14. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

" Are you sure you're not mistaken?"

Concern was etched on every line of Evander's face, as he frowned down at Marcos, sitting in the bath in his own quarters.

He'd smelled of sickening dark magic and smoke, and he'd insisted on taking a bath before meeting with the council to discuss what he and Gray and Anya had found—and what their next steps should be.

"I know what I saw. A sorceress attempting to wield fire magic far more powerful than she could contain, but it was contained. By wind."

"Are you sure she didn't just burn up all her control with the sacrifice?" Evander trailed fingers in the water. "Maybe the sacrifice helped her steady it so she could lay the trap."

"No," Marcos said. "She set the fire, made the sacrifice, and then someone with wind power, they contained it. Contained her."

Evander's frown deepened. "I can't see Gael joining Deimos. He was always above the petty concerns of the surface."

"You didn't think Vanya would either," Marcos reminded him.

Anger flashed in Evander's stormy blue eyes. Anger at him, or anger at his old friend? Marcos didn't know which, but he wouldn't take back his words.

They had to speak frankly and bluntly about this situation, because if they were not honest with each other about the realities and the very real consequences of this fight, then they might not survive it. And then there would be nobody to stop Deimos obtaining what he wanted most, which was apparently an entire legion of followers.

"I should be angry with you," Evander said.

"But you're not," Marcos interrupted. "You understand."

"I understand what we're fighting against," Evander said, standing and beginning to pace through the room. "I understand it because I've been facing it for a thousand years."

Reassured that he no longer smelled of death or fire, Marcos lifted himself from the bath, reaching for a length of linen to dry himself.

"Then you understand how serious this is," Marcos said gently. "We can't let more Guardians join Deimos, or else we have no hope of defeating him."

"The Mother . . ." Evander trailed off.

"The Mother isn't here," Marcos said.

"You want to go attack them now."

"I don't want to attack them at all, but I think the longer we wait, the longer we hold, the more difficult it will be." He reached for his clothing, pulling on breeches, a tunic. He left off his armor, because this was only a council meeting—but then he reconsidered.

He wasn't a general, he wasn't even the general of this country—that was Marthe, and she was capable, he'd seen that for himself—but maybe to be at his most persuasive, he should come to them as a Guardian, fully armored.

But before he could pull the leather chest plate on, Evander appeared in front of him, and pressed his palm to where Marcos' heart beat. "She could've hurt you," he said softly, his voice low.

Marcos didn't think he'd ever seen fear in Evander's face. He'd always been so brilliantly gutsy and daring. Never flinching. Invariably unruffled. But he was afraid now.

"She could have, but only because she didn't have any control," Marcos said as reassuringly as he could.

"And Gray . . ." Evander said. "I'm grateful you were there, it would have been . . ." He clamped his lips tightly together, like he couldn't even speak of what would have happened if Marcos hadn't been there, if the sorceress had trapped Gray and Anya the way she'd planned.

"They thought they knew me, thought they could predict how I would behave. That I would protect, above all else, and the thing is, I did. I didn't let them out of my sight. That was the best way I could protect them."

"With yourself." Evander's voice was rough.

"I might be the Guardian of War but I've always wanted to be meant for more than just battles and blood," Marcos said softly.

I'm meant to love you and protect you, and protect everyone that you love.

Evander let his head fall to Marcos' damp chest, and he wrapped his arms around him, tugging him closer.

He knew he was seeing a side of him that nobody except perhaps Vanya had witnessed. Evander trusted him that much, believed in him that much.

And Marcos would never let himself fail.

Ten minutes later, Marcos stood in the Great Hall, facing the rest of the council as they sat again at the circular table.

He repeated in a steady voice what had happened with the sorceress, watching the faces of the council members morph from surprise to concern to fear, even though he'd gone out of his way to not try to overdramatize the incident.

Evander glanced his way, and he heard his voice again. It's okay that they're afraid, they should be afraid.

"Is that the way it happened, Gray?" Rory asked.

"That is exactly how it happened," he said with a grave nod. "Though, I am still uncertain as to how Marcos was able to ascertain that it was a trap."

