By the time Amor returned to the main house, the story of the escaped ram had traveled considerably faster than he had.
He had barely crossed the rear terrace before three servants hurried toward him, followed closely by Percival, whose ordinarily impassive expression had tightened with visible concern. One maid immediately reached for Amor’s arm as though expecting him to collapse, while another stared in horror at the traces of bark caught in his lavender hair and the faint smudges of dirt staining the hem of his pale rose tunic. Their alarm intensified when Amor calmly explained that Valdor had placed him in a tree before wrestling the animal to the ground.
Within minutes, Amor found himself seated in a private parlor while the estate physician examined him beneath the distressed scrutiny of nearly half the household.
Doctor Haverin, an elderly man with silver spectacles and the permanently weary demeanor of someone who had spent decades treating wealthy people convinced they were dying from inconvenience, checked Amor’s pulse, pupils, joints, and breathing with painstaking care. He inspected Amor’s ankles for strain from the jump, questioned him repeatedly about dizziness, and pressed along his ribs despite Amor’s insistence that the ram had never touched him. The only injuries he discovered were a faint scrape along Amor’s palm from gripping the tree branch and the older bruises circling his wrist, which Amor dismissed before the physician could begin asking questions he had no desire to answer.
Lanslet arrived before the examination concluded.
The doors opened with such force that the marquess’s long lavender-and-silver hair swept over one shoulder, his usually measured elegance disturbed by an urgency Amor had never seen from him before. Lanslet crossed the room without acknowledging anyone else, sank to his knees before Amor’s chair, and gathered both of his son’s hands into his own as though confirming with touch that he remained alive. His soft pink eyes moved over Amor’s face, clothing, and limbs with increasing distress.
"A ram..."
Lanslet repeated faintly after hearing the explanation.
"A fully grown breeding ram escaped its enclosure, entered the woodland path, and charged at you upon my estate."
"It sounds more dramatic when you arrange the facts in that order."
Amor observed.
"How else should I arrange them?"
Lanslet turned toward Percival and the farm steward with an expression so beautifully furious that both men straightened instinctively. He demanded to know when the enclosure had last been inspected, why no alarm had been raised the moment the animal escaped, and how an aggressive ram had reached the woodland without a single worker intercepting it. Each question remained perfectly controlled, yet the polished calm in his voice only made his anger more unnerving.
The farm steward explained that the ram had shown no previous signs of unusual aggression, although it had recently begun striking the fence whenever other males were moved through the neighboring field. One damaged post had apparently weakened beneath repeated impacts before finally giving way, allowing the animal to force itself through the enclosure and wander toward the trees. The workers had discovered the breach only moments before Valdor returned carrying the dead ram across his shoulder.
"That fence should have been replaced the first time damage appeared!"
Lanslet said, his voice growing softer rather than louder.
"Had Valdor not been beside my son, we would not be discussing negligent maintenance. We would be preparing a funeral!"
The color drained from the steward’s face. Amor squeezed his father’s hand before Lanslet could terrify the man into confessing responsibility for every defective fence in the kingdom.
"Nothing happened because Valdor was there, Father, and no one believed the animal would escape. Repair the enclosure, review the remaining fences, and let the workers learn from the mistake without imagining you intending to hang them beside the livestock pens."
Lanslet looked back at him. His anger dissolved so quickly into shaken tenderness that Amor felt a reluctant ache beneath his ribs.
"You could have been killed."
"I could also have fallen down the grand staircase this morning, choked on a pastry during tea, or been struck by a decorative vase while walking through the western gallery. Life appears determined to surround me with possibilities."
"That is not comforting."
"It was not intended to be."
Lanslet rose only after Doctor Haverin assured him for the third time that Amor had suffered no hidden injury. Even then, he insisted upon accompanying his son upstairs, maintaining one hand at Amor’s back as though the ram might somehow return inside the manor and resume its attack. Amor endured the hovering with exaggerated patience, privately recognizing that his father’s fear came from love rather than any doubt in Amor’s ability to walk.
The distress only eased when Amor promised to remain in his rooms until dinner.
Once the doors of his private chambers closed behind him, Amor finally exhaled and surveyed the state of his clothing. Dust clung to the lower folds of his tunic, crushed leaves had tangled into the translucent sleeves, and a dark streak of moss marked one hip where Valdor had settled him upon the tree branch. He did not appear injured, but he looked unmistakably as though he had spent the afternoon being carried through woodland rather than reclining decorously beneath the garden arbour.
