When Lanslet and Vervath withdrew toward the marquess’s study, leaving behind the promise of brandy and negotiations neither younger man had been invited to hear, Amor assumed the evening had reached its natural conclusion. He had already survived an escaped ram, endured the estate physician’s examination, been dressed like an ornament by conspiring maids, and allowed himself to be hand-fed before an audience of delighted fathers and observant servants. Retiring to his chambers should have been the sensible choice, particularly when his stomach remained pleasantly heavy with roasted meat, vegetables, and a lavender custard he had insisted did not contradict his earlier claim of being full.
Valdor still held his hand.
The warrior stood beside him in the gradually emptying dining room, his rough thumb resting over Amor’s knuckles while the last servants removed the platters and folded away unnecessary linens. He had made no move to follow Vervath, nor did he appear inclined to surrender Amor to the attendants waiting discreetly near the doors. His obsidian eyes remained fixed upon Amor with the quiet expectation of someone waiting for a decision he would not force.
Amor glanced toward the tall windows overlooking the moon garden.
Night had settled fully over the estate during dinner, transforming the ornamental grounds beyond the glass into a landscape of silver shadows and pale blossoms. Moonlight gleamed along the fountain and the winding paths, while lanterns suspended from curved iron posts cast warm pools of light between the hedges. The sight stirred a desire for air untouched by dinner candles, teasing fathers, and servants pretending not to notice every time Valdor fed him.
"Would you care to take a walk?"
Amor asked. Valdor’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around his hand.
"Yes."
Amor found the immediate answer more pleasing than it reasonably should have been.
They left through the eastern doors rather than returning to the main corridor, passing beneath a marble arch that opened directly onto the garden terrace. The cool night air met Amor’s warm skin with a gentle touch, lifting the translucent edges of his sleeves and carrying the lingering fragrance of lavender oil from his hair. Valdor stepped closer without comment, positioning his broad body between Amor and the sharper breeze moving across the open courtyard.
No one joined them.
Two guards stationed near the terrace offered respectful bows, while a maid asked whether Amor required a shawl before being dismissed with a small shake of his head. Valdor’s warmth beside him made another layer unnecessary, though Amor chose not to explain that particular detail aloud. They descended the shallow terrace steps and began walking beneath the lanterns, their hands remaining joined until the narrowing path encouraged Amor to thread his arm through Valdor’s instead.
The warrior visibly relaxed.
Amor noticed, as he noticed nearly everything Valdor attempted to conceal now, but refrained from teasing him this time. The tenderness of dinner still lingered too closely between them, softened now by the night air rather than sharpened beneath the attention of their fathers. Allowing the contact without commentary seemed kinder than reminding Valdor how transparent his satisfaction had become. For several minutes, neither man spoke.
The silence did not resemble the carefully guarded quiet of a ballroom conversation that had run out of acceptable subjects, nor the hostile stillness Amor had endured whenever Alphonsins wished to make his presence feel unwelcome. This silence carried no pressure to perform, explain, entertain, or prove anything. It settled around them as naturally as the darkness beneath the hedges, filled with the soft rhythm of their steps, the whisper of leaves, and the steady warmth of Valdor’s arm beneath Amor’s hand.
Amor found himself enjoying it more than he expected.
He had always believed silence between two people revealed discomfort, boredom, or some failure of compatibility, because the court surrounding the original Amor treated constant conversation as proof of charm and social mastery. Noblemen filled every pause with flattery, while noblewomen sharpened quiet moments into opportunities for gossip, and even lovers seemed required to speak endlessly lest affection disappear when unobserved. Valdor appeared to understand that companionship did not need to be continually justified through words.
The memory of dinner gradually lost its embarrassing sharpness.
Beneath the dining-room chandelier, every lifted fork and lingering glance had seemed painfully visible, magnified by Lanslet’s delight and Vervath’s knowing amusement. Here, surrounded by cool darkness and the muted perfume of night-blooming flowers, Amor could remember Valdor’s care without feeling as though the entire household were measuring it for matrimonial significance. The warrior had cooked because he wished to please him under the guise of it being customary, and Amor had accepted because the sincerity of that effort deserved something gentler than suspicion.
