Lanslet’s delight at Amor’s acceptance could no longer be concealed beneath the measured composure expected of a marquess.
His soft pink eyes brightened until they seemed almost luminous, and the pleased curve of his lips transformed his mature elegance into something warmer and far more openly paternal. He had evidently prepared himself for resistance, perhaps remembering every other occasion when his beloved son had rejected an obligation that interfered with his pursuit of Alphonsins, and Amor’s willing cooperation had relieved an anxiety he had not dared express. For the first time since the Blackstone warriors entered House Moons, Lanslet looked entirely at ease.
"My moonlight, I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you are comfortable welcoming our guests..."
Lanslet said, reaching over to smooth an imagined crease from Amor’s flowing sleeve.
"I know their customs may seem unfamiliar at first, but Chieftain Vervath and his son have traveled a great distance in good faith, and I would like their month beneath our roof to begin with warmth rather than tedious formalities. Your kindness today reflects beautifully upon both yourself and House Moons."
Amor regarded his father over the silver edge of his fan, privately wondering whether the original Amor had behaved so atrociously that the simple act of allowing guests to remain had become worthy of such radiant praise. Lanslet’s expression suggested precisely that, though there was no disappointment hidden beneath his joy, only the unconditional affection of a man delighted by any sign that his child was content. The realization softened something within Amor despite his determination to remain cautious.
He had inherited wealth, beauty, and an apparently inexhaustible wardrobe, but Lanslet’s devotion was perhaps the most dangerous treasure this life had placed in his hands.
It would have been easy to dismiss the man as merely the father of the body he occupied, someone whose affection belonged to a son who no longer truly existed. Yet Lanslet looked at Amor with such uncomplicated tenderness that maintaining emotional distance required more effort each day. The original Amor had taken that love for granted, using it to force obedience and shelter himself from every consequence, but Amor could already feel an unfamiliar desire to protect rather than exploit it.
Lanslet glanced toward Valdor, then back to Amor, and a gleam entered his eyes that was far too innocent to be trusted.
"Since the two of you will be sharing the estate for the next month, perhaps you could show Valdor around and help him become familiar with the grounds."
Amor lifted one brow.
"Me?"
"Who could offer a better tour than the future master of the estate?"
Lanslet asked, his tone honeyed with deliberate flattery.
"You know the gardens, galleries, courtyards, and private paths better than any servant, and it would allow Valdor to understand which portions of the manor are open to our guests. I am certain he would appreciate an escort who can answer his questions without making him feel as though he is being supervised."
The suggestion was so transparently arranged that Amor nearly laughed.
There were dozens of servants qualified to show Valdor through the manor, including Percival, who likely knew every concealed passage and loose floorboard beneath its roof. Lanslet had chosen Amor because he had witnessed the silent fascination passing between them and wished to place it beneath a magnifying glass. Judging by the pleased patience in his expression, he expected Amor to refuse only so that he might begin a carefully prepared campaign of affectionate persuasion.
Amor saw no reason to grant him the opportunity.
"I could not agree more."
He said. Lanslet blinked.
The speed of Amor’s acceptance appeared to startle him, though the surprise lasted only a moment before his smile widened with such unmistakable joy that several fine lines appeared around his eyes. Vervath also shifted in his protesting chair, his stern gaze moving from Amor to his son as though this development had awakened his full attention. Behind him, Valdor remained outwardly motionless.
Amor rose gracefully, allowing the folds of pale rose silk to spill around his slender form as he closed his fan against one palm. He stepped away from the sitting area and turned toward Valdor, whose immense body seemed even more imposing now that no furniture separated them. The warrior’s obsidian eyes followed every movement with that same unnerving concentration, although Amor noticed that his hands had relaxed at his sides.
"Valdor..."
Amor said, offering him a warm smile that softened the natural sharpness hidden within his delicate features.
"Would you care to accept me as your escort?"
Valdor did not answer immediately.
