Burning with the aftershocks of brutal self-restraint, Ronan unfastens his belt and unlaces his trousers just enough to fit a hand inside. His cock is already hot and hard with the memory of Karis’s wrist in his hand, the softness of his hair, the freckles on his earlobe. Fantasies consume him as he jerks his length, heedless of the friction.
He could bend Karis over the table, or urge him to his knees. Run his thumb over that plush lower lip and push his mouth open. Would Karis be quiet or talk dirty—or would he just complain about anything and everything until Ronan’s cock muffled the words in his throat?
Ronan’s thighs tense with the heat of the image. He thrusts into his hand one more time before spilling with a muffled groan. As he pants for air afterwards, he knows one thing for certain. The next time Karis offers himself, he won’t be able to refuse.
He rises and cleans up a while later, then opens the window. The glass slides up and the shutters swing out, and there’s an illusion of freedom if he ignores the barely-there whisper of the wards.
Under the afternoon sunlight, with the air of Ostaris in his lungs, he stands at the table of scattered dice. The dark gray resin seems to soak up the sunlight, reflecting it out only in the gold-inked numbers. This set has two twenty-sided dice, identical to the eye. Even Ronan has to pick them both up to tell which is true, and which is weighted.
He sets the weighted die aside. There are some questions the Trickster won’t let him cheat the answers to.
“Am I doing the right thing,” Ronan asks quietly, “dragging him into this?”
He throws the die with a cascade of bright sparks. It rattles over the tabletop, the numbers blurred beyond reading.
But as it starts to slow, fear takes hold of Ronan’s heart. Before the die can land, he slams his hand on it. The edges are sharp against his palm, the die warm with the Trickster’s answer.
He doesn’t look at the die as he returns it to the leather pouch. He doesn’t want to know what he’s rolled, and he doesn’t want to know what’s to come. Karis has chosen this alliance, and Ronan wants to believe his choice won’t hurt them both.
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
KARIS
Karis pauses at the end of the hall. Looks over his shoulder and wonders if he should go back to Ronan’s room, and try his luck again. His ear still burns with the echo of Ronan’s touch. The wish that those rough fingers would twist deeper into his hair.
He doesn’t understand why Ronan keeps holding back, any more than he understands why he himself wants more and more. The excuse that he’s trying to seduce his way out of a kidnapping is looking flimsier by the day.
Maybe he’s crazy after all. His sanity just hinges on his libido, not his magic.
Karis continues, head still spinning, to find Evain and Dansa in the loft, poring over a book together. Alice is lying down on the desk, her paws and chest tucked neatly on top of another book.
“We might have to wait until Leth—” Dansa breaks off and closes the book when she sees Karis, who waves.
“Hello, comrades.” He laughs. “Ronan said I could join the secret club.”
“Finally,” Evain says. He’s dressed in an extravagant red silk lounging robe, the black-trimmed neckline open over a slice of muscular chest. His hair is tied back messily, and he looks particularly lethargic next to Dansa, who’s wide awake and fully dressed in sensible green trousers.
She asks, arms crossed, “And what secret club did he let you join?”
Karis’s grin falls away. “The Locksmiths,” he confirms. “He told me about the binding, and how you’re trying to fix it. I’ve been worshipping Vara all my life, and I agree with everything Ronan said. Nobody should be trapped like that, humans or gods.”
Worship is a strong way of putting it,Vara whispers in the back of his head. Karis ignores him.
The explanation seems to ease the pair’s concerns. “He’s so earnest,” Evain says, wonderingly. “Absolutely adorable.”
“You wouldn’t know earnest if it bit you,” Dansa relaxes into a grin. “Then welcome to the Locksmiths, Karis. Ronan said you were good at finding things?”
“I’m the best,” Karis says, grinning back.
They spend the next few hours scrying and attempting to scry. Dansa sends Evain to bring up food at one point, and they pile the books safely out of the way of crumbs. Alice crouches in wait, eyeing the slices of sharp cheese.
Karis is very pleased with how impressed Dansa seems with his scrying. Like when he first joined the Radiant Order, and he got to show off to the other trainees. He thought impressing them all would make him popular—only this time, it might actually be working.
“All I need is a vivid description of the target,” he tells them. Most hedgewitches need an object associated with the target for finding magic, and he pretended he did when he was in the Radiant Order, but that requirement is too limiting. If he wants to be useful to the Locksmiths—if he wants to free Vara—he needs to be able to practice widely. “The more detailed the better, and it helps if you’ve seen them before.”
With Vara’s covert help, he finds two high bards in Songbird’s Bower, easily dancing through the song-spell wards. Then he finds General Anton ka Tariel outside Fort Tarhaeg, and recognizes the same Dravan soldier he saw talking to the archpriests previously. None of their locations or movements seem to surprise Dansa and Evain; Karis realizes by the third scry that they’re testing him with information they already know.