romantic love. Not romantic love in such a capacity that would motivate him to follow someone for a thousand years.

To watch over them.

To protect them.

To never reveal themselves.

He'd never even felt that way about Vanya.

It made sense now why Marcos had never announced his presence, merely revolved around Evander as one of half a dozen characters. Evander knew he shouldn't be annoyed about that, considering how many characters he had played over the years, how much wool he had pulled over people's eyes. Rory and Gray knew he was both Rhys and Evrard—but they were the only ones who knew.

Besides Marcos.

Who knew everything.

Who knows everything and who is still here, caring about you. Protecting you. Revealing himself to you.

Except he wasn't sure that was entirely true, Evander considered as he reached out again for the magic that shimmered right around the edges of the illusion, because Marcos had most definitely not wanted him to know.

He'd only discovered the truth because of Marcos' confession about Ardglass and his participation in their history. And he'd only realized then because the thoughts kept swirling inside of his head, refusing to be denied, but also refusing to coalesce into a conclusion that made sense. Coincidences never felt truly coincidental to Evander. Then he'd cast his mind back, considering all the many men he'd met over the last thousand years.

He'd realized, suddenly, like a lightning bolt hitting him, that Merleen had not been the first man to remind him of Marcos.

It had happened before.

Perhaps not as clearly as it had with Merleen. But it had happened a long time ago. And then it had happened again, and again, and again.

Evander couldn't believe that he'd missed it, all those times.

Or that of all the men that had felt vaguely familiar, tickling the back of his brain, he'd never realized that those particular men had gone out of their way never to touch him.

Because as soon as Merleen had touched him, Evander had known. Had felt Marcos' power and its particular scent and intensity and he'd been instantly recognizable, even before he'd stripped away his disguise.

"That's it," Evander said suddenly. "I don't recognize the way this power smells."

"What? The way it smells?" Marcos said, pulling his reins in and stopping his horse, right before they approached the boulder yet again.

"I don't recognize it. I'd recognize another Guardian."

"Are you sure you don't recognize it? You could have just . . . forgotten the way one of them smelled?"

Evander pushed the insult in that suggestion away. Normally he'd be pissed off at the assumption that he could forget the way the other Guardians' magic felt and smelled and was, but his brain was brimming full. Too full of the problem at hand, and also with Marcos' inadvertent revelation, to truly get angry.

"I didn't forget. I wouldn't ever forget," Evander said. "Have you ever forgotten how to wield a sword?"

Marcos gave him a sheepish grin. "Point taken," he said.

"The point is that I do not recognize the way this magic feels or smells or behaves. I would, if it was another Guardian."

"But it's powerful, so powerful, I thought it could only be another Guardian."

"Yes," Evander agreed uncertainly.

Nothing about this made sense, and now joining his frustration at the inability to solve the problem, and the perplexing matter of Marcos' feelings, was a frisson of fear, running right up his spine.

He was not afraid often.

But whoever had done this could hold them in the palm of their hand, for as long as they wished, and Evander didn't think there was much he could do or say about it.

"What if we went off the path?" Marcos suggested.

"Into the forest?"

"Yes, where the magic shimmers, or whatever you said it does." Marcos' voice was impatient, and Evander realized he was afraid too.

And if Marcos was afraid . . .

"We're safe, I think, as long as we stick to the expected role," Evander said. "That would not be sticking to the expected role."

"If we stick to the expected role, we're going to be trapped in this forest for the next thousand years," Marco pointed out dryly. "Is that what you want?"

"Obviously not," Evander retorted. "But trying to breach the edges of the magic physically . . . whoever did this will know."

"Good," Marcos said with satisfaction, pulling his knife from his boot.

Evander watched as Marcos nudged his horse, guiding it off the path, and he sighed. Of the two of them, he was the most naturally cautious, but then he'd also paid the steepest price for his reckless behavior.

But Marcos had always said there was nothing to be gained if there was nothing to be lost, and it seemed that he still believed that.

Evander hesitated for a moment longer, then clicked his tongue, sending his horse after Marcos'.

The closer they got to the edges, the stronger the power felt. Evander could feel it, almost luminous the more he concentrated on it, the taste of it thick and foreign on his tongue. It did not feel dangerous or particularly like dark magic, but he knew that power of any kind could easily disguise itself.