His expression remained stern, almost solemn, with the same disciplined stillness he had maintained since entering the estate. Yet the tension across his broad shoulders eased so visibly that even Amor could not mistake it, while something intangible in the air around him seemed to brighten. It was as though an enormous predator had been offered an unexpected gift and possessed no expression suitable for displaying his delight.
"I accept."
Valdor said at last. His voice remained deep and serious, but the warmth beneath it was unmistakable once Amor knew to listen for it. Valdor inclined his head with grave formality, as though agreeing to a sacred ceremony rather than a stroll through an aristocratic estate. The contrast between his restrained face and his visibly relaxed body was so unexpectedly endearing that Amor’s smile became genuine before he could stop it.
’How adorable.’
The thought entered his mind with enough clarity to alarm him.
Valdor Rhazien was a towering warrior dressed in monster pelts, covered in scars and tribal markings, with arms capable of breaking Amor in half without visible effort. There was nothing conventionally adorable about him, particularly while a necklace of animal claws rested against his bare chest. Nevertheless, the quiet pleasure radiating from beneath his severe expression reminded Amor of a large, dangerous hound attempting to behave properly after being invited somewhere it desperately wanted to go.
Amor decided not to examine that comparison too carefully.
He crossed the remaining distance between them and slipped one hand around Valdor’s enormous forearm, intending only to guide him toward the door. The sheer thickness of the limb made the gesture awkward, however, and Amor could not comfortably encircle even half of it through the heavy muscle beneath Valdor’s skin. After a moment of practical consideration, he instead threaded his arm through Valdor’s and drew them together at the elbow.
Valdor became perfectly still.
The warmth of his bare skin pressed against the translucent fabric of Amor’s sleeve, startlingly intense compared with the cool manor air. Amor felt the warrior’s muscles tighten beneath the contact, not in resistance, but with the sudden alertness of someone confronted by an unfamiliar sensation he did not wish to disturb. His obsidian eyes dropped immediately toward their interlocked arms.
"There..."
Amor said, apparently unconcerned by the effect he had produced.
"Now you are less likely to become lost."
Valdor continued staring down at the place where Amor’s narrow arm disappeared around his own.
"I do not become lost."
"Then consider this protection."
"I do not require protection."
"Everyone needs protection..."
Amor replied sweetly, repeating Valdor’s earlier claim.
"From whatever comes."
Vervath’s beard shifted as his mouth curved beneath it, while Lanslet pressed his lips together in an unsuccessful effort to conceal his amusement. Valdor slowly raised his eyes to Amor’s face, recognizing his own words and the quiet challenge hidden inside their return. Rather than objecting, he allowed Amor to tug him toward the receiving-room doors.
The resulting scene was almost absurd.
Amor, slender enough that Valdor could likely lift him with one hand, moved forward with determined little steps while pulling upon a man composed almost entirely of hardened muscle. Valdor could have remained rooted in place without effort, yet he followed at the slightest pressure, adjusting his enormous stride so carefully that Amor never needed to hurry. His compliance made it appear, to any observer lacking context, as though Amor possessed the strength to drag a Blackstone warrior wherever he pleased.
Lanslet watched them go with open fondness.
The Amor he knew had spent years chasing after men who offered him neither tenderness nor respect, and recently always leaving House Moons in pursuit of another grand gesture destined to be dismissed by the cold duke. Seeing his son now walk beside someone who watched each step as though it mattered appeared to touch Lanslet more deeply than even he understood. His pink eyes lingered upon Amor’s flowing lavender hair and the smaller hand resting confidently against Valdor’s arm, filled with the boundless affection of a father whose child remained the center of his heart regardless of how old that child became.
Vervath’s expression was no less paternal, despite the harder shape of his weathered face.
He observed Valdor with the quiet attention of a man familiar with every shift in his son’s posture, including those invisible to anyone outside their family. Valdor’s stoic expression would have convinced most observers that he felt nothing beyond polite acceptance, but Vervath saw the ease in his shoulders, the uncharacteristic patience in his steps, and the careful angle at which he held his arm so Amor could remain comfortably attached. The chieftain’s obsidian eyes warmed with restrained satisfaction.
