Poe kept to the edge of the village as he and Harka found their way to the cheaper inn on the other end of town. The fishing huts crouched close together along the slope, their roofs tarred dark against the salt. Nets hung from pegs like limp banners. A lantern burned in one window, then another. Supper smells drifted from doorways – onion, fried bread, fish – and his stomach tightened in a way that wasn’t hunger. He’d eaten in the market, but somehow he still felt hollow.

  Harka walked beside him, confident and flushed, though Poe suspected it wasn’t from the chill of the sea air.

  Poe watched the village for riders, for an iron badge under a cloak, for the glint of mail among fishermen’s wool. He watched for hawks.

  He hated that, too. A tracker trained to read the sky. A hound raised to recognize the bell that meant food.

  Harka’s tail brushed Poe’s hip as they passed a low stone wall. It slipped there almost by accident at first, then returned, curling at Poe’s waist as if it had decided Poe belonged in reach and would stay there. The contact lit a heat in Poe’s chest that made him angry at himself for wanting it.

  Harka glanced sideways, ears tipping toward Poe. “We’re going to trip if you keep walking like you expect to be stabbed.”

  Poe smiled. “I do expect to be stabbed.”

  “What do you – oh,” Harka said, and his face smeared crimson.

  They reached the inn’s side stair and took it quickly, heads down. The main room below carried laughter, the someone retelling the miracle as if it had happened to them personally, right here in this village. Mallow’s miracle. Mallow’s glowing scales. The way the boatman had stared at his own leg afterward like it belonged to a saint.

  Upstairs, the hallway narrowed. Four doors, all closed. One candle at the end of the hall guttered in a draft. Harka’s hand brushed Poe’s elbow in a wordless question.

  Poe fished the key from his pocket. He had paid for the room in coin borrowed from the Dagorlind, the pouch remaining stalwart at his belt even after his tumble into the river. He lifted the key into the lock and pushed the door open.

  The room was cold, a small hearth dark in one corner. A window faced the bay and the last daylight washed the water in pewter.

  Harka shut the door behind them and leaned his shoulder against it as if he meant to hold it shut with his body. His breath ran a little fast, and Poe couldn’t tell whether it came from the climb, or the same hunger that pulled at Poe.

  Harka’s gaze slid over Poe’s face, then down to his mouth.

  Poe should have spoken first. He should have said I owe you truth. He should have said I have already put the knife in.

  Instead, he crossed the room and caught Harka by the front of his tunic and kissed him.

  Harka made a startled sound into Poe’s mouth in protest or disbelief, and then this hand rose, gloved palm bracing the back of Poe’s neck as he returned the kiss with a force that made Poe’s knees threaten to give. Harka’s antlers nudged Poe’s temple; Poe adjusted automatically, turning them so they wouldn’t knock against the wall. Harka’s tail tightened at Poe’s waist in a possessive coil.

  Poe tasted iron and earth-sweetness. He tasted Harka’s breath when his passion rose and he tried to swallow it down. He tasted the restraint Harka carried like a creed, and the way it frayed now.

  Poe hated himself for noticing those details. He loved himself for noticing those details. He didn’t know which part of him to live for.

  Harka broke the kiss first, forehead pressed to Poe’s for a beat as if he needed to pull air into his lungs before he could carry on. His eyes were bright in the dim room, pupils wide.

  “You’re going to bruise me,” Harka murmured.

  Poe’s hands loosened. He didn’t let go. “Say you don’t want it.”

  Harka’s breath hitched, his shoulders clenching, then easing. “I want you to take your hands off my clothes and put them on my skin.”

  Poe let out a low laugh that carried a relief heavy enough to ache. He did as he was told. He slid his palms under Harka’s tunic, over warmth and muscle, over the slight tremor that lived there, over his smooth overlapping scales. Harka’s hand moved to Poe’s wrist, to guide him up, then to the side, as if mapping where touch felt good and where it felt like trespass. Poe followed without thinking. Obedience came easy when it meant he could keep Harka close.

  Harka peeled his gloves off. His hands caught at the laces of Poe’s shirt. He tugged, clumsy with haste, and then went still, eyes locked on Poe’s throat.

  Poe swallowed. “What?”

  Harka’s voice came out rough. “Your heart is racing.”

  Poe hadn’t noticed until Harka said it. It was the weight of what waited behind his teeth. It was the knowledge that he was buying himself a few more minutes of warmth before he told the truth and watched it die.

