8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

It was impossible over the next few days for Rory to pretend that he wasn't deeply pissed. He had never imagined that his princely status might actually prevent him from kissing a man he cared about. Because that was the root of the problem: he'd begun caring about Gray. The seed had been there from the first moment, when Rory had come upon him in all his dirty, shirtless glory, and then had begun to sprout during their escape from the valley together. Getting captured and then being forced to rely on only each other had encouraged even more growth. The wide, approving looks Gray had given him over the Accord nurtured it further.

And that kiss?

If Rory had possessed any intention of steering clear of feelings for Gray, the kiss had obliterated it completely.

And yes, it was incredibly vexing that the only thing Rory could not fix was the very thing that pushed Gray away. Rory spent the past three days as they traveled towards the Karloffs stewing on the back of Evrard. There were more people on the road now, as it wound closer to the mountains, but Rory was less worried about being recognized these days. He'd definitely grown dirtier, face smudged to match his brown cloak, and the ugly patchy beard he'd always shaved had begun to grow in. Gray had chuckled under his breath when he'd first seen it one cold morning, but Rory hadn't been very amused.

How was he supposed to win Gray over when he was deliberately making himself less handsome?

The answer was, he wasn't. At least that was the gist of the cold shoulder that Gray kept giving him. Just enough clipped, shortened sentences to communicate the plans for the day, then complete and utterly annoying silence during the ride. At night, Rory might have been a tree stump for how much attention Gray paid to him.

Truthfully, after spending approximately half his time stewing over Gray's silence and the other half silent and bored, Rory would've been miserable except for Evrard's company. Evrard was certainly every bit the snob that Rory suspected, but he was also so much more. A streak of something resembling kindness unexpectedly wove its way through Evrard's conversation occasionally.

Rory had wondered how Gray could have tolerated growing up in the valley with only Evrard for company. At first Rory had been shocked that Gray was as well-adjusted as he was, considering the sole friend he'd had, and then as the hours progressed, he realized that while Gray and Evrard didn't always get along on the surface, the undercurrents between them went deep.

Midway through the second day of Gray's taciturn streak, Evrard unexpectedly brought up Rory's parents. "I met them once," he said, his voice wistful. "They were lovely, and they were kind. Too kind."

Rory, who wished he had more memories of them, asked, "How can you be too kind?"

"Sometimes an open heart can be wrenched open even further, and then something insidious worms its way in."

Rory wondered if that was his aunt, but didn't ask because he was sure that was one of those questions where Evrard would give him one of those strangely opaque looks from his beautiful eyes—and even though Rory objectively knew he was the furthest thing from stupid, Evrard would make him reconsider for a moment.

"They certainly never told me about meeting a unicorn, especially a unicorn that spoke," Rory pointed out. He'd only been five years old when they died, but he believed that a fact that extraordinary would have been one he'd have remembered.

"Naturally, I was not in this form," Evrard sniffed. Like it was unbelievably silly for Rory to have assumed that Evrard had met them in his natural form.

"You take other forms?" Rory asked, curious. Maybe when this was all over, and he was safely installed back in his library tower at Beaulieu, he would pen a manuscript on all the facts known about unicorns. Rory was mentally composing the introduction—"Unicorns are surprisingly full of themselves, even considering their elevated status as a prized, unique magical creature"—when Evrard answered.

"I was expecting more from you, Prince Emory," Evrard said. Pockets of trees flashed by as Evrard trotted along the road, but even Rory could tell the mountains were growing nearer and the air thinner. "I thought you were considered a scholar of some repute."

"Unfortunately, there is not much to be read about unicorns as a breed," Rory apologized. He could feel Gray stiffen in front of him, and not for the first time during their journey, desperately wanted to know if he was smiling as he and Evrard teased each other. His back was solid against Rory's hands, an undeniable presence, but it was hard to believe he was truly there, since he so rarely spoke these days.

On purpose, Rory reminded himself, that little pocket of frustration boiling hotter, he's not talking to you on purpose.