"It was the way the magic felt . . . too steady, too clear a path to follow," Marcos explained. "Magic often wavers. Especially magic contained in someone who isn't a Guardian. You saw how it was too much for her to bear."

"I did," Gray admitted. "But your first inclination was to leave me and Anya, and go ahead, to flush out the trap."

"It was, but the first inclination is not always the wisest path. It's good to not be predictable. Besides," he added, hoping that his argument didn't sound impossibly smug, "I knew the best way I could protect you and Anya would be to be with you myself. To protect you personally."

"He's not wrong," Anya said wryly. "His sword glows blue and can deflect fireballs. That doesn't even count the magic shield."

"Magic shield?" Marthe questioned.

"I wish it could protect more than just me and a handful of others," Marcos said ruefully. "It's useless for an army. I've tried."

"Hmmm," Marthe considered.

"I am most concerned," Evander said, speaking up for the first time in the meeting, "about the origin of the trap. That charred circle in the wheat field. The sorceress wouldn't have had the control to burn just a small circle, for a sacrifice. It would have grown unwieldy for her almost immediately."

"What do you think it means?" Rory asked.

"I think it indicates there's other powers at play," Evander said heavily. "Potentially other Guardians."

Rory's face turned white, and Evander's pronouncement seemed to suck most of the air out of the room.

Marcos could taste the doom that descended over the table.

"How many did you say there were again?" Rowen asked quietly. "Thirteen?"

"So, ten, without Evander and Marcos and Deimos," Rory said, scribbling on a piece of parchment in front of him. "Who else would be likely to join him?"

"Marcos believes that wind is what contained the sorceress' fire," Evander said. "That would be Gael, the Guardian of the Winds."

"Is it likely that he would partner with Deimos?"

Marcos glanced over at Evander. "I think it's honestly more likely that Deimos somehow usurped some of his power, rather than he joined him himself. Though I suppose it is a possibility."

"It's a possibility," Evander said firmly. There was a haunted look in his eyes that spoke one word and one word plainly: Vanya.

Marcos regretted making a point of it in his chambers earlier.

"Gael was never much for surface politics," Marcos argued. "He'd never have involved himself without a good reason."

"Deimos is conniving. You don't believe he could have invented an excellent excuse for Gael?"

Marcos had to concede that point, inclining his head.

For a long moment, everyone at the table was silent.

"Who would be likely to join him?" Rory asked.

He knew how hard it would be for Evander to voice the truth out loud, so he did. "We know that Vanya, Guardian of Belief, has joined forces with Deimos. For better or worse, he has less . . . offensive powers. Though he is exceptional at joining conviction to will. Every single man and woman that Deimos has seduced to the dark side, and infected with that magic, will believe, unequivocally, that they are doing the right thing, the just thing."

Rory continued to write on the parchment, barely glancing up.

"Can this Vanya fight?" Gray wanted to know.

"As much as any of us can," Marcos said. "But not particularly well, if I remember."

"No," Evander said, his voice a dark rasp.

"Who else?" Rory asked.

"I think it would be easier to identify who wouldn't," Evander said. "Abram, Lyric, Hektor, Kadir, Taavi. Osias, he is much like Gael. He would not involve himself, unless Deimos did something particularly devious."

"Jae might. And Hyperion," Marcos said.

Evander frowned. "Yes, perhaps."

"So perhaps Deimos has three other Guardians on his side. One who will cause the men and women who fight for him to believe unwaveringly in his cause. What could Jae and Hyperion do?"

"Jae will make sure they are well provisioned. I believe they are holed up in the caves dotting those foothills," Marcos said. "Normally I would suggest we wait them out, wait until they're starving and weak. But Jae's power will make sure they won't want for anything."

"And Hyperion?" Rory asked archly.

He and Hyperion had never been as close as Evander and Vanya, but nonetheless, he had been a friend. The closest thing to a friend, anyway, that Marcos had had at the Castle.