Perhaps that was all it needed to be for now.
They passed beneath an arch woven with white climbing roses, the petals appearing almost luminous beneath the moon. Valdor lowered his head so the highest branches would not catch in his dark hair, though Amor moved beneath them without difficulty. When one loose flower landed upon Amor’s shoulder, Valdor removed it with two careful fingers and allowed it to drift onto the path.
"You had told me before that you dislike flowers being picked."
Amor observed. Valdor glanced toward the fallen petal.
"That one had already fallen. It is not suitable for you."
"And if it had not fallen? If I had wanted it to stay?"
"I would leave it."
Amor looked up at him.
"Even if I wanted it plucked fresh?"
Valdor considered his answer with the seriousness of a man facing a test whose rules had not been explained.
"I would find you one already fully bloomed and ready to prune, or bring you the whole plant so it could continue growing beside you..."
The reply warmed Amor more effectively than the garden lanterns.
"Most noblemen would tear apart an entire flowerbed if they believed the destruction might impress someone..."
He said.
"They mistake taking beauty for giving it."
Amor’s gaze lingered upon Valdor’s profile, touched by the simple wisdom beneath his words. The warrior did not speak elegantly by courtly standards, yet his blunt observations often carried more meaning than the carefully polished declarations Amor had read in the novel. He wondered whether Valdor had always thought this way or whether life among hunters, animals, and mountain settlements had taught him that admiration without care was merely another form of consumption.
The central fountain appeared ahead, its pale stone figures rising from the darkness.
Water spilled from a crescent-shaped basin into the broad pool below, catching the lantern light and scattering it across the surrounding path in wavering reflections. The fountain depicted the first Lady Moons standing beneath an open night sky, one hand raised toward a carved moon while flowers and small animals gathered around her feet. Amor had passed it many times since awakening in this world, but the scene seemed more intimate at night, protected from the busy attention of servants and visitors. He slowed beside the circular stone rim.
"My legs have decided that walking after eating two dinners was an act of unreasonable ambition."
Amor announced.
"You ate one dinner."
"I know I said it was the portion size of a normal nobleman’s dinner but Valdor, you placed enough food upon my plate to sustain a small military campaign."
"You finished it."
"That is irrelevant."
The faint curve of Valdor’s scarred mouth appeared again, and Amor found himself smiling in return. He gathered the flowing fabric around his hips and sat upon the wide marble edge of the fountain, arranging his sleeves so they would not trail into the water. The stone retained some warmth from the day, though the air above it carried the fountain’s cool mist.
Valdor lowered himself onto the ground at Amor’s feet. The movement was so natural that he had already settled upon the grass before Amor could object, one knee raised and his broad back resting lightly against the outer rim of the fountain. He seemed entirely comfortable there, but the sight of him below Amor awakened an immediate discomfort that had nothing to do with hierarchy. Amor did not want Valdor seated at his feet like a servant or guard when there was more than enough room beside him.
"You needn’t sit on the ground..."
Amor began.
"The fountain is perfectly capable of supporting—"
Valdor reached toward one of the leather pouches attached to his belt.
Amor’s sentence faded as the warrior untied the narrow cord securing it and withdrew a small clay jar no larger than the center of his palm. The container had been sealed with a fitted wooden lid and wrapped in a strip of dark cloth to prevent it from opening while Valdor moved. Faint green stains marked the edges, suggesting the contents had been prepared recently. Valdor removed the lid.
A pungent herbal odor rose immediately into the night air, sharp enough to overwhelm the nearby flowers. Amor recognized crushed mint and something resembling camphor beneath earthier scents he could not identify, while a cooling bitterness caught at the back of his throat when he breathed too deeply. The paste within the jar was dark green, thick, and visibly less luxurious than anything Doctor Haverin would have prescribed. Amor wrinkled his nose.
"That smells capable of reviving the dead."