Marcos' horse whinnied uneasily, and he soothed it, pressing a hand to its neck.

They continued on, but then Marcos spoke into the silence. "I can feel it too," he said.

Evander nodded grimly. "It's very strong."

"I know what you mean," Marcos said. "I don't recognize it, but at the same time, it feels so familiar."

He could feel the power pushing back at them now, a nearly visceral force, and if he closed his eyes, he knew he'd see the golden motes of it sparkling in the air.

"We should stop here," Evander said.

Marcos didn't question, but did exactly as he suggested.

Evander came to a stop next to him, and dismounted.

"What are you doing?" Marcos questioned. "You shouldn't . . ."

But he trailed off when he saw what Evander was doing and didn't finish his sentence. Just waited. Like he respected what Evander was about to try.

As he walked closer, he felt like he was pushing through the magic. The closer he thought the barrier was, the tougher it was to take a step. Then when he couldn't move one more foot, he closed his eyes, gathered his own force, and pressed his palm outward.

The flame that flowed through him and out his body was not nearly as violent as the one during the attack on the merchant's traveling party had been. This, Evander reminded himself as he controlled the rush of the power, was just an experiment.

The moment the flame touched the edge, a flash of bright white light blinded him, and when he opened his eyes again, he froze.

They were back on the road.

Right next to the boulder.

From behind him, Evander could hear Marcos draw his sword.

A very bad sign.

"That is entirely unnecessary."

But that voice, that was not Marcos'.

Evander turned, and saw a woman standing in the middle of the road, a few yards off.

She was old, and yet young. A lined, creased face, but the eyes that shone out of it were ageless, eternal, the dark purple blue of Evander's favorite wildflowers that had once dotted his valley.

Her hair was long and tangled, as bright as the sun, bright yellow mixed with a glowing perfect white. She wore a long brown cloak, torn and dirty, but when she took a step towards them, she walked like she was a queen, wearing the finest garments.

"That's close enough," Marcos warned, taking a step closer to Evander.

Evander knew his first inclination was to shove Evander behind him, but he gave Marcos points for not doing it.

For only wanting to do it.

For only getting close enough to do it if he had to.

"Who are you?" Evander asked.

She laughed then, the most beautiful, clear, bell-like sound he'd ever heard.

"I am surprised you do not know me, Evander, Guardian of Secrets," she said coyly.

He'd been so sure that he'd eliminated both Sabrina and all her sycophants. But then, nothing about this woman reminded him of the evil sorceress Rory and Gray had defeated. Her magic had been miniscule and grasping, always desperate for an infusion of power.

This woman breathed power. It multiplied and grew just because she wished it to.

Evander, who had possessed plenty of his own, and knew others who possessed just as much, had never witnessed anything like it.

"Why have you trapped us here?" Marcos demanded. "You must release us at once."

"And you, Marcos, Guardian of War," she said, "you fear me, but yet I fear what you can do. Does anybody know what you are capable of? Do you know what you are capable of?"

"Yes," Marcos said shortly.

"Is that why you trapped us, you're afraid of what Marcos is capable of?"

"Marcos," she said, eyes suddenly so grave that Evander felt the burst of her power like a wave of sadness cresting over him, "has been many men, and all of them have been impressive." Her voice turned sly. "Don't you agree, Evander?"

"What I think is not the question," Evander said ruthlessly. "Why are we here, in your trap? Why will you not let us go?"

"A trap that would not have worked so well if you were not both so distracted," she pointed out. "You," she said, waving her hand gracefully at Marcos, "were embarrassed and angry that he discovered your deep, secret yearning. And you"—her gaze turning to Evander—"are conflicted. You do not know if you can love anyone. Though," she added thoughtfully, "you are not averse to discovering what Marcos is like in bed." Her smile turned wicked around the edges.

Evander blushed.

"We are not . . . we are not your . . . playthings," Marcos said in a harsh voice.

"Are you not?" She paused. "I am your Mother after all."

Then she snapped her fingers and everything went black.

Evander's eyes fluttered open slowly, his heart beating wildly. He didn't remember anything, not after the woman calling herself the Mother had snapped her fingers.

