Meilyr froze.
There was no mistaking the detachment in the prince’s shadowed features. He hadseen.
‘I did not mean to,’ Osian said quietly. ‘I came down because I… was concerned. But I saw you, and…’
Agony striated through Meilyr’s chest, preventing him from speaking. The plants of the tower-top shuddered, no longer from the wind.
‘Were anyone else to see you together,’ Osian continued, ‘and believe it were without my consent, he would be banished, at best. There would be calls for immediate divorce. I would be required to make an example of you according to my station, our union. Do you understand?’
He clearly took no pleasure whatsoever in the words. Quite the opposite.
‘I understand,’ Meilyr said, wretched.
Ithurt, so much. Because Osian knew – he knew, and there was no coming back from that. No unmaking it.
Meilyr’s eyes watered, and he did the only thing he could: knelt, bowing his head. ‘Thank you for sparing our lives, Majesty. I…’
I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.
There was a long pause. Only the sound of the rain as it found the tower-top.
Slowly, Osian approached. His voice was level. ‘I did not mean to cause alarm. I merely meant such things are… safer as secrets.’
Meilyr looked up.
Osian offered his hand – Meilyr took it and pulled himself to his feet. His fingers were so cold Osian’s burned. There was resigned pain, buried deep within the prince. Meilyr could see it, feel it through their bond.
Heartache.
Osian let go and moved towards the stairs.
Meilyr turned after him before he could stop himself. ‘It was only what you saw. I did not, we did not…’
Osian looked at him strangely.
He pushed on. ‘We were intimately involved in the past, but that ended a long time ago. There was no more than – that embrace. I stopped it, and it will not happen again. I do not want it to. So, it will not.’
Osian searched for something in him, but withdrew before he could find it. He descended the steps and made no sign for Meilyr to follow.
Osian could not shake the image from his mind. That other man, Haydn, holding Meilyr with such intimacy. Kissing his hair. His face.
All the awful pieces had slotted into place. The way Haydn looked at Meilyr. The easy, intimate way they worked together, slowly ripping open Osian’s chest as he watched.
They had been lovers. Perhaps they were again.
Osian had torn away, cursing his eyes and his heart. Cursing himself for running after Meilyr as though he could ever be his to follow. As though he could ever be his to catch at the wrist and soothe – like that sweet, sharp tonic still buzzing on his tongue.
As though he could ever be someone Meilyr trusted with a piece of his heart.
Ithurt, crawling through him like slow lightning. Still, Meilyr slept by the fireplace, curled in the neatly laid mess of cushions and blankets. At least, he seemed to sleep; even unconscious he was learnedly silent, as though even in dreams he did not dare allow himself tobe.
If only Osian could press peace into his skin, kiss solace into the parts of him that were scarred and bruised and hurting.
But all he could do was rid him of Khaim. All he could do was spirit him loose of Eascild’s teeth and onto a ship, to sail into a future Osian could never touch. He had begun preparations shortly after Leighton’s killing, but should have acted sooner. Now, every day brought more necessity, more danger.
He would tell Meilyr soon. Would rip the knife from his own wound.
If it could not wait for the coronation, so be it. Meilyr’s safety was all that mattered.