He doesn’t mind the delay, and when Evain finally strolls down the side alley, Ronan ends up wishing he’d taken even longer to arrive.
“I’m excited to meet your new boyfriend, boss,” Evain drawls. “Though it’s rather unfair, when I think about it. You’ve never allowed me to bring lovers home.”
“Lovers?” Ronan raises an eyebrow. “That’s a strong way of putting it.”
The sun is low over the walls of Ostaris, painting red and gold highlights in Evain’s bound black hair. His loose red shirt can’t disguise the breadth of his shoulders or the golden gleam of his skin. There’s a heavy bag slung across his chest, and somehow even the shoulder strap serves to accentuate his muscles.
Evain is contracted with a desire demon, and when he’s out prowling the taverns and playhouses, his every movement is proof of that. He tones the seductive reflexes down when he’s at base, but it still took a while for everyone to get used to him.
“They’re still lovers if they’re temporary.” Evain flashes a wicked grin. “Hurry up and let me in, I want to meet him.”
Ronan pauses with his dice in hand and fixes Evain with a stern look.
Evain puts up his hands, dark eyes curving into amused crescents. “Fine, fine, I’ll behave.” Nothing about him physically changes, but the air around him grows less heated. His air of demonic seductiveness fades to simply human good looks.
Still, Ronan suddenly hates the idea of introducing Evain to Karis. “He’s not anyone’s lover,” he says after a moment. The edges of his dice dig into his palm. “He’s a hostage, and he’s not here by choice.”
“How much choice did any of them have?” Evain’s words are sharp, though a grin still tugs the perfect curves of his lips. “I won’t interfere. You’re the boss. But if he’s as useful as Coira said over the fire… make him choose.”
“Oh, good. You remember that I’m in charge.”
They’re standing at the ivy-covered wall to the side of the base, with no door or gateway in sight. Ronan crouches and flips a ten-sided die onto the cobblestones. It’s weighted, and the ten facing upwards isn’t a surprise. Cyan light flickers along the stone. Ronan picks up the die, glances down the street to see if anyone’s watching, and walks directly through the wall. A brief cold chills his limbs, then passes.
Only Melanne and Coira ever use the front door of the manor. As far as the rest of the neighborhood knows, the two women are the only people residing here. Everyone else has to sneak in via back gate or fire transport.
The sisters’ ties to Ostaris were half the reason Ronan recruited them in the first place. He needed a safe haven close to the heart of the action—ferrying relics back and forth between Charain and Praia would be too risky. The other half of the reason was their teleportation magic.
Just like his teacher introduced him to Dansa because they’d need a healer, and he recruited Leth because of his family ties to Dravan military command. He found all the Locksmiths because they were useful, and he persuaded them each to risk their lives so he could use them, because that’s what his god asked of him.
The parlor is dark when they come in from the courtyard, but there’s a warm glow and laughter ringing from the kitchen. Evain sets his bag on the sofa and calls out, “I refuse to believe that you’re having fun without me.”
The laughter breaks off, and Coira bellows back, “Fuck you, Evain!”
Ronan frowns. He was only outside for an hour. If the women are all drinking down here, who’s supervising the hostage?
The answer is apparent when he and Evain enter the kitchen. Dansa, Coira, and Melanne are all seated at the table, accompanied by two empty wine bottles and another in progress. A plate of cheese and crackers has been absolutely demolished, crumbs everywhere. But what Ronan focuses on is the slight figure seated with them, leaning with one elbow on the table and blinking slowly up at Ronan.
Karis’s freckled face is flushed, and his hair is in disarray. A sleepy smile tilts the ends of his pink lips. He looks loose, languid, with none of the sharpness or tension Ronan associates with him.
Ronan asks mildly, “What the fuck are you all doing?”
Karis is the one who laughs in answer. “They’re supervising me.”
His amber gaze floats over to Evain—Ronan’s shoulders tense in instinctive, inexplicable displeasure—but then immediately back to Ronan. He sits up straighter, brushing his hair from his eyes, and his slight smile never wavers. He seems to be looking precisely at Ronan’s neck, and the heat of his gaze leaves Ronan parched.
Ronan evades his gaze and asks Dansa, “Any problems?”
“None,” she says. “Sit down, drink with us. Evain, this is—”
Evain already has a glass in hand. “Karis, right?” His grin is dazzling, and in that moment his presence fills the entire room. “Ronan already told me all about his little squire.”
Karis’s attention finally leaves the vicinity of Ronan’s throat. “Coira just told me about you, too. Did you really once—”
“All right,” Ronan interrupts, ignoring Coira’s snicker. He points at Karis. “You’ve had enough. Go to bed.”
For once cooperative, Karis nods his pretty head. “I’ve had enough.” He pushes his half-empty glass a few inches away, the wine sloshing with the sudden movement, and stands up with obvious caution.
He doesn’t stumble until he reaches Ronan’s side, tipping sideways—and catching himself on the door. They don’t touch at all, but when Karis blinks up, Ronan can count every single one of his eyelashes.