She'd clearly teleported them somewhere—a form of power he knew none of the Guardians possessed, not even Kadir.

Trying to force his eyes open, he didn't feel pain exactly, but they were slow to respond, almost as if they'd been magically glued shut.

Finally, he got them open, and to his shock, discovered that he was lying on a massive pile of furs, in a cabin, snug and cozy, with a roaring fire in a stone grate at one end, and shelves upon shelves of herbs. There was a gigantic iron pot suspended over the fire and something in it smelled delightful.

It could be poison, Evander warned himself, but it smelled so good, like rich broth and roasted vegetables and meat, that he nearly climbed to his feet and found out.

He heard a sound, and when he glanced over, he saw it was Marcos, his own eyes fluttering open.

Marcos was on his feet, immediately, knife in his hand.

"There is no need for that here," the Mother's voice said, and she snapped her fingers again and the knife was gone, disappeared completely from Marcos' grasp.

Marcos growled. "That is mine," he said.

"I will give it back," she said simply, "but I had to take it because you persist in believing that I intend to harm you, and I have no interest in being cut to smithereens by your suspicions or by your knife."

"Who are you?" Evander asked again.

She stared at him with that inscrutable expression. "And who are you, Evander, Guardian of Secrets? Are you Evander? Are you Evrard? Are you Rhys?"

"I am all of them, and more," he retorted.

"And I," she said mysteriously, "am all of you."

"You are not. If you were, you would not be unknown to us," Marcos argued. He shifted his weight again, and Evander found himself half behind Marcos' bulging bicep.

The thing was, this Mother could take all of Marcos' knives and his weapons, and even his sword, but she could not take the thing that made him most powerful of all.

Marcos himself was the effective component of Marcos' power.

"I have been greatly wronged," she said simply. "And you will right that wrong. I have selected you, because I believe you are the most capable of defeating Deimos."

"Deimos?" Marcos arched an eyebrow. "I do not intend to defeat Deimos."

"It would be a suicide mission," Evander said, annoyed he even had to say it. "Deimos is the Guardian of Death."

She turned, and somehow her profile was beautiful and terrifying and ancient, all at the same time, the fire sparking light in her hair. "I know what Deimos is, and what he is capable of," she said quietly. "I created him, after all."

"You created him? Then why can you not defeat him?"

"Because I am the Mother," she said, turning towards them, and suddenly she was more than terrifying, she was fierce. Resplendent. Her power sparking off her in waves that nearly overwhelmed Evander. "I do not destroy, I only create."

"You're saying you . . . you . . . you can't?" Evander couldn't believe it. Someone this powerful, they could do anything. And yet the frustration in her eyes, nearly boiling over, made Evander believe that she was actually telling the truth.

"I think," Marcos said, and for the first time since they'd both awoken, he was seemingly relaxed, sitting back down on the furs, "you should tell us the whole story."

"You will help?"

Evander glanced over at Marcos, because surely he would not be stupid enough to attempt to fight and defeat Deimos. He'd already challenged him once, and that had been a wild and potentially dangerous choice. He did that, he took that risk for you, Evander reminded himself, and suddenly felt both warm and cold all over. But Marcos did not have that look about him, when he was about to do something reckless, and Evander realized that he wasn't agreeing at all. He was biding his time.

"We will listen," Marcos said firmly.

Evander settled down next to him, and before he knew it, he was leaning into Marcos' firm shoulder. It felt reassuring in a way he could not explain, and he didn't move, not even when Marcos glanced at him, confusion in his eyes.

He loves you, why would he be surprised that you choose to touch him?

But that was a question for another time, and another place.

The Mother wrung her hands. "There is nobody else."

"I said we would listen," Marcos reminded her. "Tell us the story."

A wooden spoon bloomed from between her fingers and she turned towards the pot, still bubbling away on the fire. She was quiet for so long that Evander almost spoke, almost begged himself, because he was curious now. After all, he was the Guardian of Secrets, and the one secret he'd never come close to discovering was where they had all come from. They'd all appeared one day, fully formed and grown, with purposes and powers at the Castle at the Top of the World. If Deimos had known, he'd never said. He'd merely taken control of the group, as he seemed to be the most powerful and nobody had ever wanted to go against his word.