Amor found the evidence oddly embarrassing.
Valdor had seen him in precisely this condition, of course, and had seemed concerned with nothing except ensuring that both of Amor’s shoes remained secured to his feet. Yet the thought of appearing at dinner still carrying dirt from their interrupted walk felt unacceptable. The warrior had gone to considerable trouble on his behalf, and Amor had no intention of sitting across from him looking as though he had been dragged through a hedge.
"I need a bath..."
Amor decided.
"Make it lavender scented, and have it be properly hot."
His attendants moved immediately from seemingly out of nowhere.
The bathing chamber adjoining Amor’s bedroom was soon filled with fragrant steam, the deep marble pool scattered with lavender blossoms and softened by oils intended to soothe strained muscles. Amor sank into the warmth until the water reached his shoulders, closing his eyes as the heat loosened the tension he had not realized remained within his body. The moment Valdor swept him from the ground returned with uncomfortable clarity—the effortless strength of the arm around his waist, the rush of air as they rose into the tree, and the absolute security of being held against a body capable of overpowering a charging animal.
Amor slipped deeper into the water.
He told himself the recollection persisted because it had been dramatic, not because Valdor’s broad hands had felt surprisingly gentle against his back and knees. Any man would remember being carried several yards into the air before watching his rescuer seize an enraged ram by the horns. The warmth spreading through Amor’s chest whenever he recalled their lingering embrace was merely an inconvenient result of excitement.
That explanation became less convincing each time he repeated it.
...
After the bath, his maids dried his long lavender hair with warmed cloths before brushing it until every strand gleamed. Amor initially intended to select something simple for dinner, but his gaze kept drifting past the modest robes toward garments with softer fabrics, lower necklines, and finer embroidery. By the time he settled upon an outfit, he had somehow chosen one that required all three attendants to arrange correctly.
The ensemble consisted of a flowing cream tunic layered over fitted trousers in a pale shade between lavender and silver. The neckline draped low enough to reveal the graceful lines of his collarbones, while translucent fabric crossed his shoulders before descending into long, divided sleeves that floated behind his wrists. A narrow sash of rose-colored silk emphasized his waist, and tiny moonstones sewn along its edge caught the candlelight whenever he moved.
His hair received equal attention.
Rather than leaving it completely loose, the maids drew several sections back from his face and braided them with delicate silver cords, fastening the arrangement with a crescent-shaped ornament above the nape of his neck. Most of the lavender waves remained free, spilling past his waist and carrying the subtle fragrance of the bath oils. A touch of rose balm deepened the natural pink of his lips, although Amor refused the pearl powder one maid suggested for his cheeks.
"Young Master hardly requires it..."
Another maid said, her eyes sparkling as she adjusted one flowing sleeve.
"His complexion is already perfect."
"He has chosen the moonstone sash..."
The first whispered.
"And the low neckline."
"And lavender oil!"
Amor looked at them through the mirror.
"You are both speaking as though I am not seated directly in front of you."
The maids immediately lowered their eyes, though the smiles threatening their professionalism remained painfully obvious.
"Forgive us, Young Master."
"What ridiculous conclusion have you reached?"
Neither woman answered.
A third attendant, who had been arranging the silver cords through Amor’s hair, attempted to rescue them with an innocent expression.
"We merely thought you seemed particularly interested in presenting yourself well this evening."
"I always present myself well!"
"Of course!"
Amor narrowed his eyes at the mirror.
The three maids exchanged a glance so swift that they likely believed he had missed it, but their shared amusement required no explanation. They thought he had dressed with someone in mind, and judging by the suppressed giggling that followed whenever one of them mentioned the household’s honored guests, they had already identified Valdor as that someone. Amor should have corrected them immediately.
Instead, he turned his head slightly to examine how the moonstone ornament caught the light.
"Adjust the sash..."
He said.
"It sits unevenly."
The maids’ smiles widened. Amor ignored them.
He had not consciously dressed for Valdor, he decided, because that would imply intentions he had not yet examined carefully enough to claim. He simply preferred appearing clean and elegant at dinner, particularly after spending the afternoon covered in leaves. If the softer fabrics happened to emphasize every delicate feature Valdor had already found so interesting, that was merely a fortunate result of good taste.