Amor reached the doors and glanced over his shoulder.
"We will begin in the gardens. I was enjoying them before Father’s summons so rudely interrupted my afternoon."
"I summoned you to meet honored guests, my moonlight."
Lanslet protested, though his delighted expression undermined any genuine offense.
"And now I am honoring one of them. You should be proud."
"I am unbearably proud."
Amor rolled his eyes with theatrical indulgence and pulled Valdor through the doorway.
The warrior followed without resistance, his attention lowering once more toward their linked arms as the doors swung gradually closed behind them. Amor’s soft voice continued from the corridor, already asking whether Valdor preferred flowers or found them useless, while Valdor’s deeper answer became indistinct beneath the movement of the heavy panels. The last thing Lanslet saw was his son looking up at the towering warrior with open curiosity rather than calculated obsession.
The doors met with a quiet click. Silence settled across the receiving room.
Lanslet remained looking toward the closed doors for another moment, his smile softening into something thoughtful. When he finally turned, he found Vervath already watching him beneath the shadow of the wolf’s head resting atop his own. No words were necessary to acknowledge that both men had recognized precisely what had just passed before them.
Still, Lanslet had never been a man who allowed a promising subject to remain unspoken.
"It appears our discussions this month may extend beyond what we planned."
He observed. Vervath leaned back in the delicate chair, which creaked beneath him as if objecting to both his weight and the implications of the conversation.
"My son does not look at many people."
Lanslet lifted one elegant brow.
"He has barely looked away from Amor since the moment they met."
"He looked once out the window."
"To judge whether Amor needed protecting from the outside, perhaps."
Vervath gave a low, approving grunt.
Their gazes returned to the closed doors, and the understanding passing between them deepened. Neither father was foolish enough to call the moment affection, much less courtship, after a single meeting. Yet both knew their children well enough to recognize when something rare had caught hold of their attention, and neither appeared inclined to discourage it.
Lanslet folded his hands neatly across his lap.
"Amor has endured a rather complicated relationship recently."
"The pale-haired duke?"
Vervath said.
"Silver-haired."
"He smells pale."
Lanslet paused, uncertain whether the statement was literal, metaphorical, or an insult rooted in Blackstone culture.
"Regardless, that relationship has ended."
Vervath studied him.
"Ended fully?"
"My son sent every belonging back this morning."
Among the kingdom’s nobles, that would have been sufficient proof, but Vervath’s expression remained skeptical in a way that suggested Blackstone separations required more than returned clothing and declarations made beneath chandeliers. Lanslet could not blame him. Alphonsins had never treated Amor with the care Lanslet believed his son deserved, yet powerful men rarely surrendered what they had grown accustomed to possessing merely because they had failed to cherish it.
"My son does not take what is claimed by another."
Vervath said.
"Amor is claimed by no one."
The firmness of Lanslet’s reply caused the chieftain’s eyes to sharpen.
For all his softness and beauty, Lanslet Moons remained a powerful noble whose love for his only child could become merciless when threatened. He had indulged Amor excessively, protected him from consequences, and permitted his obsession with Alphonsins to continue far longer than wisdom should have allowed. Now that Amor had chosen freedom for himself, Lanslet would tolerate no man attempting to drag him backward. Vervath inclined his head.
"Then Valdor may choose."
Lanslet’s mouth curved knowingly.
"And Amor may choose as well."
"Your son already took his arm."
"Amor enjoys touching beautiful things."
Vervath’s rough laughter filled the receiving chamber.
Outside, Amor remained unaware that the commercial negotiations had already acquired an entirely separate set of considerations. He guided Valdor through the western gallery at an easy pace, his arm still interlocked with the warrior’s despite having no practical need to maintain the contact. Valdor could undoubtedly memorize the estate after a single walk through it, yet Amor found no reason to withdraw.
There was something satisfying about the contrast between them.