It was a very annoying state of affairs, and one that Rory was not at all resigned to. Occasionally—or about two or three times an hour—he had to resist the urge to beat his closed fists against that straight, rigid back, and demand to know what was so terrible about being a prince anyway.

"Of course there is nothing to be read about unicorns," Evrard said. "We are very secretive."

"And very enamored of that particular fact," Gray pointed out dryly.

Even though Rory was still annoyed—he had hardly stopped being annoyed in the last forty-eight hours—he smiled. Gray's sense of humor was dry and caustic, which was likely the result of spending far too much time with Evrard, but it existed, and he was surprisingly funny when he decided to share his thoughts.

"But how could you expect me to know more if there is very little written about unicorns?" Rory asked, the logic gap appearing very obvious after his amusement at Gray's comment settled. "That does not make any sense."

If Evrard had possessed a hand, he would have waved it airily. "Magical creatures are all very similar. Your aunt, for example, has a habit of turning into a chimera."

Thankfully, Rory did know what a chimera was. "She does?" he asked, more than a little stupefied.

"Gray faced her as one," Evrard said, and this time there was that sly edge to his voice that Rory had figured out he always used when he was hoping to manipulate Gray or Rory, or both of them at the same time. No doubt he had picked up on Gray's sudden cold shoulder just as well as Rory, and then there was the matter of the kiss he'd interrupted. Altogether, Rory felt like Evrard knew far too much about his relationship—or lack of relationship—with Gray.

"What was it like?" Rory asked, hoping that Gray would answer, but knowing better.

There was a long drawn-out moment of silence. They passed a small cottage set back from the road, smoke curling from the rough stone chimney, bright white against the gray sky. Evrard had observed earlier in the day that he was sure it would rain. Rory assumed he would likely be right, and no doubt they would not only be miserable with the wet and the mud, but with Evrard's insufferable attitude that he'd been right.

But to Rory's astonishment, it was Gray that answered. "Terrifying," he said, "but I had a very brave horse. If I'd been any older, I probably couldn't have done it. When you're a child, you always believe you can do anything."

Rory remembered so little of his childhood before his parents' death, and what had come after had never felt particularly childlike, though he'd enjoyed the many tutors and the crates of books that had continuously shown up at Beaulieu. If he concentrated very hard, he could envision a few hazy memories where his mom had held him tightly, and his father had played with him. Maybe before their deaths, his life had been a little more balanced between the books he loved and everything else, but it was impossible to say for sure.

A few hours later when they stopped for the night, Gray repeated his actions of the previous evenings and retreated further into the woods—supposedly to check the surroundings to make sure they weren't kidnapped again, but really because he was avoiding Rory. Normally Gray's behavior would have sent Rory's frustration spiking, but tonight, he had more he wanted to ask Evrard, and he thought it might be easier to do it if Gray weren't present.

Rory went over to where Evrard was munching on some nice soft grass, and sat down, drawing up his knees against his chest.

"What were they like?" he asked quietly.

Evrard was quiet for a long moment. "They loved each other, and they loved you," he finally said. "Do you remember much of them?"

"A few images. Their faces probably only because of their formal portraits in Beaulieu. I remember them encouraging me to read, but they never let me read too much." Rory hesitated. There was still a hurt, betrayed part of him that made it difficult to admit just how easily his aunt had manipulated him. How simple it had been for her to take something he loved and wield it against him. "Unlike the Regent Queen," he admitted softly. "She let me read as much as I liked. There were always new tutors, new languages, new books, new analyses that other scholars had requested. I would barely finish one project, and then another would begin."

"And you believe that your aunt arranged it that way?" Evrard asked between dainty nibbles.

Rory frowned. "If she'd asked me not to get involved in the running of the kingdom, I never would have agreed. She manipulated the situation—and me—so she never had to ask. I was so busy, so lost in my own world, that I never looked up from my work and thought, maybe I should be more involved."

Glancing up at him from underneath his rippling forelock, Evrard said, "But you're saying it now."

Rory picked at the fraying hem of his ugly brown cloak. "What if it's too late? What if I can't stop her?"