By the time Amor descended toward the formal dining room, the estate had settled into the warm stillness of evening.
Wall sconces illuminated the marble corridors in gentle gold, and the tall windows reflected Amor’s pale silhouette as he passed. His heels produced a softer sound than those he had worn earlier, their measured clicks accompanied by the whisper of flowing sleeves and silk. Several servants bowed along the way, though more than one looked after him with the same knowing expression his maids had worn upstairs.
Amor found the household’s collective imagination deeply intrusive.
The formal dining chamber occupied the eastern side of the manor, its tall windows overlooking the moon garden and its walls decorated with silver reliefs depicting the history of House Moons. A long polished table stood beneath a chandelier of crystal crescents, set for four rather than the dozen guests it could comfortably accommodate. Lanslet was already seated at the head, while Vervath occupied the place to his left in a reinforced chair that had apparently been moved from another room after the earlier furniture incident.
The two fathers were speaking quietly when Amor entered. Neither noticed him immediately, giving Amor enough time to hear Vervath say.
"Valdor has built three winter lodges without help. He knows hunting, tools, hides, herbs, and how to provide when snow closes the mountain."
Lanslet nodded with grave attention.
"Amor has never tolerated cold particularly well, but he enjoys luxurious furs. A properly insulated lodge might persuade him to overlook the climate."
"He would have the warmest lodge."
"And servants?"
"Anyone joined to the chieftain’s blood is served by the clan, though Valdor would not let others perform every duty."
"How admirable."
Amor slowed near the doorway.
The conversation sounded strangely domestic for a discussion between men supposedly negotiating silverwood rights, although he could not immediately determine why his tolerance for cold had become relevant. Before he could hear anything further, Lanslet glanced up and saw him. His father’s expression brightened before shifting with remarkable speed into polished neutrality.
"Ah-ahem! The river transport would reduce losses by nearly a quarter!"
Lanslet said, so abruptly that the sentence barely connected to anything preceding it. Vervath gave a solemn nod.
"Kah, kah! The western basin has sufficient timber."
Amor looked between them. Both men now wore the composed expressions of negotiators engaged in serious commercial discussion, though Vervath’s earlier mention of Valdor’s ability to build winter lodges remained inconveniently lodged in Amor’s mind. Lanslet gestured warmly toward the chair at his right, apparently confident that no explanation was required.
"My moonlight, you look beautiful."
"I was covered in woodland debris less than two hours ago..."
Amor replied as he approached.
"Improvement was unavoidable."
"You were beautiful then as well."
’That is precisely the kind of indulgence that created the original me.’
Amor thought, though he merely smiled and took the seat beside his father.
The place opposite him, beside Vervath, remained empty. Amor’s gaze moved there almost immediately, drawn by the absence before he could pretend otherwise. He had expected Valdor to arrive first, perhaps still dressed in the same minimal furs after washing away the dirt from the encounter. The warrior’s failure to appear produced a faint disappointment Amor considered entirely unreasonable after they had spent most of the afternoon together.
"Where is Valdor?"
He asked. Vervath’s dark eyes moved toward the closed doors leading to the service corridor.
"Working."
"At this hour?"
"He said the ram required proper preparation."
Amor raised one lavender brow.
"He is helping the farm workers butcher it?"
"Among other things."
Before Vervath could elaborate, the doors connecting the dining chamber to the kitchens opened.
Valdor entered carrying a tray so enormous that two ordinary servants would have placed it upon a wheeled cart rather than attempting to lift it. The silver platter rested easily across his broad hands, covered by a domed lid polished brightly enough to reflect the chandelier. Several kitchen servants followed behind him, each carrying bowls of vegetables, grains, sauces, and freshly baked bread, though their expressions suggested they were still recovering from having an honored guest take command of their domain.
Valdor had washed and changed after his work.
His black hair remained faintly damp, the uneven strands combed back from his face while the decorated braids rested neatly against his shoulders. He wore fresh dark furs secured at his hips and a sleeveless leather wrap crossing part of his torso, though most of his broad chest and marked arms remained exposed. The outfit was no more conventional than what he had worn earlier, but the clean leather, polished beads, and newly oiled tribal markings gave him an unexpectedly ceremonial appearance.
His obsidian eyes found Amor immediately. Valdor’s steps slowed for the smallest moment.