"It reduces swelling."
"That does not contradict my observation."
Valdor set the lid beside him, then lifted one hand toward Amor. His palm remained open. Amor stared at it. Valdor waited.
The gesture resembled an invitation, though Amor could not determine precisely what he was being invited to do. The warrior’s expression remained solemn, his arm extended with the patience of someone convinced his intention should have been obvious. Amor glanced from the open hand to the herbal jar and then back to Valdor’s face.
"Have I missed an instruction?"
He asked.
"Your hand."
"My hand what?"
"Give it to me."
A puzzled crease appeared between Amor’s lavender brows.
"Why?"
Valdor’s gaze lowered toward Amor’s right sleeve.
The faint bruising around Amor’s wrist had been concealed beneath layers of flowing silk throughout dinner, and even now only a narrow strip of pale skin showed between the sleeve cuff and his hand. He had nearly forgotten the marks entirely during the evening, though tenderness remained whenever the fabric pressed too firmly against them which was why he kept his outfits more loose than normal recently. The realization of what Valdor intended caused his expression to soften.
"The bruise..."
Valdor explained.
"I will treat it."
Amor looked at the open palm again. There was nothing commanding in the gesture, despite the physical strength contained within Valdor’s hand. He had asked rather than simply taking Amor’s wrist, leaving the choice entirely with him. That distinction mattered more than Amor wished to acknowledge.
He placed his hand into Valdor’s. The contrast was startling.
Amor’s fingers looked impossibly pale and slender within Valdor’s broad palm, each one delicate enough that the warrior could have enclosed them all beneath a single curled hand. Valdor did not close his grip immediately. He merely gazed at what Amor had given him, his obsidian eyes darkening as though the sight possessed some significance beyond a simple act of treatment.
His thumb moved lightly across the side of Amor’s hand. The touch was tentative, almost reverent, tracing the smooth skin near Amor’s smallest finger before shifting toward the silk gathered around his wrist. Valdor’s breathing slowed, his attention narrowing until the garden and fountain seemed to vanish from his awareness. Amor watched him with growing curiosity, unsettled less by the intensity than by how carefully it was restrained.
Valdor lifted the edge of Amor’s sleeve. He moved the fabric slowly, ensuring the embroidered cuff did not scrape the tender skin beneath it. Inch by inch, the silk slid back along Amor’s forearm, exposing the fading bruises left by Alphonsins’s fingers. The marks had softened from deep violet to mottled shades of blue, yellow, and red, but their shape remained unmistakable.
Five distinct impressions curved around Amor’s wrist. Valdor became completely still.
The transformation lasted no longer than a heartbeat, yet Amor felt it with every instinct his borrowed body and soul possessed. The warmth surrounding the warrior vanished beneath something lethal and ancient, a force so cold in its intent that the night air seemed to sharpen around them. His obsidian eyes fixed upon the bruises, and the muscles across his shoulders and arms tightened until every black marking appeared carved into stone. Malice moved through him.
It was not the uncontrolled anger of a man startled by ugliness, nor the possessive outrage of someone offended that another had touched what he wanted. This was focused violence, silent and absolute, the response of a hunter who had discovered evidence that something dangerous had approached the edge of his camp. Amor shivered before he could stop himself.
Valdor noticed immediately. The danger disappeared.
His gaze lifted to Amor’s face, warmth returning so quickly that another person might have doubted the darker moment ever occurred. The tension remained buried beneath his skin, but every movement became gentle again as he supported Amor’s hand upon his knee. He used one finger to gather a small amount of the herbal paste from the jar.
"This may feel cold."
Valdor warned. Amor glanced at the green substance.
"Its smell suggests it may remove the wrist entirely."
"It will not."
"That reassurance was insufficiently detailed."
Valdor touched the paste to the edge of the bruise. Cold spread instantly across Amor’s skin, followed by a faint sting that made his fingers twitch. Valdor stopped at once, his eyes lifting in silent question. Amor considered exaggerating his discomfort merely to see how distressed the warrior would become, then decided the sincerity of his care made such teasing unusually cruel.
