25. Hector

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

HECTOR

M y head pounded. The sunlight peeking through tent flaps might've been warm and golden, but to my eyes, it cut sharp and quick. I groaned, flipping onto my back and?—

I was alone. Yes, I'd been covered in blankets I recognized from Killian's own bedroll, but he was nowhere to be found.

When I sat up and shifted the drapes aside to peer outside, I saw I wasn't the only one amongst the Crane who'd slept in, but clearly, it was well past time to wake up.

Smacking my lips against the sour taste on my tongue, I scowled around camp. People were already eating, the large cauldron set out for everyone to come and get their portion.

Just like the night before, the Cranes sat apart from the others. And—yes, there, sitting on the ground with his back to me, was Killian.

His shoulders were stiff, even the tilt of his neck seeming angry.

Then, the night came back to me.

We'd drank so much mead. It was deceptively sweet, and I hadn't realized how strong it was until it was too late. The world was spinning. Orestes's laughter was loud and booming.

Killian had slipped away to relieve himself, and I'd followed him. I'd caught him on the way back, grabbed his arm, and kissed him.

Even standing in the middle of camp the next morning, a tingling feeling warmed my lips. I'd kissed him like I'd meant to devour him. I'd clung to him so tight he couldn't pull away.

Still, he was taller than me. He'd broken the kiss, and I'd made a sound like a wounded creature.

"Killian—" I whined.

Stiffly, he shook his head. "Not tonight."

"Yes, tonight." I tugged at his wrist like I could pull him into me, but he stood firm. "Fuck me. Just once, and I won't ask again."

"Won't you?"

I hadn't known what to say then, because I was lying and we both knew it. I wanted more, and that wasn't going to change. So I kissed him again. His teeth were sharp against my lip and—yes, the next morning, probing my bottom lip with my tongue, it was still swollen.

"Hector"—I could still feel the honey-sweet hiss of his whisper against my ear when he turned his head, the dizziness of not knowing how he'd gotten his mouth away from mine—"you're drunk."

"Not so drunk." His skin beneath his shirt had been smooth and warm. I'd felt his breath hitch beneath my palm. "And it doesn't matter. Drunk or sober, I always want you. Drunk, I'm just bold enough to say it."

Killian had narrowed his eyes skeptically. "And it has nothing to do with your sister's Avianitis?"

I'd drawn back, stricken, because... well, it did. I wanted to know. Either I'd die and know for certain that I wasn't made the same as my siblings, or I wouldn't, and I would never again have to doubt that I belonged.

With my luck, perhaps nothing at all would happen. I'd be neither dead nor truly Nemedan, and I'd get the bitter satisfaction of proving Killian wrong. Love did factor after all.

Right then, with his expression shuttered, feeling already like I'd been scolded, I had sorely wanted to prove him wrong.

"I do not need such an economical reason to want you."

"But you have one," he'd countered. "Come on."

After that, I had a vague sense of flickering firelight and a cup in my hands. I remembered a cool bloom in my chest at the first gulp of water, and I may have pouted and groused.

"Hector!" Paris was calling for me, waving his hand from his seat on the ground. "Get your bowl and come join us."

At least I didn't have to face Killian that very moment, and I was grateful for it. Nevertheless, when I sat, Paris leaned over to look at the gathering of Cranes.

"Won't Killian join us?"

Brett frowned, squeezing my brother's knee. "His feathers got ruffled at the meeting yesterday. He probably doesn't want to subject us to his foul mood."

"His . . . fowl mood?" Helena snorted.

Paris groaned and wrinkled his nose.

"I think..." I bit the edge of my tongue. No, I couldn't tell them that I'd plucked at Killian's feathers too, but I felt a rising need to defend him. "Foul or fowl, any one of us would be upset to have a friend taken from our sides, to say nothing of the insult of being mistrusted by the people he protects."

Minerva arched a brow. Of everyone gathered, she was the only one who'd faced the wall and the war, day after day, for her whole life. I had no ground to stand on, challenging her about the reality of it. "Orestes has served his year on the wall ten times over. He'll either stay until it kills him, or he'll have to find a way to live without it."

I... hadn't thought about it like that. Sure, I knew that war was dangerous. People died.

So far, it'd hit me in an abstract way. Yes, I'd killed an enemy, but I didn't know their name. I hadn't grown to know them or miss them in my life when they were gone.

No doubt someone missed the man I'd killed.

Suddenly, I wanted to drag not only Orestes, but every Nemedan off the wall. We'd leave the war to the southerners and let them tear themselves apart if they wanted.

It might not be that simple, but I wished it was.

