22. Killian

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

KILLIAN

I had another day of inspections, and I was dreading it. I should have been grateful for the respite from my office, but suddenly, everything that wasn't lying in bed with Hector seemed like too much work. Too much distraction from what was really important.

From deep, soulful brown eyes, feverish in their intensity as they looked on something he found fascinating. The forge. His bolt thrower. His meticulous sketches of his work. My body.

I did not sigh like a schoolboy after him.

It wasn't as though I was in love.

Love still wasn't real.

Right?

The pull I felt in my chest when Hector tumbled into my bed, clean and exhausted after his long workday and bath, begged to differ. The only thing I wanted in the entire world was to climb into bed next to him and pull him close.

For fucking? Sure, of course I wanted to fuck him. But also, I wanted to talk to him about his day. Hear him talk about logistical issues involved in making a hundred bolt throwers, and how the others who were working with him in the smithy were competent enough, but they didn't understand his vision of how things would work. Well, except Abram, who was always a bright spot in every story, which was no surprise at all.

Something about listening to him was soothing in a way I'd never experienced before. I didn't have the slightest urge to give him solutions to his issues, because he had them well in hand and didn't need me to fix anything for him. It was just that I didn't need to work at all with him, and it was...

Well, it was new. I could just be with him.

He didn't ask about my work, only about me, giving me the opening to speak on it if I wanted to, but... I didn't. It wasn't as though my work was interesting, like his. Doing figures, filling out forms, writing letters, doing inspections... The most interesting thing I did was guard the wall, and even that hadn't been terribly interesting lately, which I was grateful for.

When my job was boring it was good for everyone, and that was the way I liked it.

Hector's work was fascinating. I wasn't envious, precisely, since I had never been mechanically inclined. I'd done a yearlong apprenticeship in the smithy in my teens, so that I would know how things were supposed to go there and could properly do the job if I needed to, but I wasn't terribly interested in going back. It was far more fun to listen to Hector talk about how fascinating it was, than to do it myself.

I wished I could spend my days doing something that captured my attention and passions the way the smithy had done for Hector.

But what?

Nemedan history said that my great-great-great grandfather had been a painter of no small renown, specializing in a style where one pressed the brush to the paper and didn't lift it until the image was finished. It sounded like magic to me—nearly impossible, but for the fact that I knew he'd done it. I didn't know why that even surprised me, as his own grandmother had been the genius who had created the great crane that was the focal point of the palace.

My clan had lost a great deal when the war with the south had started. Sometimes, I wondered if my ancestors would be ashamed of what their family had become.

"Stop that," Hector murmured, tapping me on the nose. He'd turned toward me, still naked, just loosely wrapped up in my sheets, looking like temptation personified.

I lifted a brow at him.

"You're thinking about things that make you sad. I can see it all over your face." He leaned up and kissed me, trying to wipe the sadness off me, and as always, he was quite successful.

Who could think about misery when they were being kissed by a beautiful, clever, exceptional man? Not me.

So I gave in, falling into Hector. Spending the evening holding him, kissing him, listening to him talk about his work.

It was more settled, more satisfied, than I'd ever been with my life before.

Somehow, that glow of satisfaction lasted right into the next morning, even as I dressed and parted ways with Hector at the smithy door, heading toward the wall to do my inspections. It even lasted on the jog up the flights of stairs to the top.

Then at the door, a loud voice grabbed my attention.

"—pretty sure he'd give that Urial-Hawk the palace if he asked for it." The tone was knowing, amused, an implied wink-and-nudge.

"Probably," another agreed. "Never seen the Great Crane in love before. No wonder he's taking him to the clan meeting. Can't bear to be parted for even a week."

Every muscle in my body froze.

Me.

They were talking about me, and about Hector.

And about how I was acting, like a lovesick ass.

"It's good," a third voice interrupted, and I recognized Viola's deep feminine tones. "It's been too long since Killian was happy. No one I can think of who deserves it more. But Hector's not a Urial-Hawk anymore. He's one of us. Maybe even a Crane, all the work he's put into defending the wall."

"Fair enough, that," the first man agreed, and the ice inside me started to thaw. "That bolt thrower is something else. Orestes used it last night to destroy a tower. Smashed it to splinters right there. Suppose if Lord Killian were going to fall in love, it would have to be with someone as clever as him."

I leaned against the wall, simply breathing for a moment. I'd never been naive enough to think the people didn't talk about me when I wasn't there, but I had also never put much time into considering what they might say. I did my job, and I'd always assumed that would be enough.

And now, Hector was doing his job, a better job than I'd ever imagined anyone doing in the smithy.

It turned out that it was more than enough. When I headed out onto the wall, none of my morning's joy had evaporated at all.