11

When they entered the one-room cabin, Cyrus sighed, shoulders slumping. Night had fallen a couple of hours ago and with it the temperature. Water dripped off his hair, sliding down his cheeks. Wet clothes clung to his frame and chilled him to the bone. The trip back to Drakcombe had been as cold as the journey to Creekside. The only time he'd felt warm was when he and Greyson curled next to the fire under the blankets.

This time had been worse for one glaring reason—it had started to rain about an hour ago.

Greyson immediately started a fire as Cyrus huddled near him. When the fire burst into life, heat rushed over him, almost hurting in its warmth. Greyson scowled, two lines deeply etched between his eyebrows. Cyrus ached to trace the divots, to feel the smoothness of his skin, to ease the tension.

"Your lips are blue," Greyson said, frowning even more deeply.

Cyrus would have answered, but his teeth wouldn't stop chattering.

Greyson took off Cyrus' soaking-wet cloak, then ordered, "Take off your boots and clothes."

Shaking, Cyrus moved to comply. The moment his wet clothes were off, Greyson whisked them away, hanging them up to dry, then draped a thick blanket from the bed over his shoulders. Cyrus nodded his thanks, but he didn't know if Greyson noticed because he rushed around the cabin, taking his own cloak off and emptying the bags.

Towel in hand, Greyson briskly rubbed it over Cyrus' hair. Shivers continued to wrack his body, but Cyrus grinned and leaned into the touch, pleased, even if it made Greyson grumble the entire time about nursemaids.

"I swear," Greyson growled, "if you get sick, I'm not taking care of you."

Cyrus smiled because he knew it was a lie.

Continuing to mutter under his breath, Greyson stripped off his own clothes and boots, then stuck the kettle on the flames before sitting across from Cyrus in nothing but his undershorts. Cyrus stared at Greyson, who dried his shoulder-length black hair.

He'd seen Greyson without clothes on before, but he'd never really gotten a chance to closely examine him. He took in Greyson's lean muscles, tracing the lines. The smattering of dark hair on his chest trailed down his stomach. The strength of his arm and hands. Two long scars stretched over his right side and a burn marred his left shoulder.

Stomach warm and fluttery, Cyrus stared at the scars. He wanted to touch them, feel them beneath his fingertips, and ask where they came from. That thought made him look at Greyson's face and the long scar that went through his right eyebrow to the top of his cheekbone, blinding him. Cyrus itched to touch it. To kiss the length of it. His breath became sharp as a tingling sensation began near the base of his skull and his heartbeat accelerated.

Greyson stood, startling Cyrus. Either Greyson hadn't noticed his blatant staring or he simply didn't care. With a thick cloth, Greyson lifted the beat-up kettle off the flames, then poured it into a teapot before sitting again.

"Are you warming up sufficiently or do you need another blanket?" Greyson asked, carefully adding the loose tea leaves to the teapot.

Clearing his throat, Cyrus said, "I'm fine. I can finally feel my toes."

Immediately, Greyson's gaze shot to Cyrus' feet. "You should've told me that earlier." Greyson grabbed his feet, inspecting them. Cyrus couldn't stop the blush that raced to his face.

"Do they hurt?"

"No," he choked out as Greyson continued to examine one foot, then the next before letting them go and readjusting the blanket over them.

"Next time, tell me immediately. You could lose a toe if your feet get wet, then freeze." Greyson strode to the sink and washed his hands before sitting next to the fireplace again.

Cyrus didn't know what to say, so he silently watched Greyson as he drank a cup of tea, smiling softly as he obviously enjoyed the beverage.

"Have you always liked tea?" Cyrus asked.

"Yes. I grew up drinking it. Didn't you?"

"How would I know?"

Mouth falling open for a second, Greyson snapped it closed. "Of course."

"I don't suppose you know?"

"No," Greyson replied, eyes shifting to the side. "We never really discussed it."

"And you didn't know that I don't like tea."

Greyson scoffed. "It never came up."

Cyrus" lips pursed as Greyson placed the teapot and cup in the kitchen and braced himself against the counter, back toward him.

"Are we really friends?"

"What a question." Greyson didn't even glance in his direction.

"Greyson, are we friends?" Cyrus needed to know the answer to that question.

"Yes."

"Okay." Cyrus focused on Greyson's tight back and his hands that gripped the edge of the counter. "I trust you."

"I know." Greyson turned around, eyes shifting around the cabin, looking anywhere besides Cyrus. He wanted to question Greyson, to demand a more definite answer, but he didn't, afraid of the response he would receive.

Deciding to let the matter go, Cyrus said, "Tell me a story."