Amor recognized the reaction because he had already learned to look beyond the warrior’s stern expression. Valdor’s gaze traveled over the cream fabric draping Amor’s shoulders, the rose-colored sash around his narrow waist, and the lavender hair arranged with silver cords. The air around him seemed to warm with silent appreciation before he resumed crossing the room.
Amor pretended not to notice how much the scrutiny pleased him.
Valdor set the massive platter near the center of the table, though noticeably closer to Amor’s seat than anyone else’s. The polished wood barely trembled beneath its weight. When he lifted the silver cover, fragrant steam rolled outward and filled the dining chamber with the rich scents of roasted meat, herbs, honey, and pepper.
The ram had been transformed completely.
Thick slices of meat rested upon a bed of roasted roots and winter greens, their surfaces browned and glazed until they shone beneath the candlelight. Juices pooled around the edges of the platter, carrying visible flecks of crushed herbs and sweet golden sauce, while the tender interior of each slice yielded beneath the serving knife. Whatever toughness Amor expected from an older breeding ram had been eliminated through patient preparation. Lanslet inhaled appreciatively.
"That smells extraordinary!"
Vervath looked upon the platter with unmistakable pride, though he offered only a low sound of approval. Amor leaned slightly closer, his earlier disappointment vanishing beneath genuine anticipation. He had consumed an absurd quantity of pastries during the afternoon, yet the fragrance awakened his appetite as though the cakes had been a distant memory.
Valdor moved around the table. Rather than occupying the empty chair beside his father, he pulled out the place directly beside Amor, one usually reserved for particularly intimate family guests. He lowered his immense body into the reinforced chair a servant had placed there, leaving Vervath opposite them and shifting the balance of the formal seating arrangement. No one objected.
Lanslet looked delighted. Valdor immediately reached for Amor’s plate.
He selected the largest and most tender-looking piece of ram, then added roasted carrots glazed with honey, dark green vegetables, spiced barley, and a generous spoonful of softened root mash. The resulting portion was balanced but substantial, arranged with the practical care of someone determined to ensure Amor received both pleasure and nourishment. Only after filling Amor’s plate did Valdor begin preparing one for himself.
Amor stared at the food placed before him.
According to kingdom tradition, the head of the household should receive the first serving, particularly during a formal dinner with foreign guests. Lanslet was supposed to select the choicest portion before allowing the others to begin. Valdor had disregarded that custom entirely, and Amor expected his father to offer at least a gentle correction.
Instead, Lanslet smiled at Valdor with approval.
"Make certain Amor receives enough vegetables. He would happily survive upon cream and sugar if no one intervened."
"Father!"
"I have witnessed your breakfast choices."
Vervath had already begun serving himself, apparently unconcerned with either kingdom etiquette or his son’s priorities. He selected several large slices of meat and a mountain of barley bread, then passed the serving utensils toward Lanslet without comment. The chieftain seemed to regard Valdor feeding Amor first as perfectly natural.
Amor looked at his father again.
Lanslet did not care that his household authority had technically been ignored because the person receiving the first and best serving was his son. Tradition, rank, and foreign diplomacy could all apparently collapse without protest when Amor’s comfort was involved. The realization made Lanslet seem simultaneously foolish, dangerously indulgent, and perhaps the most wonderful father Amor could have inherited.
His expression softened before he could stop it.
"What is it, my moonlight?"
Lanslet asked.
"Nothing."
"You are looking at me strangely. Is something not to your liking?"
Amor lifted his fan, though carrying one at the dinner table served little practical purpose.
"I was merely considering the depth of your devotion to proper etiquette."
"Etiquette exists to protect people, not to prevent my son from eating while the food is hot."
’Haah, it’s hopeless.’
Amor thought fondly.
His attention remained upon Lanslet long enough that he failed to notice Valdor cutting the ram meat into a smaller piece. The warrior tested its tenderness with the side of the fork, dipped it lightly into the honeyed juices, and lifted it toward Amor. Only when the warm metal touched his lower lip did Amor return fully to the present.
He turned his head.
Valdor sat close enough that their shoulders nearly touched, holding the fork steadily before Amor’s mouth. His expression was entirely serious, as though personally feeding the heir of House Moons were the most reasonable act imaginable. The piece of meat waited between them, fragrant and glistening.
Amor’s mind emptied.