  Harka’s hand came up, fingers brushing the side of Poe’s neck with careful pressure, like checking for fever. “Are you hurt?”

  Poe closed his eyes. “No.”

  Harka tugged Poe toward the bed, easing them down with a soft grunt as his stiff leg protested. Poe caught the movement, shifted his weight, and helped Harka settle without jarring what was left of the bruising.

  Harka noticed. The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re learning.”

  Poe’s mouth curled back. “Don’t flatter me.”

  “I’m observing.” Harka’s fingers slid along Poe’s ribs under his shirt. “That is a Warden’s work.”

  Poe kissed Harka again, slower this time, because he had learned that Harka responded better to care than force. Harka’s tail coiled around Poe’s thigh and pulled him closer. Poe’s hand found the base of it, the pearled scales under fur, and Harka shuddered against him with a sound that made Poe’s head go light.

  They moved together in the dim room, heat traded in quiet ways: mouths, hands, breath, the press of bodies under wool and linen. Poe’s mind kept trying to split itself in two, one half drowning in Harka, one half counting the exits, listening for boots on the stair, listening for a hawk’s cry beyond the window, even as he eased Harka from his clothes, even as he found himself bare and pressing hard against Harka.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Harka caught him mid-breath, as if he could feel that split. He pulled back just enough to look at Poe. “You’re gone again,” he murmured.

  Poe stared at him, throat working. “I’m here.”

  “Prove it.” Harka’s hand moved to Poe’s cheek. He held Poe’s face as if he meant for him to stay put. “Look at me.”

  Poe did.

  Harka’s expression steadied. “If you’re about to break your own heart,” he said softly, “do it after.”

  Poe let out a breath. “After what?”

  Harka’s gaze dropped to Poe’s mouth again. “After you finish what you started.”

  There was no laughter in Poe’s throat this time. He kissed Harka with a reverence that felt like violence turned inward. They drew the curtain on the world and let the bed take the weight of them. When Harka made a small sound and Poe’s hands tightened at his waist, Poe felt the temptation to bite rise sharply within him.

  He didn’t.

  He would care for his flock. He would protect his charge.

  He pressed his mouth to Harka’s shoulder instead and breathed there until the hunger eased into something he could hold. Harka’s fingers threaded through Poe’s hair, firm at the roots, and Poe let himself be held. He moved his mouth to Harka’s neck.

  Harka’s breath hitched. “Yes,” he murmured. “There.”

  Poe let his lips and tongue learn the skin and scales there, tasting salt and smoke. Harka made a small sound again, and this time Poe felt it travel through Harka’s chest into his own mouth.

  Harka’s hands splayed against Poe’s back. He held Poe’s waist as if anchoring Poe to himself. They kissed again, meeting each other without flinching, breath trading with breath. Harka’s tail tightened on Poe’s waist, then loosened, then tightened again, an unguarded rhythm of want that made Poe’s body react before his mind could catch up.

  Poe’s hands slid down Harka’s sides, then back up, palms learning what Harka liked, and each time he paused Harka answered with a small sound or touch that guided him again, two bodies finding a way to fit together. Poe lowered his mouth to Harka’s sternum and felt Harka’s heartbeat under his lips, strong despite the bloodloss, stubborn as the rest of him. Harka’s hand moved from Poe’s hair to the back of Poe’s neck, fingers pressing.

  Poe kissed down again, slower, mouth to ribs, to stomach, and when Harka’s hips shifted beneath him, an involuntary plea, Poe lifted his head to meet Harka’s eyes, checking. Harka looked back, pupils wide, breath uneven.

  “Yes,” Harka said before Poe could ask again. “Don’t stop.”

  He moved with care, mindful of the injured leg, mindful of the way Harka’s body asked for things without ever begging. He slipped his mouth over Harka’s hard flesh, tasting him, absorbing the gentle involuntary flex of Harka’s hips as his tongue moved over him. His world narrowed to this, the taste of Harka in his mouth, the feel of Harka pressed to his tongue, the way Harka moaned, the way his tail flexed with pleasure. Each time Poe hesitated Harka answered with a small press of his hands, firm at Poe’s back, then at his hip, guiding him into pace. The heat between them built until Poe’s thoughts thinned into a narrow line of Harka’s breath, Harka’s body, Harka’s hands refusing to let Poe drift.

