13

Cyrus bolted through the woods, feet crushing the pine needles scattered on the ground. Blood seeped from a wound on his side. His breath escaped in quick gasps, lungs burning. He gripped his unsheathed blade. North. He had to keep heading north.

Greyson, he thought. I have to get to Greyson. Danger was coming for him, and Cyrus had to warn him.

Feet pounding on the ground, he broke into a clearing—a clearing he recognized. As he glanced around, his heart thrashed against his ribs. He was still some distance from the village. There was a sharp, stabbing sensation with each breath, but Cyrus refused to let it deter him. Greyson needed him. He continued north, racing across the old battlefield.

A gasp came from behind him. Whirling around, he caught a flash of black hair and a slight form before a cloud of magic encased him. Agony tore him apart, shredding his mind, as darkness circled. His last conscious thought was of Greyson and the danger circling him.

Cyrus shot up; sweat soaked his clothes and the sheets beneath him. His eyes darted around the cabin. Greyson had left earlier this morning, alone, as the weather was cold and he didn't want Cyrus to get sick. Panic flared in his chest. Greyson was in trouble.

Leaping out of bed, Cyrus ran out of the cabin without a second thought. He paused when his bare feet slammed into the cold dirt. He took a second to put on his boots, then raced into the woods.

He tore over the ground, searching the pine trees for any sign of Greyson's passing. He had to find Greyson. Cyrus didn't know what danger threatened him, but he wouldn't allow anyone to hurt him. His boots slid on the wet ground, but Cyrus kept running, ignoring the freezing cold that nipped at his skin. He would not stop until he found Greyson.

Cyrus didn't know how much time passed or even where he was, but the ice that coursed in his veins would not abate. His head whipped in each direction, but he saw nothing except trees. Not knowing where to go, he started north when several things happened almost at once. A deer scampered away, and at the same instant, an arrow whizzed past him, sinking into a tree trunk with a loud thud.

"Are you insane?" a voice yelled. "I almost shot you!"

Rustling sounded as Greyson appeared from behind a bush. The second Cyrus saw him, something in his stomach relaxed. Greyson kept yelling, but he didn't care. Cyrus walked straight up to Greyson, who continued to shout, red-faced, but he ignored it. He clamped onto the back of Greyson's neck, dragged his face down, and kissed him.

As Cyrus' lips touched his, something snapped in his head. The simple touch seemed to create a disconnect between his brain and body. Greyson stood there, stock-still, as Cyrus held the back of his neck, kissing him fervently.

Greyson broke away, gripping Cyrus' shoulders. Cyrus didn't stop him, but he searched Greyson's face like he was looking for something. Greyson stared at Cyrus, his breath coming out quickly while his heart thudded loudly in his ears. Cyrus returned his look, face void of expression as his grasp remained tight on the back of Greyson's neck. Not knowing why, Greyson brushed his lips against Cyrus' mouth.

Cyrus kissed him back, frantically. One of Cyrus' calloused hands stroked Greyson's cheek while the other slipped into his hair, gripping him tightly. Greyson clasped Cyrus' back, holding him as close as possible. He had no idea what he was doing, but it did not feel weird. Truthfully, it felt good.

He calmed the frenzied movements until Greyson slowly caressed his full lips. Cyrus' hand loosened on his hair as he returned the kiss, gently and fully. Greyson's tongue flicked out, tasting Cyrus, who opened his mouth. When their tongues mingled, Greyson moaned, and Cyrus pressed against him. Cyrus' fingers slipped from Greyson's face and gripped the front of his shirt.

The kiss slowed, becoming almost achingly perfect. Greyson cupped Cyrus' cheeks before moving back a fraction, breath harsh. Cyrus smiled. Greyson lowered once more and brushed a lingering kiss on his lips, then shifted back. His fingertips skimmed over Cyrus' face as Greyson studied him.

What am I doing?he thought.

Greyson could not take his eyes off Cyrus. Never in their entire acquaintance had he thought of Cyrus in a romantic sense. Now, the very sight of his sky-blue eyes made Greyson's heart pound while his arms ached to hold him.

Unable to stop himself, Greyson pressed one last kiss on Cyrus' full lips, then he stroked Cyrus' cheek. "What happened?"