"It’s tolerable, you may continue."
He said. Valdor continued.
He spread the herbal cream with extreme gentleness, using the pad of his thumb to work it across each discolored mark without pressing hard enough to cause pain. His hands were rough from weapons, stone, and years of labor, yet his touch remained more precise than that of the estate physician who had examined Amor earlier. Every movement seemed guided by an awareness of exactly how easily bruised skin could be aggravated.
Amor watched him in silence. Valdor’s head was bent over the task, his black hair falling forward near his brow while one decorated braid rested against his shoulder. The severe lines of his face had softened beneath concentration, and the scar across his lower lip shifted whenever he pressed his mouth into a restrained frown. Amor found the sight unexpectedly tender.
"When did you make this?"
He asked.
"This afternoon."
Amor’s brows rose.
"Between killing the ram and cooking an entire dinner?"
Valdor nodded without looking up.
"I found herbs along the estate grounds while gathering what I needed for the meat."
"You were collecting seasoning and decided to prepare medicine as well?"
"I saw the bruise before."
The quiet admission caused Amor’s heart to tighten. Valdor smoothed more paste over the inside of his wrist, where Alphonsins’s thumb had pressed against his pulse.
"When we linked arms, your sleeve moved. I saw some of it."
"And you said nothing?"
"You seemed like you did not wish to tell me who caused it."
"That did not prevent you from asking later."
"No."
A faint smile touched Amor’s lips.
"You are inconsistent but right. I wouldn’t have told you."
Valdor finally looked up at him.
"I knew you would refuse if I asked to treat it before you trusted me."
The accuracy of that observation silenced Amor’s amusement.
Earlier in the day, he might indeed have withdrawn his hand or dismissed the injury rather than accept such intimate care from someone he had only just met. Valdor had apparently understood that without taking offense, allowing the hours between them to create enough comfort before making another attempt. The patience behind the decision affected Amor more deeply than the medicine itself.
"I wanted to do this sooner..."
Valdor continued.
"But the ram needed to be checked before the meat could be used, and the cooking required time."
"You could have asked one of the servants to prepare it."
"The medicine?"
"The dinner."
Valdor’s thumb moved slowly over the final bruise print.
"I wanted to make it."
Amor remembered the answer he had given at the table.
Because the ram had frightened him. Because he liked sweet food. Because Valdor wished to know whether something made by his own hands could make Amor smile. The memory returned without the embarrassment of their audience, leaving only the sincerity at its center.
"And you still found time to make this?"
Amor murmured.
"The herbs were there."
"That is not the same as the effort it took to make a new batch of medicine being unnecessary. Thank you, you worked hard."
Valdor did not respond. He gathered another small amount of cream and spread it along the edge of the marks, his gaze returning to his work as though praise made him uncomfortable in ways physical danger never could. Amor studied him with growing softness, recognizing the pattern beneath every action Valdor had taken since they met. The warrior rarely announced care before offering it; he simply observed what was needed and placed his strength wherever it might be useful.
The ointment’s sharp odor seemed less unpleasant now. Coolness settled beneath Amor’s skin, dulling the remaining tenderness until the wrist felt lighter than it had since the ball. Valdor turned Amor’s hand slightly, examining every angle to ensure no bruise remained untreated. His fingers supported the delicate joint as carefully as though it were made of glass.
"You made this from plants growing here?"
Amor asked.
"Some. One herb came from my travel pouch."
"Which one?"
"Stoneleaf."
Amor glanced toward the green paste.
"What does it do?"
"Prevents deep bruising from hardening."
"Bruises harden?"
"In muscle. If untreated after heavy strikes."
The answer reminded Amor that Blackstone medicine had likely developed around injuries far more severe than the marks Alphonsins left. Warriors who hunted monsters could not rely upon a physician arriving with polished instruments and perfumed bandages. Valdor had probably treated broken skin, torn muscle, and crushed joints beside campfires with the same hands now cradling Amor’s wrist.