Amor’s cream chiffon sleeve rested against Valdor’s dark, marked skin, every soft fold made more delicate by the hard muscle beneath it. Their steps also created an odd rhythm along the marble, Amor’s heels producing crisp, graceful clicks while Valdor’s leather-wrapped feet landed with subdued weight. Servants paused as they passed, struggling to conceal their surprise at the sight of their refined young master escorting a nearly bare northern warrior through the manor as casually as though they were lifelong companions.
Amor enjoyed their reactions.
"This is the western gallery..."
He explained, gesturing toward the line of moonlit landscapes displayed along the walls.
"The doors at the end lead to the private gardens, while the corridor to our right returns to the grand staircase. My father’s study is in the eastern wing, and unless he invites you inside, I recommend avoiding it, because he becomes frighteningly polite whenever someone disrupts his accounts."
Valdor looked down at him.
"You enter without invitation?"
"I am his only child."
"That means rules do not hold you?"
"It means I have spent my entire life training him to surrender."
Valdor considered that answer with such seriousness that Amor laughed softly.
"You need not believe everything I say..."
He told him.
"I am perfectly capable of exaggerating for my own amusement."
"I know."
Amor glanced up sharply.
"Do you?"
"You smile differently when the words are not true."
That observation quieted him.
Valdor had known him for less than an hour, yet he had already begun distinguishing between Amor’s genuine amusement and the calculated expressions he offered for effect. Alphonsins had spent six months beside the original Amor and rarely looked closely enough to recognize anything beyond inconvenience. The comparison emerged without invitation, and Amor dismissed it before it could sour his mood.
He turned toward the garden doors.
"You are unusually observant."
"I hunt."
"People are not animals."
Valdor’s dark gaze settled upon him.
"People hide tracks better."
Amor’s lips curved. The answer pleased him more than it should have, because it confirmed that Valdor’s intelligence extended beyond survival and physical strength. Kingdom nobles might dismiss him as a barbarian because he wore furs rather than embroidered coats, but Amor suspected the warrior understood motives and deception with greater clarity than most men at court. He had simply learned to read different signs.
They stepped through the glass doors and entered the gardens.
Warm afternoon air drifted across them, carrying the fragrance of lavender roses and freshly watered earth, while sunlight caught in Amor’s long hair and scattered pale violet reflections across Valdor’s shoulder. The warrior slowed as he surveyed the carefully cultivated landscape, his obsidian eyes moving over the trimmed hedges, marble statues, and flowering arches with an expression that bordered upon suspicion. Nothing in the garden resembled the wild northern territories he knew.
"This was where I spent the morning..."
Amor said.
"Do your people keep gardens?"
Valdor looked toward a bed of white blossoms arranged into the shape of a crescent moon.
"We grow food."
"That was not the question."
"Flowers grow without help."
Amor stopped walking and stared at him with wounded disbelief.
"That is a barbaric opinion."
Valdor’s gaze dropped toward him.
"I am called barbarian."
"At least you are consistent."
The faint curve returned to Valdor’s scarred mouth.
Amor felt an unreasonable spark of satisfaction at having produced it, as though coaxing amusement from the severe warrior were a private victory. He guided them along the stone path toward the arbour, deliberately choosing the longer route around the central fountain. Their arms remained linked, and although Valdor’s attention occasionally swept the gardens for possible threats, it always returned to the point where they touched.
Amor noticed that as well.
He wondered whether physical contact carried a different meaning among the Blackstone people, particularly because Valdor reacted to it with such intense, almost reverent awareness. Perhaps interlocking arms was considered intimate in the northern tribes, or perhaps warriors simply maintained greater personal distance than kingdom nobles. Amor had initiated the gesture casually, but Valdor held himself with the careful stillness of a man afraid that one careless movement might cause it to end.
"Are Blackstone people unaccustomed to touching one another?"
Amor asked. Valdor looked at him.
"We touch."
"That is a remarkably broad answer."