Marcos pushed the pain of his betrayal away. If Evander could face Vanya, then he could confront the possibility that Hyperion had joined Deimos.

"He's the Guardian of the Wild," Evander explained. "He's always been . . . well, wild. Angry. Uncontained. The chaos that Hyperion thrives on means he might see the benefits of Deimos' appeal."

Marcos nodded. "If Deimos succeeds, that would create an atmosphere here that he would . . . enjoy."

But Hyperion had always been so much more than that.

He'd been fierce and free and throbbing with life in every inch of his being.

Marcos pushed the throb of pain away.

"What can he do?"

"What can't he do?" Evander said dryly. "He can command animals. He can conjure animal visions with enough power to create physical damage. He's powerful. A worthy opponent for Marcos."

"I thought Deimos was an opponent for Marcos," Gray objected.

"We will not be evenly matched." Marcos laid the statement out with the bluntest honesty he could have. "Which is why we need to act now, before Deimos seduces any more sorcerers or Guardians to his purpose."

"You don't want to wait for them to attack, you want to go on the offensive," Marthe said flatly. "That could be death, for all of us. We do not have power or magic or anywhere near this kind of strength."

"No," Evander said steadily. "No, you don't. But you do have strength and will, and Marcos and I are not only powerful individually, we're powerful together."

Rory raised an eyebrow at Evander's choice of words and Marcos found himself, despite the seriousness of the topic, momentarily amused.

"And," Evander added, "we have the blessing of the Mother. I think that will count for something."

"The Mother?"

"She created this world, she created us, and she created you," Evander said simply.

"I suppose she wouldn't like the havoc that Deimos wants to wreak on her creation," Gray said, voice wry.

"She asked us to defeat Deimos, but we were . . . distracted by another quest," Marcos explained. "I do not know how she can help, only that if she gets the opportunity, she will."

"So we have the hope that a goddess figure of untold power might assist," Marthe said. "What else do we have?"

Marcos appreciated the general's practicality.

"Evander has his full powers back, and he has control over them. I am . . ."

Evander rolled his eyes. "Marcos is the most powerful Guardian of the Conclave. I believe he is even more powerful than Deimos, a fact that he's carefully hidden from him for thousands of years. I would wish for nobody else by my side."

"Then, if time is truly a concern, we should plan an attack," Marthe said simply.

"None of you are obligated to join us," Evander said, and Marcos would have to be blind to not see his gaze fall to Rory and Gray.

He'd spent a thousand years planning for their peace, for the peace of this kingdom.

And now it was going to be destroyed in the space of a single council meeting.

"You sent for me?"

Evander stood in the doorway of the library and watched Rory look up from his stacks of parchment and much higher stacks of books.

"I found more references to Death on a dark steed," Rory said, "as well as mentions of a man in early Ardglassian history who could defeat any fighter, who could circumvent any trap, who invented battle plans that never failed to lead to victory. This is your Marcos, isn't it? He was in Ardglass."

Evander should have known that Rory was too sharp to miss it.

"He's not mine," Evander said carefully.

Rory shot him a look. "Yes, he is," he said simply. "The same way that Gray and I have always been each other's."

"It is not the same at all," Evander said. He hadn't wanted to discuss this, especially not with Rory, but perhaps he was a better option than discussing it with nobody at all.

"Whatever is between you," Rory said carefully, because if anyone knew the power of words, it was him, "that is him, is it not?" He pushed forward a large, leather-bound text, and unlike most Ardglassian texts from that particular period, this one had a single, stark illustration. Bold lines, sketched in black ink, took up almost half a page. The face wasn't Marcos', but the eyes? The expression? That was all him.

"Yes," Evander finally said. "That's him."

Rory looked at him more carefully. He'd spent so long analyzing his precious texts, he'd become equally good at analyzing people. It was the same set of skills, Evander supposed, just applied differently. "You didn't know he was here, on the . . . what did you call it? The surface."

"No," Evander said shortly.

Pulling the book back, Rory carefully slid a piece of parchment in to mark the page and then shut it. "Watching you, was he?"