"Were you taught by your mother?"
Amor asked.
"My aunt..."
Valdor replied.
"She is a spirit-speaker."
"The shamans you mentioned."
"Yes."
Amor smiled faintly.
"Doctor Haverin would become deeply offended if he heard me compare him to someone called a spirit-speaker."
"Can he speak to spirits?"
"He struggles to speak politely to living patients."
Valdor’s mouth curved. The warmth of that small expression settled over Amor with the same ease as their earlier silence. He watched Valdor finish applying the paste, then reach into the pouch again and remove a narrow strip of clean cloth. The material was simple but soft, woven more finely than the rough bandages Amor expected from a traveling warrior.
"You plan to wrap it as well?"
Amor asked.
"The medicine will stain your sleeve."
"How thoughtful."
Valdor passed the cloth around Amor’s wrist. He kept the wrapping loose enough not to restrict circulation, overlapping each layer with careful precision before tying the ends along the outer forearm where the knot would not press against the bruises. The final bandage looked plain against Amor’s elegant clothing, but the contrast did not bother him. Its lack of ornament made the effort behind it feel more genuine.
Valdor held Amor’s hand after the treatment was finished. Neither man commented upon the fact that there was no longer any practical reason for him to do so.
His thumb rested near Amor’s pulse, though unlike Alphonsins’s bruising grip, the pressure was barely there. Valdor seemed to feel the steady beat beneath his skin and relax with each rhythm, reassured by the evidence that Amor remained warm and unharmed. Amor allowed the contact, his gaze lingering upon their joined hands.
"You disapprove of the one who caused the bruises?"
He said. Valdor’s eyes lifted.
"I could tell from your eyes..."
Amor continued, remembering the moment of danger that had passed through the warrior.
"For an instant, you looked prepared to hunt something."
"I was."
The blunt admission caused the fountain’s quiet murmur to seem suddenly louder. Amor tilted his head.
"You do not know who caused them."
"No."
"And yet you intended to hunt him?"
"Yes."
Valdor’s expression carried no exaggeration or attempt to impress. He stated the intention with the same seriousness he used when discussing weather, food, or the conditions of livestock. Somewhere beneath his calm, the identity of Amor’s attacker had already become a question requiring an answer.
Amor should have been alarmed.
Valdor had known him for a single day and had already killed one threat without hesitation, though the ram had provided a clear and immediate danger. Alphonsins was a duke, military commander, and the male lead of a novel whose power should have exceeded nearly everyone around him except for himself. Allowing Valdor’s protective instincts to become entangled with that man could provoke consequences Amor had worked carefully to avoid.
Yet no fear rose within him.
There was something profoundly reassuring about knowing Valdor’s anger had not been triggered by wounded pride or a desire to control Amor’s choices. He had seen evidence of pain and responded with the simple conviction that whoever caused it should never be allowed to repeat the act. The danger belonged entirely to the unseen offender, not to Amor.
"You were right. What you said earlier. I still will not answer."
Amor reminded him.
"I remember."
"You are not going to demand that I change my mind?"
"No..."
Valdor’s thumb moved lightly across the bandage.
"But if the one who caused this comes near you, I will know."
"You continue claiming that as though bruising hands possess a recognizable scent."
"The ones who hurt, they move differently."
Amor’s brows rose.
"How so?"
"Those who hurt someone weaker and believe they may do so again carry certainty in their bodies. They reach without asking."
The words entered Amor with uncomfortable accuracy.
Alphonsins had reached for him both times as though refusal were impossible, his grip closing before Amor could decide whether contact was permitted. Even when he loosened his hand, he had never truly asked whether Amor wished to remain. Valdor had noticed the opposite distinction within hours—permission was not silence, and care offered without choice became another form of force.
"You are unexpectedly perceptive."
Amor said. Valdor’s gaze remained steady.
"You are not weak."
"That sounds contradictory after what you just said."
"The one who bruised you believed he had the right to reach without asking. That belief makes him smaller, not you."