"What?" Greyson asked, mouth agape.

Cyrus huddled next to the crackling fire and repeated, "Tell me a story."

Greyson sat in front of him."What kind of story?"

"Anything."

"Alright." Greyson focused on the fire, brow wrinkling in thought. Cyrus drew his knees to his chest and waited. Finally, Greyson began to speak. "I will tell you how the Griseo Mountains came to be."

Cyrus rested his head on his knees as he listened to the rumble of Greyson's voice.

"It is said that three dragons came from a distant land and made this area their home. The eldest and strongest was Validus. He made a bargain with the humans that lived here. He would help them and teach them the ways of magic if they allowed him and his younger siblings to stay. The humans agreed.

"Validus taught them and protected them from anyone who would do them harm. His younger sister Sarcio healed the humans and taught them all she knew of herblore. Both easily found their place in the new land, making a home. Ferrum, the youngest of the three, did not. He struggled, for humans wanted no part of his magic, necromancy. They saw darkness in it when there was none.

"Years passed, and Ferrum secluded himself from the humans while Validus and Sarcio intermingled with them. As Ferrum made his home on the icy coast, he was the first to see the newcomers. More dragons. Hundreds. They had left their homeland in search of another. Validus welcomed them, but he made it clear that these were his lands and the humans were under his protection. They stayed and made no trouble, integrating with the humans. Eventually, the humans and dragons intermarried, giving birth to the mages.

"As the years continued, one by one, the dragon all fell into a deep slumber. Their bodies became the Griseo Mountains. The most prominent peaks: Ferrum in the west, Sarcio in the east, and Validus in the center. The stories say the dragons could wake again and shake the world."

"You're descended from dragons."

Greyson laughed. "It's a story, Cyrus, nothing more."

Cyrus scooted closer. "I believe it."

"Of course, you do," Greyson said with a quirk of his lips.

The silence stretched between them, only broken by the pops of the fire. It was like a current stretched between them. Cyrus wanted to bridge the gap and snuggle against Greyson, but he didn't know if he should. His eyes flicked to Greyson's lips. I wonder if they're soft. Ever so slowly, he slid closer, but Greyson stood.

Clearing his throat, he said, "We should go to bed, though the extra blankets are wet."

"So?" Cyrus commented. "It's not like we can't share."

With a curt nod, Greyson headed toward the bed, but before he could position himself next to the wall, Cyrus beat him to it.

"What are you doing?"

"What?" Cyrus asked, keeping his eyes wide and innocent.

"Whatever." Greyson sat and readjusted the blanket over them. As he lay down, Greyson rolled onto his right side, facing Cyrus. "You did this on purpose."

Cyrus smirked and settled next to Greyson, warmth surrounding him.

Greyson could not fall asleep. Cyrus was pressed against his chest, arms wrapped about his waist, and his head tucked under Greyson's chin. They'd never slept face-to-face, and he found it a tad suffocating while at the same time, his skin was flushed and his muscles relaxed. He'd never been one to snuggle, even in the past, nor had he ever thought to be in such a situation with Cyrus. Despite that, it was not as bad as he would have guessed. Comfortable, even, if he let himself admit it.

It had been a while since he'd spent this much time with someone, as he was a loner by nature and choice. But right now, he and Cyrus always remained in each other"s company, never separating except for a few hours at most.

Cyrus shifted slightly with a sleepy snort, and Greyson sighed. He should shove Cyrus away but some part of him didn't want to. Unbidden, Elizabeth's words came back to him. Could Cyrus like him? He scoffed. No. That was impossible. Besides, Greyson had lied to him, planned to kill him, and they were enemies. If Cyrus suddenly regained his memory while they were like this, he would slay Greyson without hesitation.

Nonetheless, as his arm closed around Cyrus' muscular body, his heart pounded faster. He didn't hate this. Greyson had never been attracted to another man before, not that he thought about it one way or the other. Sex and romance had never been important in his life. He'd never given himself the opportunity to explore. Now was not such a time. Especially with who lay in his arms.

Cyrus carried a pail of water from the well, through the sheets of rain, and toward Widow Abney's home. The old woman leaned heavily on her cane as she stood in the door frame, waiting for him.

"You should have a pump installed like Greyson." He took off his damp cloak and hung it near the fireplace so it would dry before Greyson came to get him.

Widow Abney sat at the table. "I've always carried the water in this way my entire life, and I will continue to do so until I die."

He shook his head, hands stretched toward the flames.

"So," she started, "why aren't you with Greyson today?"

"The rain. He was afraid I would get sick."