"Not exactly like that," Evander said. He was remembering, fondly, the beginning of their association, when he'd thought Rory pretty and spoiled and not stupid, but too esoteric to glean much from everyday life.

He'd grown sharp.

Or maybe he'd always been sharp, and now he was allowing Evander to see it.

"Hmmm," he said, leaning back in his chair. "It's not the same as Gray and I, and he wasn't exactly watching you. What was he doing, then?"

How was Evander supposed to answer Rory's questions, when he couldn't answer them for himself?

Rory burst out laughing. "You should see your face," he said, very amused. "You must really, really hate not knowing everything, not understanding in minute detail something that's happening—and not just happening in your general vicinity, but to you."

Evander didn't bother to hold back his scowl as he collapsed into the chair opposite Rory's. "You are not helpful," he muttered.

Rory's expression softened. "How can I be helpful, then?"

"You asked me to come here, to you," Evander reminded him. He hadn't wanted to have this conversation. He hadn't wanted to have it at all.

Except he'd known that he would be having it with Marcos, because the minute he stepped back into his chambers, he would be there.

The night before they attacked the sorcerers and Deimos?

Possibly the night before nothing was ever the same again?

Potentially the last night of thousands and thousands of nights?

While Evander knew the generalities of how Marcos felt, he had been scrupulously careful to never say a word himself. He had yet to actually confess feelings of any kind.

But he would tonight.

Evander knew it. He longed for it and dreaded it in equal measure.

I know you don't feel the same, you couldn't possibly feel the same, he could imagine Marcos saying, so please don't say anything at all.

Except Evander didn't want to stay silent. But he didn't know, not for sure.

Maybe it would be worse to say something, if it was the wrong thing, if it turned out to be untrue, than it would be to stay silent.

"I did ask you to come, because I wanted to ask you if this was Marcos. I thought so, but I wanted to be sure."

"Why?"

Rory's smile was secretive. "Several reasons. Starting with I like to know who is residing in my castle, and directing my troops, and planning battle strategies with my general."

"Gray is growing to trust him."

Rory nodded. "That wasn't the only reason. I wanted to know if you knew that he'd been here, all those years ago."

"Why does it matter?" Evander asked flatly.

"You're uneasy with it, that he was here and didn't tell you. Or"—Rory paused—"are you uneasy with the why?"

It was useless. Rory knew. Rory knew, and Rory knew how it made him feel.

Confused.

Lustful.

Flustered.

Exhilarated.

"How did you know you were in love with Gray?" It was difficult to form the words, to ask the question, but he did it.

Rory shot him a look. "You were there, you should already know the answer to that question."

"Yes, of course, I was there. But one minute you were mooning after him like a schoolboy with an embarrassing crush, and then the next, it was entirely different. You looked at each other like . . ." Evander paused, clearing his throat. "You still look at each other like that."

"Best thing, and the worst thing, falling in love like that," Rory said contemplatively. His amber eyes shone, like he was remembering those days, which hadn't been so long ago. "At first, it's hard to say if it's the excitement and the terror that makes you want to cling to another person, to that person. How did I know I wanted to be with Gray forever and not just because he was conveniently there during the worst point of my life?"

"Yes, that," Evander said, in far too deep to feel the sting of humiliation at the fact Rory had discovered his exact worry.

"Because what I really longed for with Gray wasn't excitement, or battles, or clinging to each other when the worst was about to come to pass. What I wanted was this. I wanted peace, with him."

Rory's gaze was knowing, likely because he remembered Evander saying it himself.

All I want is . . . peace. No kingdoms. No wars. No battles. No conquering heroes. Just peace.

When he'd said this, only the day before, he hadn't actually voiced that he wanted it with Marcos, but he'd thought it. He'd thought about how much different he would have felt, if he'd given in to Merleen's dogged pursuit, all those months ago.

Peace, Evander thought, would feel very different with the right person next to you.

"Does that help?" Rory asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," Evander said, standing and feeling strangely, utterly resolute. For the first time in what felt like weeks. "Yes, in fact, it does."