Amor’s throat tightened. He turned his face toward the fountain, watching moonlight fracture across the moving water so Valdor would not see how deeply the answer affected him. The original Amor had committed terrible acts to force Alphonsins into a relationship, and Amor had never denied the duke’s right to resent him for it. Yet resentment did not transform bruising control into justice, nor did Amor’s body become available merely because its former owner had once behaved cruelly.
No one had expressed that truth so plainly. Valdor waited without pressing him to respond. The silence returned, carrying more tenderness than before. Amor eventually looked down at the bandage and traced its edge with one finger.
"The ointment is already helping."
"It will reduce the marks by morning."
"And the smell?"
"Also by morning."
"That may be the greater miracle."
Valdor’s eyes warmed again. Amor leaned forward slightly, his flowing hair sliding over one shoulder. Their positions placed Valdor below him, yet the warrior’s size meant their faces remained nearly level when he straightened. The fountain’s mist cooled Amor’s cheeks, though it did little to dispel the warmth spreading beneath his skin.
"Thank you, truly, Valdor..."
He said. Valdor’s expression became still.
Amor had thanked him for saving him, the dinner and medicine treatment, but the words carried a different weight now, spoken without an audience or the need to make light of his embarrassment.
"Not merely for the medicine. For noticing, waiting, and asking rather than deciding that concern entitled you to my body."
Valdor looked at him for a long moment.
"It does not."
"I know."
That certainty was perhaps the most dangerous thing about him. Amor had spent his previous life—and inherited the consequences of this body’s—learning to search every kindness for hidden conditions. Gifts created debts, protection demanded obedience, and affection became a justification for possession whenever powerful men feared losing what they had ignored. Valdor appeared to offer care as naturally as breathing, with no demand beyond the opportunity to continue.
Amor moved his hand within Valdor’s until their fingers aligned more comfortably. The warrior’s eyes dropped toward the gesture.
"I believe you should sit beside me now..."
Amor said.
"You have spent enough time on the ground."
Valdor looked at the fountain rim.
"It may not hold me."
"Ridiculous! It’s carved from solid marble."
"Your chairs also appeared stronger now."
Amor laughed softly.
"If the fountain collapses beneath you, Father will consider it a worthwhile sacrifice."
Valdor rose. His height unfolded before Amor with familiar, startling ease, and the space seemed to narrow as he moved onto the stone rim beside him. The fountain did not crack, though Valdor tested the surface cautiously before settling his full weight. He sat close enough that his thigh pressed along Amor’s, providing a broad wall of warmth against the night air.
Their hands remained joined between them.
Amor allowed his shoulder to rest lightly against Valdor’s arm. The contact was subtle, neither an embrace nor a declaration, but the warrior responded by shifting closer until Amor could lean without effort. His body seemed designed to provide support, solid enough that Amor felt he could close his eyes and remain upright regardless of how deeply he relaxed. The thought was dangerously tempting.
"You should have worn a cloak. It is cold at night."
Valdor said after a while.
"I’m not cold."
"Your skin is cool."
"You are just unnaturally warm!"
"Blackstone blood runs hot."
Amor glanced at him.
"Is that another convenient explanation for ignoring proper clothing?"
"Yes."
The answer was so immediate that Amor smiled.
They watched the fountain together, silence settling once more between them. Amor’s earlier embarrassment had dissolved completely now, leaving behind only a strange awareness of how easily Valdor’s presence fit beside him. A single day should not have been enough to create such comfort, yet time seemed less important than the quality of every moment they had shared.
Valdor lowered his gaze toward the bandaged wrist. The sight revived the promise still burning beneath his gentleness.
He did not know the identity of the man who had left those marks, but he knew the shape of the fingers, the strength required to bruise Amor’s skin, and the careless confidence implied by their placement. Someone had seized Amor hard enough to hurt him and believed there would be no consequence. Valdor carried that knowledge as he would carry the scent of a wounded clan member through snow.
He would find the one responsible.