"Your Highness, I have gone to not-inconsiderate trouble to rescue you and save your life," Evrard said with a huff. "Would I do that if I believed the quest was hopeless?"

Leaning back against Evrard's legs, Rory thought for a long moment. No, he wouldn't have. The one thing Rory had learned, beyond all certainty, on this journey was that Evrard never wasted his time on anything he believed was beneath him. If he was here, and he was pushing Rory—and by extension, Gray—then he believed in what they were attempting to do. And really, Rory added, it had all been his idea, anyway.

"I am not infallible, as it turns out," Evrard continued with a sigh. "If I was, I would not have left Gray alone for so long. He's grown too used to being alone, and too intractable. Stuck in a rut of his own making, which I should have discouraged, and I did not."

"What do you mean?" Rory asked.

Evrard stared out into the darkening woods surrounding them. "I mean, Prince Emory, that he is sad, and he has been sad for a long time. I should have looked closer, and done more, but I did not. That is now on me, and unfortunately it is also now on you, because instead of pulling you closer, as his heart tells him to, he pushes you away."

Rory blushed. He wanted to ask more, but did not know which questions to ask, and there was also a part of him that wondered if they weren't better posed to Gray himself—at least when Gray was talking to him again.

Branches crackled underfoot, and Rory looked up to see Gray standing there, a load of wood in his arms. "It didn't rain," he said, "so I thought we'd celebrate with a fire."

Before he could stop himself, Rory laughed, and next to him, Evrard snorted, and pointedly did not answer.

An hour later, the fire was crackling, and Rory sat moodily watching it, lost in thought, wondering if his parents had survived the carriage accident, how much of his life might have been different. At least, he would have been a true crown prince of Fontaine, who wanted the throne and had worked for it. Who deserved it.

To Rory's shock, Gray actually did not retreat to the other side of the fire, but plopped down right next to Rory.

"I heard what you said earlier," he said, without preamble.

Rory and Evrard had said quite a lot of things today, so he could not immediately identify which of them Gray was referring to.

"The part about your aunt manipulating you," Gray said quietly, as he poked the fire with a long, sharp stick he'd whittled at the end with his dagger.

"Oh."

"It's not your fault. Not your fault that you didn't see it and not your fault that you didn't prevent it." Gray nudged his leg with his own. "She's made a career out of manipulating far more worldly and experienced men than you, Rory."

"Is that why you left Ardglass?" Rory asked before he could stop himself.

"Yes."

At first, that was all Rory believed he would get. Already Gray had said more words to him tonight than he'd said for days. But then he spoke again. "My father . . . he is intelligent and wise, or at least he was. I remember a time before Sabrina came to Tullamore, when things were different. When he was different. But after she came, everything changed, and he changed most of all. I was eleven when I escaped, with Evrard's help. By then, she had twisted his mind so thoroughly that he was willing to sacrifice me to serve her own ends."

Rory stared into the fire. He did not know what to say. Gray's father had agreed to hand him over to Sabrina? It made Sabrina's petty machinations towards Rory feel small and so insignificant. And it helped bring clarity to why Evrard had said Gray was sad, and had been sad for a long time.

"I tell you this," Gray continued, "because it's not right for you to blame yourself. You were a child, and she is both a master at this game and extraordinarily dangerous. She will no doubt try to manipulate you again, but I believe you're smarter than she is. You'll see right through it if it happens again."

Rory hoped so. "I hope you're right," he said. He did not feel quite as confident as Gray sounded, but that he thought so much of him did help to boost Rory's belief.

"I know I am."

"I'm sorry for what happened to you," Rory added softly after a long, quiet moment.

Gray cleared his throat. "And I'm sorry for what's happened to you." To Rory's complete surprise, Gray reached out and laid his hand on Rory's knee. Nothing more, but nothing less either. A peace offering, perhaps? But something, and Rory felt the anger that he'd held on to for days begin to dissipate. It was difficult to stay angry with someone who went out of their way to stop you from blaming yourself for so many terrible things.