Rory grinned. "I thought it might."

Marcos had lived through many battles.

And, as a result, he'd spent many, many nights before a battle.

Sometimes, he could feel the clash, the blood, the destruction coming. Could taste it in the air. Sometimes, he knew it was coming, because he had planned it that way. Sometimes he just felt it, the impending doom of so many, no matter what he'd do to prevent their deaths.

But he'd never spent the night before a battle with Evander before.

Just the thought of it had his heart beating a little faster.

They might not live to see the next sunset, or the sun rise.

He knew what he wanted to say, the words he'd held in for so long. But the problem with the words was after so long holding them in, Marcos didn't know how to unseal them. If he should.

It would hurt, to confess the truth, even though it was a truth Evander had already guessed, and have him pat him gently on the chest and say, I know, and it's okay, but not return the love and devotion he'd felt so long that feeling it felt as natural as breathing.

But it would hurt less not to say it, if this was the last chance he would get.

He was very strong, but Deimos was Death. Their fate hung on a thousand different decisions, of all kinds and all sizes. They might emerge unscathed, with Deimos destroyed, or Marcos might lose everything. His everlasting life, and his everlasting love.

The door opened before Marcos had quite made up his mind what he would say.

Evander didn't knock, merely slipped in, shutting it closed behind him with a click.

"I thought I might find you here," he said with a hint of a smile on his lips.

"In your chambers?"

It had been a bit presumptuous to come to Evander's chambers, where he'd lived as Rhys, but they'd spent the last few nights here, together, and he'd wanted to be here, as much as he'd hoped that Evander might want him here.

Still, while Marcos had taken off his chest plate, he'd scrupulously avoided the bed, instead choosing to stand by one of the high arched windows set into the smooth gray stone of the walls.

Evander tugged at the laces of his dark, high-necked tunic. "I had hoped you would come here, and I wouldn't have to seek you out," he added.

"Of course I came here," Marcos said, and then hesitated. Evander knew, and this was his chance, and yet it was still so difficult to speak of his feelings.

Too many years holding them far too close to his chest.

"Of course you did." His smile had disappeared, and when he finished loosening his tunic, he tugged it off with a very serious expression on his beautiful face. Stepped out of his boots. "Rory had found a drawing of you, in fact when you were Dougal, and asked me if it was you."

"I suppose my expression is rather unchangeable," Marcos allowed.

Evander's fingers slid down his chest, towards his breeches, and Marcos was powerless to watch as he pushed them down.

"You are unchangeable," Evander teased, both with his voice, and with his naked body. But he didn't move towards Marcos, just kept staring at him with that inscrutable, opaque expression.

Marcos collected all his courage.

He knew he would need it.

"Actually, in one instance," he said, taking a step closer to where Evander stood, so completely and utterly breathtaking, "I was in fact changeable. But there has only been the one instance." Marcos hesitated. "The most important instance."

Evander tilted his head up, the flawless line of his profile shadowed by the flickering light of the fire in the hearth. "You? Changeable? I find that hard to believe."

"At first," Marcos said, "for many hundreds of years, I had no interest in you. You seemed . . ."

"Petty? Silly?" Evander raised an eyebrow as he made suggestions that were hardly a compliment to his past self. "Entirely preoccupied with selfish matters?"

"No," Marcos said firmly. "Not at all. You weren't spoiled. You cared for all of us, in your own way. Whether you realized it or not. But, inevitably, every time you looked at me, you seemed to see through me, to know me better than I knew myself, and I preferred not to be so exposed. So I avoided you. Until one winter, when I could not, not any longer. And that was when I changed, or rather my feelings, they were irrevocably changed."

He reached out, cupping Evander's cheek in one hand. "I could never understand how, or understand why, until I finally accepted that there is no logic and reason in the heart, at least not my heart. Because it is yours, as I am yours, from that winter, for hundreds of years, until now. As long as you wish me to be near you, to be close, to be your friend, and your bed mate, to protect you and the peace you've created, I am yours."

Evander's eyes flickered shut. He pressed more firmly into Marcos' embrace.