But try as he might, Evander had never been able to discover who created them or why.

He was beginning to think the Mother might be telling the truth.

She might truly be their Mother.

Finally, she spoke.

"I was alone for a very long time," she said, her tone quiet and contemplative, as if she was thinking of those years. "Nobody but myself and my thoughts to keep me company. For a while, for thousands of years, that was enough. And then, I realized, I could create anything I wanted. I could create . . . more. Someone to keep me company. I created a girl, and she became my companion. For a lifetime, we were happy, and then . . ." The Mother's voice broke then. "And then she died. I was alone again."

Evander could feel her sadness, her loss, her grief, floating in the air. It was a grief he recognized, from when Deimos had banished him from everything he'd known. He reached out, and before he could even think about it, he tucked his fingers into Marcos' hand, big and calloused, and squeezed.

Marcos squeezed back.

But he hadn't been alone, had he? He'd had Marcos, he just hadn't known he was there. Now he knew, and he also knew, deep down, without a single uncertainty, that he wouldn't ever have to be alone again. Not unless he chose to be.

"For a long while, I grieved her. I did not want to do anything else, because nothing could replace her. But then, slowly, I realized that she had awoken something in me that needed to be satisfied. A question that needed an answer. I knew the people I created would not last. They would grow old and they would die, so this time I did not just create a companion for myself, I created an entire people.

"The people, they begat more people, and then more, growing so much that while I still walked among them sometimes, I did not feel connected. I felt overwhelmed. But I could not let them be on their own, so with the help of another god, I created another kind of being."

"You created us," Marcos said.

She nodded. "I created Deimos. With his power and with his assistance, I created the immortal Guardians, and as Guardians, your task was to watch over them, to protect them. To usher in their life, and to make sure the life they lived was full of plenty, of joy, of love and music and belief, and then they were to be ushered into their death."

Her voice grew mournful again.

"I retreated. It was overwhelming, to think of all that I had done, and then lost. I needed the quiet again. And I enjoyed that quiet for thousands of years, again. Until . . ." She lifted her eyes, and they burned, right into Evander like a brand. Marcos made a sound, under his breath, and he knew he'd felt the power, too. "Until I woke up and realized that the Guardians no longer cared for protecting my people. They only cared for their own ability, their own immortality, their own consequence. Deimos, whom I had charged with leading the Conclave, had instead led the Conclave of Guardians astray. He had even banished one of my Guardians. But," she added wryly, "he could not strip you, Evander, of everything, because he did not create you. I created your power, and only I could uncreate it."

Evander had always wondered when he fell, when he was banished, why Deimos had left him with some of his magic. In some cases, it felt like only a remnant. A useful remnant, but only a fraction nonetheless. He'd finally come to the conclusion that Deimos had done so out of clemency, but now he realized that had been an easy lie he'd told himself.

If he could have, Deimos would have taken it all, stripped him and left him with nothing.

"See," the Mother said, "you see now why he needs to suffer, why he needs to be removed. He has grown too powerful."

"We cannot remove him," Marcos said with finality. "No matter what he has done. He is too strong. He is Death."

"And you are War," she said inexorably. "Do you not defeat Death with every battle you fight?"

"That is not the same," Marcos argued.

"But it is," the Mother said.

Marcos glanced over at him, intensity in his gaze. "Evander, you've been very quiet."

He'd been thinking. In actuality, analyzing the situation. He did not necessarily disagree with Marcos, but if there could be a loophole, a way they could remove Deimos and return the Conclave to its original purpose?

It might take a bit of convincing, but the other Guardians would eventually fall into line. They'd gone along with the corruption Deimos had spread throughout the Conclave, but at least before Evander had been dismissed, he did not think Deimos had truly infected any of the others.

But there was one thing the Mother had said that made him wonder if it was possible, after all.

"If only you can uncreate my power, then why can you not uncreate Deimos'?" Evander asked.

She looked regretful. "Even my powers have limits," she said regretfully. "You do not believe that I would have done anything for my first companion to have lived with me forever? I would have. But that is a power I do not have. I can create, I am very good at it, but making it everlasting? That is Deimos' contribution. I cannot unmake him nor fully take his powers."