On the fifth day of their journey, the mountains were no longer a closer promise; they were there. The road had been climbing steadily, the trees changing and thinning. They'd traded the horse in for some much-needed gold coins at the last village, as managing Evrard was difficult enough. At night there were barely any trees to take cover under, and Gray spent a lot of his time muttering under his breath about bandits on the road. Fires were a thing of the past, and it was definitely, undeniably, growing colder. Rory spent the nights huddled under his cloak, trying not to shiver and trying not to think of sharing Gray's body warmth.

They had reached a shaky truce, but there was no indication that Gray intended to touch him again, never mind kiss him. Rory, his anger gone, only had to wrestle with his own disappointment.

Today, the sun was shining more brightly, no longer covered by grayish blankets of clouds, and Rory tipped his head back, letting the sunshine and warmth fall across his face. The road curved and bent around and Rory caught a glance of something sparkling and silver out of the corner of his eye as Evrard trotted around the bend.

"What's that?" Rory asked, pointing to the flashes shining in the midday sun.

"Water? A river? Maybe a lake?" Gray answered. He had been less taciturn, but Rory also discovered that didn't mean he wanted to chat incessantly. He was still a quiet, introspective man. And Rory, who'd always believed he wanted a mate as everlastingly talkative as himself, discovered there was an unexpected peace to be found in a comfortable silence.

"We should go see," Rory said, because he was a little bored. Too many long days and quiet nights, with nothing to see or do, until he was actively fighting against the impulse to create some sort of entertaining diversion. He had a feeling that wouldn't be very well-received by either Gray or Evrard.

"Go see a river?" Gray questioned. "Why?"

"It's an excellent idea," Evrard said with an annoyed sniff. "My nose is exceptionally sensitive and you both could use an application of water everywhere."

Rory blushed. Maybe that was why Gray hadn't moved to kiss him again. But then he thought better of it, because surely Gray smelled just as bad as he did.

Gray contemplated this suggestion for a long moment. Finally, he capitulated. "It's warmer today too, which means we won't freeze to death trying to get clean for Evrard's overly touchy nose," Gray said, directing his comment towards Rory.

Without prompting from Gray, Evrard turned off the road, and after picking their way through the forest and the downed trees, emerged on the shores of a small mountain lake sparkling in the bright sunshine.

Rory dismounted, followed by Gray, and approached the water. Dipping a finger in, he found it cold, but not unbearably so. They had extra blankets they had picked up in one of the last villages, to protect against the colder nights at a higher altitude, so they'd be able to dry off properly.

To Rory's surprise, Gray didn't even bother testing the water. Just stripped off his stained shirt, yanking it out of his breeches, and then leaned over to begin unlacing his boots.

In Rory's fantasies, the first time he saw Gray completely naked hadn't been at a relatively chilly lake with Evrard as an unwelcome supervisor. The romantic streak in him protested strongly, but Rory decided that in this particular situation, practicalities outweighed silly fancies. He pulled his cloak off, setting it on a nearby rock, and then turned his attention to the rest of the clothing he was wearing. But it turned out it wasn't only romantic illusions, but an unforeseen shyness that was preventing him from simply stripping himself bare. He unlaced his boots, but after pulling them off, made no other movements to undress.

"Don't worry," Gray's deep voice rumbled out. "There's nobody else around."

But you're around, Rory thought helplessly. You're who I'm agonizing over.

"I shall go provide a lookout," Evrard said, trotting back from where they'd come. Rory couldn't help but think that Evrard, despite all his many flaws, was actually attempting to generously leave them alone for a short time.

Alone and naked.

"Right, of course. There's nobody around." Rory glanced up and wished that Gray would stop watching him. But while he wasn't staring necessarily, Gray's gaze kept straying to where Rory was toying with the ties on the oversized tunic he'd been wearing.

As for Gray himself, he'd stripped down to his smallclothes, which looked very small indeed, cupping a pair of muscular buttocks and . . . Rory blushed again. Had Gray's cock grown hard at just the thought of Rory undressing? If that was the case, then maybe there was less to be worried about than Rory had previously assumed.