No nobleman had ever attempted to feed him at a formal dinner, at least not without turning the gesture into an embarrassing display of seduction. Even the original Amor’s lovers had maintained enough courtly restraint to avoid such intimacy in front of a parent and foreign chieftain. Valdor appeared unaware—or unconcerned—that two powerful people and several servants were watching.
Amor’s lips parted involuntarily. Valdor took the opening without hesitation.
The fork slid gently past Amor’s plump lips, and he closed his mouth around the meat before the absurdity of the situation could catch up with him. Valdor withdrew the utensil carefully, watching Amor with the same concentrated attention he had given the ram while preparing it. The expectation within those obsidian eyes made Amor forget his embarrassment long enough to chew.
The meat practically dissolved.
It was tender enough to separate beneath the slightest pressure, rich and savory without carrying the strong flavor Amor associated with older animals. Honey softened the pepper and herbs, while a faint smoky taste remained beneath the glaze, giving the dish depth without overwhelming its sweetness. The recipe seemed constructed specifically around Amor’s preferences. His pink eyes widened.
"This is delicious!"
He exclaimed, momentarily forgetting that he had just permitted a near stranger to hand-feed him before the heads of two powerful families.
"I did not know ram could become this tender."
Valdor’s shoulders eased. The subtle release of tension revealed that he had been waiting for Amor’s judgment with considerably more concern than his expression showed. He immediately began cutting another piece, selecting a portion with slightly more glaze. Amor watched his hands move before remembering that he should probably feed himself.
Lanslet tasted the meat from his own plate. His eyebrows rose in genuine astonishment.
"This is exceptional. The sweetness is delicate, the herbs do not overpower the meat, and I cannot remember the last time our kitchens made ram without leaving it heavy or dry.."
He turned toward the servants standing near the kitchen doors.
"Make certain the chef records this recipe. I would like it served again tomorrow."
The senior kitchen attendant bowed deeply.
"Of course, my lord, although Chef Mirren did not prepare tonight’s meat."
Lanslet paused.
"He did not?"
"The honored guest took charge of the preparation himself..."
The servant explained.
"Lord Valdor inspected the animal with the farm workers, assisted in processing it, selected the cuts, and personally prepared the marinade and glaze. The kitchen staff followed his instructions for the vegetables and grains, but the ram is entirely his work."
Every gaze shifted toward Valdor. The warrior appeared not to notice.
He was occupied cutting Amor’s second piece into a size he apparently considered appropriate, then turning it through the sauce to coat each side. His dark brows drew together slightly as he inspected the tenderness, as though the conversation about his unexpected culinary talent were irrelevant compared with ensuring Amor’s next bite remained perfect.
Lanslet’s expression became radiant.
"What an extraordinary talent..."
He said.
"Your father mentioned that you could hunt and craft tools, but he neglected to say you were capable of producing a meal that could shame the chefs in the capital."
Vervath looked genuinely surprised.
"Valdor seldom cooks."
His son’s knife paused.
"Seldom?"
Lanslet repeated.
"He eats what is prepared..."
Vervath explained, tearing a piece of bread between his large hands.
"When he hunts alone, he roasts meat over fire or eats it dried. He knows how to cook because every Blackstone child learns, but he does not often take charge unless supplies must be preserved."
Valdor resumed cutting.
"There is usually no need."
Vervath’s obsidian eyes moved from his son to Amor’s heavily filled plate and then back again. Amusement gathered beneath the weathered sternness of his face.
"Why was there a need tonight?"
The knife stopped once more.
For the first time since entering the dining room, Valdor seemed caught without an answer. His expression remained stoic, but the faint tightening across his shoulders betrayed him, while his gaze lowered toward the piece of meat waiting upon his fork. Vervath watched with the patience of a father who already knew precisely what response had been trapped behind his son’s pride.
"There were cooks here..."
The chieftain continued.
"There were butchers, farm workers, and servants. Why did you take the ram into the kitchen yourself?"
Valdor looked at Amor. The glance lasted only a moment, but it carried enough warmth to silence every whisper of cutlery in the room. His attention moved over Amor’s face, pausing upon the pleased color in his cheeks and the lips that had already accepted one bite from his fork. Then he returned his focus to the plate.
"I felt like it."
Valdor muttered. Vervath gave a low sound that was suspiciously close to laughter.