He would not question Amor against his will, nor would he use protection as an excuse to ignore the boundaries he claimed to defend. Valdor could wait. Hunters who lacked patience did not survive long enough to become skilled. Eventually, the man would reveal himself.
Perhaps he would reach for Amor again, or speak with the entitled certainty Valdor had already learned to despise. Perhaps servants would mention a visitor whose arrival made Amor guard his wrist, or Vervath would uncover the truth through conversations with Lanslet. However it happened, Valdor would recognize him.
When he did, the punishment would be thorough.
The thought contained none of the swift mercy he had granted the ram. An animal acted from instinct and understood nothing of cruelty, but a man who deliberately used strength against someone smaller made a choice. Valdor would ensure he understood every consequence of that choice before the end. The exact shape of the retribution remained unformed, though each possibility grew darker the longer Valdor looked at the fading marks.
Amor shifted closer against him. The movement pulled Valdor instantly from violence.
He looked down and found Amor resting more comfortably beside him, lavender hair spilling across Valdor’s arm while the newly wrapped wrist remained protected within his hand. The delicate nobleman appeared peaceful, his pink eyes following the water and his plump lips softened into the faintest contented curve. Valdor’s fury retreated beneath a stronger desire.
He wanted only good and happy things to reach Amor.
Not because Amor was too fragile to endure pain, but because endurance should never become the price of being alive. Valdor wanted to give him warm meals, fallen flowers, safe paths, and medicine prepared before bruises could deepen. He wanted Amor to laugh at his blunt answers, take his arm without being asked, and eat every sweet cake placed before him without shame.
The emotion behind those desires remained unnamed.
It was larger than curiosity and warmer than the attraction that had caught him at the staircase. It carried the protective weight of clan loyalty, yet it did not resemble the affection Valdor held for siblings or kin. Something within him had already begun placing Amor at the center of decisions that should not have belonged to a near stranger.
Valdor did not fear the change. He only lacked the words to explain it.
"Your hand is warmer now."
He said. Amor looked down at their fingers.
"That may be because you have been holding it hostage for half the evening."
Valdor loosened his grip immediately. Amor tightened his fingers before he could withdraw.
"I didn’t say you should release it..."
The warrior’s entire body stilled. Amor lifted his gaze toward him, faint amusement returning beneath the softness of the moment.
"You continue to misunderstand the difference between observation and complaint."
Valdor slowly closed his hand around Amor’s again.
"Then I will keep it."
"For now."
"For tonight."
Amor considered correcting the certainty within those words. Instead, he rested his head lightly against Valdor’s shoulder.
The warrior stopped breathing for one startled heartbeat before warmth seemed to spread through every part of him. He adjusted his position carefully, ensuring the bone and muscle beneath Amor’s cheek did not make the resting place uncomfortable. His free hand hovered behind Amor’s back, uncertain whether placing it there would be welcome.
Amor noticed the hesitation. He reached for Valdor’s wrist and guided the broad arm around his waist. The embrace settled naturally.
Valdor’s hand rested against Amor’s side with deliberate lightness, holding without trapping, while Amor relaxed against his warmth beneath the moonlit fountain. There were only two men beneath the quiet sky, one learning that protection could be gentle and the other discovering someone he wished to protect with every fiber of his being.
The water continued falling behind them. Amor’s eyes began to drift closed.
Valdor looked down at his peaceful face, then toward the bandaged wrist resting safely within his hand. Tenderness softened his gaze, though something merciless still remained hidden beneath it for the person responsible. He pressed no kiss, made no declaration, and asked for nothing more than the trust Amor had already offered.
In the quiet of his own mind, however, Valdor made a promise.
Whoever had left those marks would pay horribly.
Amor, unaware of the vow forming beneath the warrior’s calm expression, leaned closer into his embrace and listened to the steady beating of Valdor’s heart. For the first time since awakening inside a novel written to destroy him, the future did not feel like something he needed to outrun. Beneath the moonlight, surrounded by cool air and the warmth of another body, it felt like something he might finally be allowed to choose.