"We fight, embrace kin, carry wounded, and sleep close in winter."
Amor considered the list.
"Do you escort guests like this?"
"No."
"Friends?"
"No."
"People you find personally curious?"
Valdor’s eyes darkened with renewed intensity.
Amor hid his smile behind his fan, enjoying the way the question unsettled the otherwise unshakable warrior. He had not forgotten Valdor’s admission inside the sitting room, nor did he intend to allow such an interesting statement to pass unexplored. If the man’s attention carried cultural significance, Amor would uncover it before he accidentally accepted a marriage proposal by touching the wrong piece of fur.
Valdor glanced down at their interlocked arms again.
"Among my people, this would mean trust."
"Only trust?"
The question emerged more suggestively than Amor intended.
Valdor’s gaze moved from their arms to Amor’s face, lingering upon the plump lips visible above the edge of his folded fan. His expression remained serious, but a subtle warmth entered his eyes, deepening the obsidian until it seemed almost molten beneath the sunlight.
"It may mean more."
"How reassuringly vague."
"You have not asked the right question."
Amor tilted his head.
"And what question would that be?"
Valdor remained silent. His refusal did not feel like uncertainty, but like a deliberate challenge inviting Amor to discover the answer himself. The warrior’s body had relaxed since leaving the receiving room, yet the arm beneath Amor’s hand remained warm and solid, carrying an increasing heat that could not be blamed entirely upon the afternoon sun. Valdor appeared aware of it as well, though he made no attempt to put distance between them. Amor resumed walking.
"Tell me about the northern wildlands..."
He said, allowing the subject to change for the moment.
"The novel—"
He stopped himself before the dangerous word could escape completely. Valdor looked down at him.
"The what?"
"The novels written about your territory, um—books!"
Amor corrected smoothly.
"They describe endless snow, monster-filled forests, and warriors who drink blood from the skulls of their enemies."
"Only during weddings."
Amor stared at him. Valdor’s face remained perfectly solemn. A moment later, Amor realized the warrior was teasing him.
The laugh escaped before he could restrain it, bright and genuine enough to carry across the quiet garden. Valdor watched him with an expression of subtle fascination, as though the sound pleased him more than the finest music performed on the streets he’d passed to get here. His arm shifted slightly beneath Amor’s, drawing their bodies a fraction closer without either of them openly acknowledging the movement.
"You are more troublesome than you appear!"
Amor accused.
"Your looks says appearances encourage underestimation."
Amor’s steps faltered. He had spoken those words only within his own thoughts. Valdor continued walking, apparently unaware of the exact nature of Amor’s surprise.
"You dress soft so others see softness. Your eyes are not soft."
A pleasant chill traveled down Amor’s spine.
"And what do you see in them?"
He asked.
"Hunger."
The answer struck with startling force, though Valdor did not clarify what kind of hunger he believed he had recognized. Ambition, curiosity, danger, or some deeper appetite Amor himself had not yet named could all exist behind that single word. He studied the warrior’s face, searching for judgment, but found none.
Only recognition.
Amor decided to retreat into safer territory before Valdor examined him too thoroughly.
"You have said nothing about how you grew up."
Valdor accepted the change without resistance.
"In winter tents until I was six, then the stone lodge."
"Did your father train you?"
"My father, my mother, my father’s sisters and brothers, and every warrior who defeated me until I defeated them."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It was."
Valdor spoke of his childhood without embellishment, answering each question with the directness Amor was already beginning to expect. He described learning to track animals before he could read trade script, sleeping beneath layered furs during mountain storms, and receiving his first tribal marking after killing a carrion beast that had wandered too close to a winter settlement. His mother, Sarka, commanded the clan’s hunters and had once broken Vervath’s nose during the contest that preceded their marriage.
Amor became more fascinated with every answer.
"So your parents fought before becoming married?"
"Three times."
"Did your father ever win?"
"No."
"That explains why I like your mother already."
Valdor’s mouth curved more noticeably.
"She would like you."
"You cannot possibly know that."