Lanslet did not bother concealing his delight. He lifted his wineglass, though the sparkling satisfaction in his eyes suggested he would happily have toasted the development had Amor not been seated close enough to object. Several servants near the walls lowered their gazes with heroic professionalism, while the kitchen attendant appeared suddenly fascinated by the table linens.
Amor could feel every implication gathering around him.
Valdor had killed the animal that threatened him, carried it back to the farm, ensured it was healthy enough for consumption, and then personally prepared it according to flavors he believed Amor would enjoy. He had apparently done something he rarely bothered doing for himself or his family, then arrived at dinner carrying the meal with his own hands. Now he sat beside Amor, cutting each bite and watching for approval as though nothing else at the table mattered.
It was not a casual act.
Amor knew enough about courtship to recognize deliberate attention, yet Valdor’s gesture lacked the vanity and performance that usually accompanied aristocratic romance. He had not ordered an expensive dish from a celebrated chef or arranged the meal so others would praise his generosity. He had worked with his own hands, silently transforming a threat into food and asking for nothing except Amor’s enjoyment.
How was Amor supposed to respond to something so sincere?
He could tease Valdor, perhaps remark that cooking dinner after rescuing someone from a charging ram was an excessively thorough method of gaining favor. He could flirt openly and ask whether every Blackstone warrior fed people they found personally curious. He could also dismiss the act as ordinary hospitality, preserving distance before their month beneath the same roof developed into something he did not understand.
Every option seemed wrong.
Teasing might diminish the care Valdor had shown, while flirtation could communicate intentions Amor had not yet decided whether to embrace. Pretending the gesture meant nothing would be cruel, particularly when Valdor’s careful attention revealed how much Amor’s reaction mattered. Amor had navigated noble scandals, rewritten his own doomed future, and ended a relationship with the novel’s male lead, yet one earnest barbarian holding a fork had left him completely without strategy.
Valdor lifted the second piece toward him. Amor stared at it.
The warrior’s obsidian eyes shifted from the fork to Amor’s face, a trace of uncertainty entering them for the first time. Perhaps he had finally begun to suspect that hand-feeding another man before both their fathers carried implications beyond ordinary Blackstone care. His hand remained steady, but the warmth around him seemed to retreat slightly as he waited.
Amor’s heart softened. He opened his mouth. Valdor’s uncertainty vanished instantly.
The fork passed between Amor’s lips with the same gentleness as before, and the second bite tasted even sweeter than the first. Amor chewed while carefully avoiding the delighted gaze of his father, the amused attention of Vervath, and the growing conviction that every servant in House Moons would know about this dinner before dessert. Valdor was already preparing another piece.
"Allow the boy to use his own spear once in a while, son."
Vervath remarked. Valdor did not look up.
"He is eating."
"I can see that."
"He ate mostly cakes earlier."
Amor nearly choked. Lanslet’s gaze sharpened toward his son.
"Mostly?"
"There were sandwiches!"
Amor defended.
"One small plate."
Valdor said.
"And fruit!"
"Sugar-coated."
Vervath continued eating with visible amusement, while Lanslet looked personally betrayed by the revelation of Amor’s afternoon diet.
"You told me you had eaten a proper lunch."
"I told you I had eaten, Father."
"That is not the same thing."
"It was accurate."
Valdor placed several roasted vegetables onto Amor’s plate, adding them to the portion already present.
"He needs more food with strength."
Amor turned toward him.
"You have known me for less than a day and already joined my father’s campaign against my eating habits! Humph!"
"Your father is correct."
"That may be the first truly offensive thing you have said to me."
Valdor’s mouth shifted faintly.
"Eat."
He lifted a glazed carrot toward Amor. Amor narrowed his eyes but accepted it anyway.
The gesture was becoming alarmingly natural. Each time Valdor offered another bite, Amor’s hesitation shortened until he found himself leaning subtly toward the fork before it reached him. Valdor alternated meat with vegetables and barley bread, ensuring Amor did not simply consume the sweetest portions, while occasionally taking several large bites from his own plate between feeding him.
Lanslet watched the arrangement with such satisfaction that Amor feared he might begin planning a wedding before the soup course.
Across the table, Vervath appeared equally entertained, although his pride in his son carried a quieter quality. He had likely seen Valdor protect siblings, feed wounded hunters, and care for clan members after difficult journeys, but apparently never with this immediate devotion toward someone apparently newly met. His gaze lingered upon the warrior’s careful hands and Amor’s willing acceptance, recognizing the beginnings of something neither younger man seemed prepared to name.