"And yet you want us to do it," Marcos said dryly.

She turned back to the fire and was quiet for a long time. Finally, she spoke. "Together, you are very powerful. You are drawn together. And together, you could defeat any obstacle."

Evander was not sure he believed as strongly that he and Marcos were as powerful as the Mother claimed, but he could feel the truth of her words resonating through him. He was drawn to Marcos. It was difficult to understand the why of it, though he was sure if Taavi was here, he could tell him all he needed to know.

But you don't need to know the why, you only need to know that it is true.

He also knew another truth: he felt a fierce and strong desire to destroy or at least defeat Deimos. He had been in power too long. He had grown corrupt. He had hurt Evander only because he could. If any of the other Guardians refused to follow his rules, he would do the same to them.

If Deimos had been fair and just, as he had been, in the very beginning, then perhaps he would have told the Mother that there was nothing to be done.

But deep down, he did not know that. He suspected it was possible, but Marcos was extraordinarily powerful, and he had already proven equal to Deimos in mettle.

The possibility existed that they could do something about Deimos.

"I think you could be right," Evander said.

Marcos looked shocked, his mouth falling open a little. He dropped Evander's hand, and he shouldn't have felt the loss of it, but he did.

"You are not thinking straight," he said.

"No, I am thinking straight enough," Evander retorted. "I know that he has grown too powerful."

Marcos said nothing. But the look in his dark eyes was plain enough.

"You must figure this out together," the Mother said, "and for the night, I will leave you here, alone, so you may discuss it."

"Thank you, kind Mother," Evander said, bowing a little.

She inclined her head. "It has been a long journey for you, and it will be longer still. Take the night and rest. Eat a hot meal. You have earned this." She snapped her fingers again, and suddenly, through the doorway on the other side of the room, they could see a huge wooden tub, steam curling around the edges.

And then, as suddenly as she'd appeared, she was gone.

"Have we though?" Marcos asked into the silence she left behind.

"Have we what?" Evander asked, standing and moving over to where the pot bubbled over the fire. The meat smelled delectable, large chunks of it floating in a spiced, dark brown gravy. His stomach grumbled. It had been too long since he'd eaten a hot meal, and this one was going to more than make up for it.

There was bread, tucked away in a basket, hearty and full of berries and seeds. And a large pitcher of golden mead, so much better than what he and Marcos had shared a few nights back, at the ugly, run-down inn.

"I hardly think we've earned a respite," Marcos grumbled as he walked over, his boots making punctuated thumps on the floor. "We've only been traveling for a handful of days, and it was hardly the most grueling campaign I've been a part of."

"Yes, we know, you are big and tough and built of stronger stuff than the rest of us," Evander retorted. "But the Mother isn't wrong. If we don't need to suffer, we shouldn't. Yes, I know this journey has only been a few days, but there were years I spent on the road. I have not been settled into Beaulieu that long."

He picked up several bowls and began to ladle out the stew. "Come sit, and stop pouting," he added. "Nobody says you must suffer to prove your worth."

"I didn't . . . I don't . . ." Marcos made a face, but sat down at the table anyway. "I hesitate to indulge in the Mother's hospitality when we must say no to her request."

Evander set the bowl on the table with a thump. "I disagree."

"That we should say no, or that taking her hospitality means we are obligated to consider the proposal?"

Marcos glared at him. "You want to say yes."

"I think it's our duty to say yes. To at least do what we can."

"When we could stay here, on the surface, forever, and never risk our comfort by indulging in Conclave politics? We have both done it for a number of years," Marcos pointed out. "We could do it for thousands more. There is nobody to stop us. We can live whatever life we choose."

"You could, perhaps," Evander said bitterly, spooning up his own bowl of stew, and setting it on the table, but he did not come sit down. Instead he paced back and forth in front of the fire, feeling the warmth seep through him. Warm him in a place where it felt like he had not been warm for so long.

"I was banished," he finally said between clenched teeth. "I was not given a choice. I am here because I cannot be anyplace else."

"You want to punish Deimos for that," Marcos said.

Evander could see that he was trying to be understanding, but how could he possibly comprehend what it had been like?