She knocked her cane against the floor. "He seems to care for you a great deal."

"He doesn't like to ‘play nursemaid' as he says. Also, we're friends."

"So he says."

His lips pursed. Cyrus opened his mouth, then closed it. He would believe Greyson, for now. Besides, did he actually want to know the truth? Changing the subject, he asked, "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"You're a good boy."

"Thank you."

"It's nothing but the truth."

"Do you need anything?"

"What? Are you anxious to return to your mage?" An odd grin played over the woman's wrinkled face.

"No," he replied. "Greyson said he would come and get me. He explicitly told me, several times, to wait here."

Widow Abney offered him a cookie. "That man is way too overprotective."

Cyrus shrugged, snagging one. He took a bite, and it broke apart in his mouth. Around the sugary treat, he said, "I like it."

"The cookie or his attitude?"

"Both."

"You two are well-suited for each other." She put a kettle on an iron arm, then swung it over the fire.

A sudden flash shone through the window followed by a peal of thunder. Cyrus glanced out, but there wasn't much to see. Rain poured, and it was dark outside. The longer he peered out the window, the more tension built in his chest, suffocating him. Greyson was out in the storm.

"We're friends; of course, we suit each other."

"Hmm."

Thunder rolled as lightning lit the sky and the ground quivered. Cyrus swallowed. Standing, he headed to the window. There was nothing. Just gray darkness. Fingers tapping a rapid tattoo on the sill, he kept watch, waiting.

"You could go look for him."

"I promised him I'd stay here. I'm sure he's fine."

Widow Abney made another non-committal grunt as she walked across the room, her feet and cane thumping with each step. Cyrus didn't pay her any attention as she made tea and kept searching for a glimpse of Greyson.

"Come have some tea," she said a few minutes later, porcelain rattling.

He shook his head. He didn't even like tea. Nothing could tempt him from the window.

A dark figure appeared, steadily heading toward the house. When they got a little bit closer, a flash of lightning arced in the sky right before thunder roared, revealing the figure's face—Greyson.

Cyrus yanked the door open and rushed into the storm. Rain poured down his face as his boots slid in the mud, practically crashing into Greyson. He seized Greyson's arm, the fabric squelching under his fingers, and hauled him inside.

The instant they were out of the rain, he gathered Greyson into his embrace. Tension seeped out of his muscles, and he sagged against Greyson's chest. It was like all the weight had left his body, making him light as a feather.

Greyson did not return the hug and moved out of Cyrus' hold, then closed the door. Water dripped off Greyson, his black hair soaking wet and sticking to his face.

"Are you okay?" Cyrus asked, scouring him for any sign of injury.

"I'm fine," Greyson answered with a scowl.

His expression didn't bother Cyrus in the slightest. He pressed a hand to Greyson's forehead. It felt chilly and damp. Greyson frowned and shifted away from his touch.

"We'll be taking our leave if you don't need anything," Greyson said, looking at Widow Abney.

Her eyes flicked between them. "No. You two best get home with the storm. It'll probably worsen as night falls."

Greyson nodded, then said, "Oh." He removed a dead rabbit out of the bag slung over his shoulder. "I caught this and thought you might like it."

"Thank you. You know rabbit stew is my favorite."

"I do indeed," Greyson said.

Getting to her feet, Widow Abney said, "You two best go."

"I'll see you later," Cyrus said with a wave.

The rain came down in icy sheets and froze him. Cyrus took Greyson's arm as they headed toward the cabin. His boots slid on the muddy path, making it hard for Cyrus to traverse the steep hill. Greyson had to practically drag him while Cyrus struggled to keep up, shivering.

When they finally crested the hill, the cabin came into view, and all Cyrus wanted to do was sit in front of the fire and warm up. Greyson ushered him into the dark cabin, muttering something Cyrus couldn't understand.

"Hang up your clothes," Greyson said.

Cyrus stripped as Greyson started the fire, which dimly lit the house. He tugged off his boots, then padded barefoot across the room. Greyson chucked a towel at him. Cyrus caught it and rubbed his hair.

Greyson took off his wet clothes before pulling on a thick sweater and dry trousers. He dropped another set of clothes next to Cyrus before sinking to the floor. Cyrus held out the towel, and Greyson accepted it, drying his long hair.

"If it's raining tomorrow, you should stay home," Cyrus said, studying his pale face. He didn't want Greyson to get sick; being out in this weather could not be good for him.

"We'll see."

Cyrus frowned.

With a long sigh, Greyson said, "I'm sure I can think of something to do here. Besides, you almost froze simply walking back."

He smiled as an arrow of warmth shot him squarely in the heart.