Gray tucked a finger under the waistband of his smallclothes and shot Rory a hot look. "Do I need to get naked alone?" he asked.

Rory gulped, and pulled off his tunic, the cool air rushing across his suddenly heated skin.

"Better," Gray said in a teasing tone and then turned towards the lake, pulling his smallclothes down, leaving them in a puddle on the ground with the rest of his clothes, and leaving Rory with an excellent view of a very excellent butt. Rory stared, because he could not help himself. Gray was magnificent; broad-shouldered with ridges of muscles on his back leading to narrow hips and that marvelously sculpted ass. He didn't want to just look, he wanted to touch, but before he could work up the nerve to say any of that, Gray took off at a run, launching himself into the lake at nearly full speed. He came up from the water dripping, his hair sleek against his skull, and so beautiful that Rory's throat went dry.

"You coming?" Gray teased again.

God, he wanted to. More than anything.

Maybe if Gray hadn't been staring at him so intently, his gaze burning across his skin, he would have felt the chill as he stripped down the rest of the way, but Rory couldn't feel anything but heat.

"Come, jump in, it's too cold to do it gradually," Gray encouraged as Rory approached the lake, his cock bobbing with each step he took. Don't be embarrassed, he told himself firmly, Gray was hard too. You're attracted to each other. It's normal.

But it wasn't all that normal for Rory. He'd kissed a few cute boys at the court of Beaulieu, but none of them had interested him particularly. He'd definitely never been interested in going further, in touching them the way he touched himself at night.

Now, Rory wanted everything—and he wanted it so much, even though he didn't have any idea how to go about getting it. He'd read plenty of erotic texts, of course, but none of them had ever described bathing together with the man you longed for in a cold mountain lake, with the King of the Unicorns standing watch only a few feet away.

"Rory," Gray said again, and Rory didn't think he'd imagined the pleading note in his tone.

Making the choice in a split second, Rory didn't let himself hold back as he matched the speed and path that Gray had taken, the cold water hitting him in a breathless rush.

He was sure he looked far less attractive than Gray had when he came up, spluttering and cursing in every language he knew at how bitterly freezing the water truly was.

"You'll get used to it," Gray told him with a grin, as he floated onto his back and started to swim, his arms cutting powerfully through the water.

"I don't think so," Rory said, his teeth chattering.

In the water, with his hair wet and dark, Gray's eyes were an otherworldly blue, and as he swam closer, Rory was transfixed by them. "I think so," Gray retorted softly. And somehow, he wasn't wrong, because the closer Gray came, the warmer Rory felt, like the heat between them was impossibly raising the temperature of the water.

"See?" Gray said. "It's better."

It was, but Rory was desperate to be even warmer still. He reached out and braced a hand against Gray's shoulder. His wet skin was slick and smooth under his fingertips, the muscle sliding easily under all that softness. "You're . . ." For someone who spoke so many languages, finding the words to describe how stunning Gray was like this—wet and naked and kind—was surprisingly difficult.

"Believe me," Gray said dryly, "the feeling is mutual."

Rory glanced down at his pale skin, gleaming white in the sun, and at his much scrawnier arms and chest. It seemed impossible that Gray might be as transfixed by him as Rory was by Gray. But then, Gray couldn't seem to tear his eyes away. He reached out and tucked a stray, wet curl behind Rory's ear. "They talk of your beauty for several kingdoms in every direction," Gray said softly, "and before, I never understood why, but I do now."

Even though the water was freezing, there was nothing Rory wanted more than to lean in and kiss Gray, but after how the last kiss had gone, the next one was going to have to be Gray's choice.

Digging his fingertips into Gray's shoulder, Rory floated closer, and hoped that was the last bit of encouragement Gray needed. It should be Gray's decision, yes, but that didn't mean Rory couldn't make any attempts to convince him. "Thank you," he said softly, his gaze falling again to Gray's lips.