The fathers exchanged another look. Amor caught it this time.
"What are the two of you doing?"
He asked. Lanslet immediately reached for his wine.
"Enjoying dinner."
"Without speaking?"
"We have become remarkably efficient negotiators, we need not speak to discuss our dealings."
Vervath nodded solemnly.
"Very efficient."
Amor looked from one man to the other, entirely unconvinced. Valdor used the distraction to offer him another piece of meat, and Amor accepted before remembering he had intended to investigate. The sweetness silenced his questions for several seconds, which Valdor appeared to consider a successful tactic. Lanslet’s mouth curved behind his glass.
"This recipe truly should be preserved..."
Lanslet said.
"Perhaps Valdor might instruct Chef Mirren tomorrow."
"He will not cook the same meal tomorrow."
Vervath replied.
"Why not?"
"Blackstone custom."
Valdor’s gaze lifted sharply toward his father. Amor noticed.
"What custom?"
Vervath tore another piece of bread with deliberate slowness, apparently deciding how much to reveal beneath his son’s warning stare.
"A hunter who kills a threat may prepare the meat for those protected. It returns fear to strength."
Amor glanced toward the glazed ram upon his plate.
"That explains why he cooked it...."
He said, relieved to discover a cultural reason that might make the act less personally significant. Vervath continued.
"But preparing it sweetly for one person, serving that person before elders, and feeding them from one’s own hand are separate choices."
Valdor’s jaw tightened. Lanslet looked delighted beyond reason. Amor’s relief collapsed.
He turned slowly toward Valdor, who had lowered his gaze to the plate and begun cutting the next bite with unnecessary concentration. The black markings across his arm shifted as his grip tightened around the knife. A faint warmth darkened the upper edges of his ears a soft red, nearly invisible against his caramel skin but unmistakable once Amor noticed it.
"Separate choices?"
Amor repeated. Vervath nodded.
"Yes."
"What do those choices mean?"
Valdor placed the knife down.
"[Dad!]"
The single word carried a warning deep enough to quiet several servants, but Vervath remained entirely untroubled.
"He asks?"
"I did not ask you to tell."
Amor’s brows rose. Vervath leaned back in his reinforced chair, amusement deepening within his obsidian eyes.
"Then answer him yourself."
Valdor became silent. Amor waited, suddenly far more aware of their closeness and the fork still held within Valdor’s broad fingers. The warrior’s shoulder rested only inches from his own, radiating heat through the delicate layers of Amor’s sleeve. For someone usually so direct, Valdor’s reluctance to explain was remarkably revealing.
"Does it mean courtship?"
Amor asked before caution could intervene. Lanslet’s wineglass stopped halfway to his lips. Vervath looked openly pleased. Valdor turned toward Amor.
Their eyes met, and the dining room seemed to contract around them despite the servants, fathers, candlelight, and heavily laden table. Valdor’s expression remained serious, but his gaze carried the same unnamed tenderness Amor had witnessed beneath the tree. He did not deny the possibility.
"It can."
He said. Amor’s pulse shifted.
"Does it mean that tonight?"
He tentatively asked. Valdor looked at the fork between them, then at the plate he had filled with such care.
"I do not know your kingdom’s courtship customs."
"That was not my question."
"No..."
Amor studied him, uncertain whether the denial referred to courtship or the claim that Valdor did not understand. The warrior’s eyes remained fixed upon him, stripped of their earlier embarrassment and filled instead with blunt honesty.
"I did not cook because custom required it."
The answer settled warmly beneath Amor’s ribs.
"Then why?"
He asked, quieter now. Valdor’s fingers flexed around the fork.
"Because the ram frightened you..."
He said.
"Because you liked sweet cakes, and I thought sweet meat would please you. Because I wanted to know whether food made by my hands could make you smile."
No practiced noble declaration could have struck more effectively.
Amor felt heat spread from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, his usual arsenal of clever replies dissolving beneath the simplicity of Valdor’s answer. The warrior had not claimed undying love after a single afternoon or demanded anything in return for his effort. He had merely wanted to make Amor smile and acted upon that desire with absolute sincerity.
Lanslet’s expression softened into something almost emotional. Vervath looked proud enough to overlook his son’s uncharacteristic vulnerability. Amor became intensely aware that they had an audience.