Now here is the moment, Marcos thought with terror churning through his veins. Now he says thank you, or you are kind, or you are steadfast.

But then Evander's eyes flickered open and he did not look particularly thankful, or particularly kind, or even like he wanted to praise Marcos' loyalty.

He looked . . .

Marcos' breath caught.

"It seems," Evander said, his tone wry, "that I have a secret that I did not even realize I possessed, which is that for as long as you want me, or even if you do not want me at all, I believe that I will always love you anyway. Tonight, tomorrow, no matter what befalls us, I will be yours."

Marcos did not hesitate. He reached and pulled him close, pressing Evander's body near to his own. Then Evander's hands were reaching up, tugging his head down into a kiss just as fiery as many they'd shared, but not just full of passion, as they'd first been, but full of love, too.

Marcos could feel the difference, and every fiber of his being rejoiced at the evolution.

He did not know how he'd ever be so lucky to win Evander's love—for ages, he'd never imagined it could even be possible—but in the end, he had done nothing. All he had done was to be himself.

Show himself.

Reveal himself.

"Come," Marcos said roughly, catching Evander's body and lifting it effortlessly, his hands tugging off his own tunic as he set him on the edge of the bed. "I want to love you."

Evander's eyes, as he pulled back, shedding his boots and his breeches, shone brilliantly blue. "You already do, every single day—and for so many days I am not sure I can count them all. I can't . . ." He hesitated. "I should apologize for not seeing it, for not understanding . . . for not realizing sooner . . ."

"No," Marcos said, sliding his body against Evander's, feeling the rush of the skin-to-skin contact. He'd never even dreamt he could have this, and to have it, and Evander's love too, it was more than a fantasy come to life, it was a blessing he'd work every day to earn.

"No?" Evander raised an eyebrow.

"No, because I didn't want you to know," Marcos said.

Evander reached up, tracing the lines of his face with the barest touch of his fingertips. "You are worthy of this," he said softly. "Of love. Of my love. No matter what happens tomorrow, if we are both still alive, I intend to show you every day."

With Evander's hands on him, their skin touching in half a dozen places, the knowledge of it rocketing through him like the brightest spark, he felt like he actually might.

But will you tomorrow?

Marcos pushed that voice away, that fear that he might slip into the worst version of himself, the Marcos who would do anything, be anything, slay anything, if only to keep the man he loved and those he loved, safe and protected.

It was what you were made for. Deimos' voice echoed in his head.

"I can see the shadow in your eyes." Evander's voice was like a caress.

He could feel the shadow, and this time he didn't just absently bat it away, he shoved it.

I am meant for more than that, he told himself fiercely, I am not just meant for blood and mud and war. I can be meant for love, too.

I am meant for love. The love of one man.

"Then," Marcos said lovingly, dipping his head low to brush a kiss along Evander's collarbone, "let's banish it, shall we?"

Evander turned his head, met his mouth eagerly with his own, and it was so easy, so effortless, to sink into the thick lassitude of pleasure he felt whenever they kissed.

Evander was gentle with him at first, only bestowing sweet kisses on him, but then he finally tilted his head, Marcos' fingers tangling in his hair, and oh, there was the fire.

It bloomed in his blood, hotter than he had ever thought possible.

"Wait," Evander gasped out as one of Marcos' hands drifted down his body, to where his cock lay hard on his thigh. "Wait, I want . . . I knew . . ."

Marcos sat back, meeting Evander's eyes. "You want?"

Evander reached out for a little vial on the low table next to the bed. "I want you inside me, I want you as close as you can be, before . . ."

"I will make sure nothing happens to you." It was a vow.

But Evander shook his head. "I know, of course I know that, but I want this . . . I want you. So badly. I want to feel it tomorrow, and know what I'm fighting for, what I want at the end of the day. Not fighting for kingdoms or territory or endless wars, but peace. With you."

So many over the years had assumed Marcos had no interest in peace; but rather he valued it even more knowing how precious it was. How hard-won.

And it seemed that Evander believed the same.

