"It's still early," Adam said. He leaned into Ronan's arms, accepting the support, the comfort, the protection, the love. His fingertips trailed lace patterns against Ronan's shoulder, light against the strength and breadth of Ronan's muscles.
"I'm hungry," Adam said, though he didn't want to leave Ronan's arms. He could subsist on love.
Nuzzling idly at Ronan's throat, he pillowed his head on Ronan's shoulder. He was tired. Years of going without sleep had drained him, and his body seemed to want to catch up all at once. Yet it was the emotional fatigue that he felt now, more than anything. He'd planned to visit the tailor early tomorrow, the hatmaker, the glovemaker, a cobbler. A wardrobe for himself, so that he could walk unquestioned at Ronan's side. A companion, status unknown. People would wonder which of them was the lord, and which the companion, since Adam had the alacrity of a valet and Ronan the brawn of a footman. People would wonder if they were cousins--not brothers, not with the differences in their coloring, the differences in their forms--or merely friends. Schoolmates. College companions. A pair of bachelors who went everywhere together.
Now, right now, Adam wanted to stay here forever. They could sleep in tomorrow. They were safe here, though they could be safer. As soon as they could, they'd hire a coach, and slip away from the city to some hotel on the outskirts. And then from there to another, and another, until they could both feel confident that Declan had lost the trail.
It didn't matter so much that Declan had claws into the country house. They could avoid it, if they wanted, or make it their own and uproot all the spies. It didn't matter if they stayed in England or traveled. It would be better now. Adam would keep Ronan safe. No more fights, no more self-destructive urges. The person most likely to hurt Ronan was Ronan, and Adam couldn't bear for Ronan to be hurt.
"Are you hungry?" he asked, fingertips continuing to weave his net onto Ronan's shoulder. "We can go down to the hotel restaurant."
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"I'm hungry," Adam said, though he didn't want to leave Ronan's arms. He could subsist on love.
Nuzzling idly at Ronan's throat, he pillowed his head on Ronan's shoulder. He was tired. Years of going without sleep had drained him, and his body seemed to want to catch up all at once. Yet it was the emotional fatigue that he felt now, more than anything. He'd planned to visit the tailor early tomorrow, the hatmaker, the glovemaker, a cobbler. A wardrobe for himself, so that he could walk unquestioned at Ronan's side. A companion, status unknown. People would wonder which of them was the lord, and which the companion, since Adam had the alacrity of a valet and Ronan the brawn of a footman. People would wonder if they were cousins--not brothers, not with the differences in their coloring, the differences in their forms--or merely friends. Schoolmates. College companions. A pair of bachelors who went everywhere together.
Now, right now, Adam wanted to stay here forever. They could sleep in tomorrow. They were safe here, though they could be safer. As soon as they could, they'd hire a coach, and slip away from the city to some hotel on the outskirts. And then from there to another, and another, until they could both feel confident that Declan had lost the trail.
It didn't matter so much that Declan had claws into the country house. They could avoid it, if they wanted, or make it their own and uproot all the spies. It didn't matter if they stayed in England or traveled. It would be better now. Adam would keep Ronan safe. No more fights, no more self-destructive urges. The person most likely to hurt Ronan was Ronan, and Adam couldn't bear for Ronan to be hurt.
"Are you hungry?" he asked, fingertips continuing to weave his net onto Ronan's shoulder. "We can go down to the hotel restaurant."