Deimos had destroyed a fundamental part of what made him him. He'd mourned for it for hundreds of years.

Evander wasn't sure he'd ever stopped mourning it.

He'd felt a pang of it even now, only a few days ago, when he'd transformed into Evander again. When he'd looked into the reflective water of the stream and seen him again. But not him, all at the same time. He'd never truly be Evander, Guardian of Secrets, ever again.

"He should be punished for it," Evander said, hearing the alien harshness in his own voice. "He should have his own life, his own comfort, his own selfish superiority ripped away from him, until he knows how it feels."

"Would he though? Would we actually be able to do it? Should we do it?"

Evander whipped around, and the first thing he saw was the hard, firm line of Marcos' mouth.

"What?"

"We shouldn't do it. It's not prudent, and it's a risk we shouldn't take." Marcos sounded so sure, Evander felt a spike of temper.

"I don't know what risk you could possibly be talking about," Evander said, the fury already simmering away inside of him beginning to heat up to a much hotter temperature.

"If you could go back, to when Deimos told you to ignore the cult of sorcerers on the surface, you would ignore them. If you knew what it would cost you . . ."

"It wouldn't have mattered!" Evander was vaguely aware that he was yelling now. He didn't know where the Mother's house lay, but he hoped that it was far from anyone.

"How can you say that, when you know how much it cost you?" Marcos answered back, that inexorable, unflappable tone driving Evander wild, because how would Marcos know what it had cost him?

He'd not been the one to suffer through it.

He'd only watched from the sideline, thinking he knew all about it, but in reality, knowing nothing.

He had chosen; Evander had never chosen.

And Marcos sitting there, smug in his belief that they were exactly the same, that he'd taken the fall right with Evander, even though he'd barely even lost anything—in fact when he had in all honesty, gained from the transaction—made Evander's temper flare so much hotter.

Vanya had once told him that he could be evil if he chose. That he always had a choice between doing the right thing and the wrong thing.

Evander had retorted, the memory bright but faded in his mind, that only one thing ever muddied the waters for him: his temper.

Whenever he got angry, he lost perspective and control.

He'd lost it during the Conclave meeting when Deimos had ordered him to stay off the surface.

He lost it now.

Evander turned and, locking eyes with Marcos, saw the emotions flash across his face, the ones he'd always been successful at hiding before. The awe and the attraction and the inevitable, inexorable pull.

But Marcos couldn't hide them anymore; not when Evander knew his secret.

He didn't think it through. He didn't think at all. He emptied his mind entirely, and strode over, and Marcos went very still as he dug his palms into the table on either side of his body, and leaned in.

He'd only wanted to shut Marcos up. Needed that split second when Marcos understood that he wasn't in charge, that it didn't matter if he thought he presumed what Evander felt, that Evander held him and his balls in his fingertips.

Marcos didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just sat there and let Evander kiss him.

It had been a very long time since he'd done this, but he didn't remember how it had felt, not at all.

The heat, the moisture, the way it felt natural to lean in and let his tongue sweep across the closed seam of Marcos' lips. He was so much warmer, so much softer, than he'd ever imagined—and he swore that he hadn't thought about this, but the truth was uncomfortably different—and deep down, he felt a flare of something that wasn't temper at all.

Then Marcos let out a deep, shaky breath, and then he moved, reaching up and cradling Evander's cheek in his rough palm. For a single moment—that stupid single moment Evander dreamt that he would own Marcos, body and soul—that flare became a fire and then became a conflagration, raging in his belly as Marcos angled his head, and finally kissed him back.

It was scorching, yes, but it was sweet too, and Evander felt himself begin to sway on the edge, right before tumbling into something impossibly even hotter.

Before he could fall, he wrenched himself away. Heard his own breathing.

Wrong, Vanya would have said, chuckling in amusement, you did something very wrong.

"I shouldn't . . ." Evander licked his lips. Tasted Marcos on them. Salt like steel, but sweet too, so insanely sweet. Maybe it was those feelings, the ones he'd pretended for that split second that Marcos didn't have. "I shouldn't have done that."

Because it was the best kiss you've ever had in your life, and you've been kissed enough times to know it shouldn't have been like that.

But it had been.