Quickly, the story about the dream poured out. Brow furrowed, Greyson listened. It seemed it was about Cyrus' memories being stolen. Absent-mindedly, his arms went around Cyrus, crossing over the small of his back. Someone had wiped his mind. Greyson had figured it was the work of magic, but now, he knew for certain.

"Could you recognize the person if you saw them again?"

"No," Cyrus said. "All I saw was a flash of black hair."

Scoffing, he said, "That won't help." Pretty much everyone in the Griseo Mountains had black or dark brown hair.

Cyrus jostled him. "You're in danger."

Greyson was always in danger. The emperor had placed a bounty on his head when the rebellion started and he became the face of it. As far as he knew, the bounty was still in effect, an incentive for him to remain in exile, though his staying here hadn't hindered some people or their desire for money.

He'd been attacked by several entrepreneurial bounty hunters who wanted to force him out of the Griseo Mountains and claim the reward. On two separate occasions, he'd been attacked but had managed to escape before they could abscond with him.

"I'll be fine," he replied, not worried in the slightest.

Expression darkening, Cyrus' eyebrows scrunched together to form a slash across his forehead. "I will not allow anyone to hurt you."

Swallowing, Greyson tried to fight against the sudden emotions that cascaded through him. No one had ever tried to protect him. He always stood at the front lines, shielding others. Also, that expression reminded him of the old Cyrus, which oddly enough didn't bother him.

"Thank you."

With a wide grin, Cyrus said, "Of course. Let's go home."

Greyson stretched out on the floor next to the fire with an arm around Cyrus. Cyrus' fingers traced Greyson's shirt while they rested, side-by-side, not speaking. The sun had set some time ago, and the fire crackled, warming the cabin. Greyson rubbed Cyrus' arm, the thick fabric soft under his skin, as his thoughts raced in hundred different ways.

The main thing Greyson fixated on was the fact he'd kissed Cyrus, multiple times. His enemy. Golden boy of the capital. Nephew of the emperor. And Greyson had kissed him. Not just that, he'd enjoyed it. Even now, he thought about doing it again.

Cyrus snuggled closer, nuzzling Greyson's chest. Greyson placed a kiss on his blonde hair, inhaling his scent—the pine fragrance of their soap. His arms tightened around Cyrus' solid frame.

What am I doing?he thought for the thousandth time. This could not happen. They could not happen. Yet here in the peaceful darkness of his home, Greyson wanted to believe it was possible.

Cyrus rubbed his chest. "Were we ever like this?"

His hand stilled on Cyrus' arm. "No."

Nodding, Cyrus leaned up on his elbow, hovering over Greyson. "I like this." As Cyrus' fingertips touched the edge of his scar, Greyson shifted to the side. "What's wrong?"

"I don't like people touching my scar," he stated, voice tight. Cyrus was the one who'd given him that scar, years ago, during the first battle of the short rebellion.

Slowly, gaze intent on Greyson's face, Cyrus skimmed his fingers along the scar. Greyson swallowed, pulse-quickening, and closed his eyes. Cyrus kept running his fingertips over the scar, up and down, until Greyson completely relaxed.

"Do you want me to stop?" Cyrus asked.

"No."

A breathy laugh came from above him, but he didn't open his eyes. He could feel Cyrus shift against him before warm lips met the tip of the scar, right above Greyson's cheekbone. With every touch, Greyson tensed, his skin too tight and over-sensitive.

Cyrus kissed up his scar. When Cyrus reached the top, just above his eyebrow, he murmured, lips brushing his skin, "I won't hurt you." Then he continued to place whisper-soft kisses along his scar.

When Cyrus stopped, Greyson asked, "What's wrong?"

Cyrus hovered above him, expression serious. "I don't want to remember."

His brow furrowed. "What?"

"I don't want to remember."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to go back to a time when you and I weren't like this," Cyrus said, motioning between them.

Greyson didn't know what to say, so he cradled Cyrus in his arms.

As the night deepened, he could not stop thinking about what Cyrus said. Greyson stared at the dark ceiling as Cyrus sprawled on his chest, asleep. The bed was soft, the cabin warm, but he couldn't fall asleep even when he lay on his side.

Cyrus' words plagued him. Would Cyrus, the real Cyrus, choose this? Choose him? Greyson highly doubted it.

He tightened his arms around Cyrus. Greyson didn't want to give this, him, up. Pressing a kiss to the top of Cyrus' head, he had to do what was right for Cyrus, even if the very thought tore his heart out.