  Harka made a quiet sound, gratitude tangled with want, and Poe dipped his head up and down, filling his mouth with Harka, drooling on him, burying his hands in Harka’s wool. He could feel in the flex against his tongue Harka’s growing wanting, the closeness, the incoming crest. Harka tried to pull back as if not to offend Poe’s mouth with his seed, but Poe insisted, kept his mouth around Harka, let Harka fill his throat in several firm and desperate pumps. The taste was salt-laden and bittersweet and musky. He milked Harka, who gasped as Poe pulled down what remained until his thirst for him was slaked.

  When Poe finally lifted his head, Harka pulled him close, breathing with him until the tremor passed and Harka’s grip loosened.

  They didn’t speak for a while. A voice downstairs laughed. Wind worried the shutters. The room felt smaller than it had when they entered, filled up with warmth and the consequences of choosing it.

  Harka’s hand drifted to Poe’s wrist and traced the rope-burn grooves, a quiet inventory of what had been done to him. Poe didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. He lay there and let the touch land.

  “You’re shaking,” Harka said after a time.

  Poe stared at the ceiling beam. The truth pressed at the back of his teeth until his mouth ached. He turned his face toward Harka, and for a second he wanted to kiss him again just to buy silence. He didn’t.

  “I have to tell you,” Poe said.

  Harka looked at Poe with that steady warden attention, as if Poe had become a problem worth solving.

  Poe swallowed. “Before I reached your camp that first night, I sent word.”

  Harka’s eyes narrowed a fraction. His tail, which had been twitching across Poe’s thigh, went still. “Word,” he repeated.

  “About the egg.”

  Harka sat up carefully. Poe’s body wanted to follow, to reach, to hold him in place. He kept his hands on the blanket instead, fingers clenched.

  “To Ivath,” Harka surmised.

  “Yes.”

  Harka breathed through his nose, slow. He looked at Poe as if he were seeing him from the beginning again: the tracker’s posture, the trained watchfulness, the way Poe’s eyes always searched for the exit even while kissing.

  “Why tell me now?” Harka asked.

  Poe’s throat worked. “Because I…” He didn’t know how to finish. He didn’t know how to tell Harka that he felt like Harka was his, that Harka had become more important than himself, that Mallow was a saint, truly, and that protecting Harka in the face of that sainthood had made him a believer for the first time in his life.

  “Because I believe in what you’re trying to do,” he said, finally.

  Harka frowned. “You expected me to leave.”

  “I expect you to hate me,” Poe said. “I expect you to do what I would do in your place.”

  Harka’s ears tipped forward, catching the edges of that. “And what would you do?”

  Poe didn’t blink. “I’d make sure the threat didn’t happen twice.”

  Harka’s gaze dropped briefly to Poe’s throat, then returned to Poe’s eyes. A long moment passed. Harka’s anger stayed contained, disciplined, but it was there, a fire behind a wall.

  “You sent a hawk,” Harka said, “so the Order knows the egg exists.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the Brighthand army.”

  Poe nodded. “They’re moving toward Ivath.”

  Harka leaned back against the headboard. “So we can’t go inland. We can’t walk back the way we came.”

  “No.”

  Harka stared toward the shuttered window and the dark slice of bay beyond it. When he spoke again, his voice stayed even.

  “If I walk away from you,” Harka asked, “what happens?”

  Poe’s mouth curled with self-disgust. “When I don't join the column in the next few days, they hunt me down and make an example of me.” He didn’t tell Harka the truth: that Poe would sooner jump from the cliffs then let the Dagorlind enslave him again.

  “And if you come with us?” Harka asked.

  Poe’s breath caught. That was the mercy.

  “They’ll hunt me still. But I’ll be with you. I am with you,” Poe said, quiet. “If you let me.”

  Hakra held Poe’s gaze until Poe’s stomach twisted. Then Harka said, very calmly, “If you betray us, I will kill you.”

  Poe nodded. “I know.”

  Harka’s hand moved. He put two fingers under Poe’s chin and tipped his face up, making Poe meet his eyes.

  “You don’t get to be useful to me,” Harka said. “You don’t get to earn your way into staying. You stay because you choose it. And because I choose it. Understand?”

  Poe’s eyes burned. He blinked several times. “Yes.”

  Harka released his chin. He shifted down again, and lay beside Poe. His tail slid back over Poe’s thigh, a wordless decision.

  Poe lay there and felt the weight of the threat, the mercy, the boundary.

  He turned his head and pressed his mouth to Harka’s shoulder in a brief kiss, controlled and grateful.

  “What will we do?” Harka asked softly.

  “If we must go to Ivath,” Poe said, “our only choice is to go by sea.”