"This, every day," Marcos said, leaning down and kissing him fiercely, plucking the bottle away from Evander. "Days when we do not even leave this bed."

"Yes," Evander gasped as with oil-damp fingers, Marcos trailed a path down his hip, and then further down still, Evander's legs spreading as he went.

When they snubbed up to his hole, Evander moaned, muffling the sound in Marcos' shoulder.

"You truly want this?" Marcos asked. "I am not small . . . it will not . . ."

Evander's gaze was fierce as they locked eyes. "I want all of you. I love you," he said.

Marcos' concern would have been assuaged no matter what, but the desire in Evander's face melted it away completely and he slid a finger inside of Evander, feeling his body contract around it, and then let him in, a little at a time.

He was slow and careful, and by the time a second finger joined the first, Evander's head was thrown back on the bed, groaning in pleasure.

"You are so beautiful like this," Marcos said roughly. Wanting to be inside of him more than he wanted his next breath. His cock was as hard as the steel in his sword, and he could feel the throb of it, with each beat of his heart.

"Please," Evander begged.

"Just . . . one . . . more . . ." Marcos could hear the desperation in his voice. The desire. It was nearly overwhelming him, but he wanted Evander to feel only pleasure as he took him, so he ground his teeth together and a third finger joined the others. He marveled at the way Evander's body opened to his. Like it was just as eager as he was.

Evander reached up, gasping as Marcos' fingers delved deep, and the kiss he gave him was wild and unrestrained, as uninhibited as he had ever seen him, had ever dreamt to see him.

The kiss loosened Marcos' control, and he groaned, pulling his fingers free, rubbing them along his cock, hard and twitching, desperate for Evander's body.

"You are mine, and I am yours," Marcos rasped as he began to slide inside. It was so hot and tight, and felt so unbelievably good, he had to squeeze his eyes shut against the sudden need to thrust hard and fast.

But Evander's hand, reaching up, pressing into his chest, kept him in check, his fingertips curling into his skin as he sank in further and further.

And then he was fully seated, and he hesitated, opening his eyes to see Evander's frozen expression. But it wasn't pain. It was more than pleasure.

It was wonder.

"Please," Evander begged again. "Please, oh, please."

Marcos already knew he would give him whatever he wanted, whatever he needed, with every last breath of his body. So it was natural to give him more, short careful thrusts, until Evander's hand slid down, digging into the muscle of his thigh and pulling him in hard.

"More," he demanded, "more."

Marcos was helpless to resist, the blood roaring in his ears as he thrust harder and faster, the pleasure lighting up every inch of his body.

His hips stuttered when he saw Evander wrap a hand around his own cock, and felt him tumble off the edge, body spasming around him, stripes of come hitting his chest.

He was lost, driving harder and faster, chasing his own orgasm, until it hit him in a blinding rush.

The pleasure seemed to last forever, until finally it faded, Marcos' racing pulse beginning to fade to normal. He gazed down at his lover, and hoped that he hadn't been too rough at the end.

But then Evander smiled, his eyes a soft glowing blue.

"Why," he said in a soft voice that sounded very unlike Evander, "did we wait so long to do that?"

Marcos carefully pulled out, wiping himself on a corner of the bedding. Reaching up, wiping Evander down, too.

"Because," he said, settling down next to him, pulling him close, "if we had done that, I'd have never let you go, and I don't believe you were ready to be caught, just yet."

"No," Evander said, and then sighed happily. "Tomorrow . . ."

But Marcos didn't let him finish. "Tomorrow is tomorrow," he said. "And tonight is tonight. Let us enjoy this, before tomorrow's destruction."

"I," Evander retorted loftily, "was actually going to say that tomorrow Deimos won't even know what hit him, because I will not—not under any circumstances—permit that to be the last time we do that."

Marcos couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out of him.

Evander was quiet a moment. And then, softly, he said, "I have never heard you laugh like that. Or seen you smile, as you did just now."

He felt bared to the quick by the truth in Evander's words.

"I have never been as happy as I am now."

By the truth in his own.