The worst thing was, no weapon I could craft for Killian would ever give him what he truly needed: peace.

Still, I owed him an apology. I could give him that much and hope that it was enough to make up for making a fool of myself last night.

Gods, I'd pushed myself on him so wantonly, even knowing that he didn't want that. Killian had no obligation to prove to me that I was or was not part of my own family—that I was or was not Nemedan enough for him or his people.

It'd be all too easy to convince myself that was the only reason that I'd thrown myself at him, to prove a point, but a horrible, twisted nausea in the pit of my stomach said that was the least of my desperation.

I wanted him; my desire was that simple.

I wanted Killian to smile my way and mean it—yes, because he thought me clever, but even when he didn't. I wanted to make him proud and keep him safe and hear every quiet moan that slipped through his controlled facade.

However much I hoped that I'd replaced one need to serve with another, I couldn't fool myself. The moments I was happiest with him, felt the most myself, weren't when he was grateful for something I had done, but when he rested his head on his bent arm and traced my hip with the lightest touch. The way he looked at me then, it was like he saw me beyond what I could do for him.

If I thought that, I was a fool. That wasn't how relationships worked. Everything was give and take, measured in favors and skills and?—

I met Paris's eye, and his smile turned soft.

Helena was talking about the texts of the south that the Raven Clan had written back when they still explored beyond the borders of Nemeda, but I hadn't been listening.

Even now, her voice was hazy behind the stark revelations coming over me all at once.

Never in my life had I expected Paris to do anything for me or prove his worth so that I could love him. I simply did.

Catching Helena's gaze next, it was like the earth had opened beneath me. No, I thought as she cocked her head curiously, there wasn't a thing she needed to do to earn my devotion.

Service—that was just the standard I held myself to. I didn't hold anyone else to it. Gods, any time they were generous with me, I took it as criticism, as if my kindhearted siblings thought I wasn't up to the tasks before me.

It was absurd. They were kind because they were kind; it had nothing at all to do with my failings. Impossible as it was to believe, there might not be anything wrong with me at all.

Except that there was. I wanted more than I said I did, pressed Killian when he had been clear, and threw myself into solving surface problems while ignoring deeper ones.

"Hector?" Helena's foot slipped out across the ground to nudge mine. "Are you all right?"

"Yes."

She arched her brow like she didn't believe it.

"I love you," I blurted out.

Her brow puckered and she laughed. "I love you too. But are you sure you're fine? You're in a strange mood."

I shook my head. "Just reflective. There's, ah—" I glanced across the gathering, to the stark silver hair that reflected the warm morning sun. "There's something I need to take care of. Could you return this?" I held up my bowl.

Paris, closer to me, took it. "No problem," he said, beaming.

For a moment, I could only stare, dumbfounded at him. He was far too happy to?—

Fuck. To do me a favor. I'd asked for something so simple, and it had made him feel needed. For so long, I'd tried to do everything I could for both of them and this was what it took to make him happy?

I was a fool.

"Thank you." I stood, flexing my fingers. Even then, I wanted to snatch the bowl back and say I'd take it myself and that he had nothing to worry about, but even I could recognize that was absurd.

Paris bit his lip and tilted his head toward the Crane Clan. "You had something you needed to do?"

"Yes. Right. Yes. Um, excuse me." I dipped in something like a bow before Minerva and Brett, and turned away.

All the way through camp, I was sure I stuck out like a peacock, or one of those damned geese from Urial, squawking for everyone to see. Not a head turned toward me, but I was sure everyone could see me about to make a fool of myself.

The closer I got to Killian, the slower I got. What if I'd already ruined everything? He had to see now that I still wanted more than what he'd offered. Perhaps just knowing that would make it impossible for us to continue, which was a prospect that made me wish to never speak to him again, if only to hold us in this stasis where something between us was still possible.

But no—no I was not the kind of man who wheedled and pressed and ignored the boundaries of someone I cared for without taking accountability. If I'd ruined everything between us, fine, but I wouldn't let it go without comment.

Behind Killian, I paused to take a deep breath and steel my nerves.

The shirt he wore wrapped around him one way, then the other, secured with a tie at his waist. If he needed to fly, it'd be all too easy to shed it and leap to the sky. Most Nemedan clothes were like that—not mine.

For weeks, I'd appreciated how easy they made it to access his skin. Now, my hand shook to touch his shoulder and the delicate cloth draped over it. Would it be the last time?

At the touch, Killian looked up at me, eyes wide and—and I couldn't tell what was behind them. I jerked my hand back.

"Killian, may I have a word?"