He opened his fan and lifted it between himself and the rest of the table, creating a partial screen that did little to conceal the color across his face.
"Ah-well, you succeeded."
Valdor’s eyes warmed.
"Yes."
"That confidence was unnecessary."
"You smiled."
Amor attempted to flatten his lips, but the expression had already betrayed him. Valdor cut another piece of ram.
This time, when he raised the fork, Amor did not hesitate for a second nor leaned in automatically. He parted his lips deliberately, maintaining eye contact as Valdor fed him, and allowed the sweetness to settle across his tongue. The warrior’s gaze darkened slightly at the willing acceptance, though his hand remained careful.
Amor still had no idea how to interpret the sudden development between them.
He did not know whether Valdor’s care was the beginning of courtship, an instinctive Blackstone attachment, or simply the warrior’s natural response toward someone who had captured his interest. He could not decide whether he should encourage it, restrain it, or observe until more evidence appeared. Every sensible strategy seemed to vanish whenever Valdor looked at him as though feeding Amor were both privilege and necessity.
So Amor did the only thing that did not risk turning sincerity into awkwardness. He continued eating.
Valdor offered meat, vegetables, and grains, and Amor accepted each bite while occasionally managing to feed himself from his own fork before the warrior intervened. Whenever Amor praised a particular flavor, Valdor quietly placed more of it upon his plate. Whenever his pace slowed, Valdor waited without pressuring him, watching for the moment Amor became ready again.
By the time the main course ended, Amor was thoroughly full. He leaned back slightly in his chair, one hand resting against the rose-colored sash around his waist.
"I cannot eat another bite."
Valdor studied him.
"There is still meat."
"There is enough meat remaining to feed the household guards."
"You ate little."
Every person at the table looked toward Amor’s empty plate.
"I ate an entire nobleman’s normal portion."
Amor said.
"Blackstone children eat more."
"I am neither a Blackstone nor a child."
Valdor’s eyes traveled over his slim body.
"You remain small."
"That is not a condition dinner will cure."
"It could help."
Amor lifted his fan threateningly. Valdor finally lowered the fork, though the faint amusement at the corner of his mouth suggested surrender was temporary. A servant cleared the plates and brought dessert, revealing small lavender custards topped with sugared violets. Amor’s claim that he could not consume another bite immediately became less convincing.
Valdor looked at the custard. Then he looked at Amor.
"Do not say anything!"
Amor warned.
"Happiness has strength."
Vervath’s laughter shook the table. Lanslet covered his smile with one elegant hand, while Amor stared at Valdor in betrayed disbelief. The warrior’s expression remained solemn, but his obsidian eyes gleamed with unmistakable satisfaction. He pushed the custard closer to Amor.
Amor ate it.
When dinner finally concluded, Lanslet invited Vervath to continue their discussions over brandy in his study, though the glance exchanged between the fathers suggested business would not be their only subject. Valdor rose beside Amor before any servant could pull back the younger man’s chair. He offered one broad hand.
Amor looked at it. The gesture was simple, but after the woodland walk, the rescue, the meal, and the quiet admission behind Valdor’s cooking, accepting it felt more significant than it should have. Amor placed his pale fingers into Valdor’s scarred palm and allowed the warrior to help him stand. Valdor did not release him afterward. Their hands remained joined between them.
"Thank you for dinner..."
Amor said, his voice softer than before.
"It was more thoughtful than I expected."
Valdor looked down at their clasped hands.
"I will cook for you again."
"You have already informed us that repeating the meal tomorrow would violate custom."
"I will cook something else."
Amor’s lips curved.
"You sound remarkably certain I want another meal prepared by you."
"You ate everything."
"That is not an answer."
"It is evidence."
Amor laughed quietly. Valdor’s thumb moved once across the back of his hand, rough skin brushing over delicate knuckles with surprising tenderness. The contact sent another traitorous warmth through Amor’s chest, and for once, he did not attempt to conceal it behind his fan. He looked up into Valdor’s dark eyes and allowed the moment to remain uncomplicated.
"Very well..."
Amor said.
"You may cook for me again."
Valdor’s body relaxed with visible satisfaction. Behind them, Lanslet and Vervath exchanged another knowing look. Amor saw it and decided, for the sake of his remaining composure, not to ask what they were planning.