"I keep trying to remember you're a prince," Gray finally said, the last inches closing between them, his eyes growing ridiculously bluer, "but to me, you're always just Rory."

Gray leaned in and kissed him then, gently and softly, like he wasn't quite sure Rory wouldn't turn him down after all. Rory's heart was thumping painfully, his skin prickling with heat, and now that Gray had given in, Rory could indulge in all the fantasies he'd considered from the first moment he'd seen the lake.

He pulled Gray closer, one hand reaching out to meet the other behind Gray's neck, his fingers sliding wetly across his skin. Tilting his head, Rory deepened the kiss, and as Gray's heartbeat accelerated against his chest, Rory wrapped his legs around Gray's much sturdier frame. Rory's cock, which had softened in the cool water, hardened almost instantly when it felt the brush of Gray's own.

Gray wrenched his mouth from Rory's. He was breathing hard, his pupils dilated with arousal, but he didn't push Rory away, he just stared at him. "You really want this," he said, like he couldn't quite believe it.

It was insanity because Rory had wanted Gray desperately from the very first moment he'd ever seen him—sweaty and dirty and with his hair falling in his eyes. He couldn't really understand it, but the poets had always spoken of attraction and desire and love as undefinable and illogical, and so Rory, experiencing these emotions for nearly the first time, wanted nothing more than to throw himself straight into the deep end.

"I've always wanted this, I just didn't know it," Rory confessed.

It was all the motivation Gray needed to kiss him again, and this time when Rory moved against him, hesitatingly at first, and then with growing confidence, Gray moved with him. It wasn't perfect, the slide of wet cock against wet cock, the lubrication of the lake water somewhat lacking, but it felt so good that Rory could hardly care. He'd never done this before, had never done anything more than touch himself, and he'd always believed the rapturous descriptions in the texts he'd read must be exaggerations, because nothing could ever feel that good, but this did. It felt so good, so right, so flawlessly perfect that Rory now understood why people would kill for it, would conquer kingdoms for it, would betray their own honor for it. He'd do anything right now, in this moment, for Gray to keep kissing him and touching him, and making those infuriatingly little gasps into his mouth as the pleasure began to overtake him.

Rory didn't even try to make it last, he hurtled headfirst as fast as he could, greedy and desperate, and Gray followed right behind, exploding with a deep, life-altering groan right after Rory's brain went bright and blinding with his own orgasm.

As his heartbeat slowly returned to its normal state, Rory still didn't let go of Gray. He pressed a single kiss to Gray's collarbone and opened his eyes to a world that was exactly the same, but somehow felt brand new.

"So that's what it's like," Rory said wonderingly.

Gray tensed. "You . . . you hadn't . . . with anybody?" he asked with trepidation.

"I hadn't really wanted to before," Rory confessed. "Is that okay?" He was suddenly worried, even though nothing he'd ever read stated you were supposed to make that fact explicitly clear. Maybe he had somehow made a mistake, and Gray wished he'd known. Would he have pushed Rory away? Was it unattractive to not have any experience? Inexperience was always a challenge, but he'd read the texts, hadn't he? Rory knew all the mechanics; he'd hardly consider himself ignorant.

"It's . . ." Gray hesitated again.

"I'm sorry," Rory said impulsively. "But truthfully I'm not very sorry at all."

Suddenly, a grin broke out over Gray's face, and it changed him. Made him brighter, softer, somehow. And Rory was captivated all over again.

"I'm not very sorry at all, either," Gray finally said. "I didn't mean to, and then I did. It's hard to keep looking at you, and riding with you and talking to you, and stay away. I couldn't do it."

Rory nuzzled against the damp skin at his neck. He smelled like Gray—like pine forests and warm earth and herbs.

"I didn't even try," Rory confessed, and Gray laughed again.

"We should really wash up," Gray said. "Evrard can't possibly be expected to stand guard forever."

Rory nodded, even though the last thing he wanted was to let go. But it wasn't really letting go, Rory reasoned, because he'd already decided that nothing, even Gray's own frustrating tendencies, could make him do that.