"She likes sharp things."
Amor flicked open his fan with a graceful snap.
"I am not a thing."
"No..."
Valdor agreed, his gaze moving slowly across Amor’s face.
"You are not."
The gravity beneath those words made Amor’s pulse shift. He turned toward the fountain before Valdor could notice, though the warrior’s earlier observations suggested concealment might already be impossible. The difference between Valdor and the nobles of the kingdom was becoming increasingly clear:
Noblemen wrapped every desire in compliments, denials, and carefully coded gestures, whereas Valdor spoke little but allowed each word to land without disguise. His interest did not feel polished or socially convenient. It felt instinctive.
"Do you enjoy living in the Blackstone territory?"
Amor asked as they approached the arbour.
"It is home."
"That does not necessarily mean you enjoy it."
Valdor considered the distinction.
"I enjoy the mountains, the hunts, the winter fires, and hearing the clan sing after victory. I do not enjoy burying those monsters take."
The blunt sorrow beneath the final sentence stripped the lightness from their conversation.
Amor glanced up at him and saw no dramatic grief upon his face, only the quiet acceptance of someone raised beside death and accustomed to carrying its weight. Valdor’s markings, scars, and powerful body no longer seemed merely exotic within the cultivated garden. They were evidence of a life spent protecting people from dangers the kingdom’s nobles discussed only when trade profits declined.
"You have lost many?"
Amor asked.
"Yes."
"I am sorry."
Valdor looked down at him, apparently surprised by the sincerity in his voice. After a moment, his free hand rose as though he intended to touch Amor, but he stopped before his rough fingers reached the lavender hair spilling over Amor’s shoulder. The hand lowered again, restrained by either etiquette or uncertainty.
"Why do you apologize? You did not kill them."
He said.
"Compassion does not require responsibility."
Valdor fell silent.
They reached the flowering arbour where Amor’s abandoned tea service still rested upon the low table. The cakes had been covered to preserve them, and fresh steam curled from a replacement pot brought by attentive servants during his absence. Amor reluctantly withdrew his arm from Valdor’s and gestured toward the cushioned seats.
The loss of contact was immediate.
Valdor’s arm remained suspended for a fraction of a second before lowering to his side, and the warmth that had gathered between them disappeared into the garden air. His expression did not change, yet his gaze followed Amor’s hand as though he regretted the separation. The reaction was so quietly disappointed that Amor once again found it absurdly endearing.
"Sit..."
Amor instructed.
"You have survived beast trails and monster attacks, but now you must face the true danger of noble society."
Valdor examined the delicate chair.
"It will break."
"Then sit on the ground. I refuse to explain a furniture casualty to the household staff."
Valdor lowered himself onto the grass beside Amor’s seat with effortless grace, folding his powerful legs beneath him. Even seated, he remained nearly level with Amor’s shoulder, which only emphasized their ridiculous difference in size. Amor poured him tea, curious whether the enormous warrior would treat the fine porcelain cup as an enemy weapon.
Valdor accepted it carefully between thick fingers.
His attention, however, remained fixed upon Amor rather than the unfamiliar drink. He had learned more about House Moons, its layout, and its heir during their brief walk than he had expected, yet one sensation overshadowed every discovery. The place where Amor’s arm had rested against his own still seemed to burn.
Valdor had crossed frozen rivers barefoot, endured ritual brands, and slept beside fires hot enough to blister exposed skin. None of those experiences had produced the strange, spreading warmth now settled beneath his ribs. Amor’s touch had been light, almost careless, but Valdor’s body remembered it with unsettling precision.
He lowered his eyes toward the tea.
Across from him, Amor selected a small cream cake and began asking whether Blackstone children feared monsters or learned to name them before they could speak. Valdor answered as fully as he could, explaining the difference between fear and respect, all while listening to the musical rhythm of Amor’s voice. Whenever Amor smiled, that unfamiliar warmth increased.
Valdor did not understand it.
He only knew that he wanted Amor to take his arm again.