Three Kings, page 4
“Don’t apologize,” Peter mumbled and forced Ethan’s chin upward, angling him where he wanted. Vulnerable, consumable.
Peter kissed him slowly. Pried at his slack mouth and sought him out, tongue dragging over his teeth, hot breath coasting into his throat. He kissed him deeply until their lips were wet, and Ethan’s cheeks were horribly hot. Until Ethan was shaking with it—this want he’d hoarded like stolen goods—pushing against him, jerking his wrist free to clutch at Peter’s clothes, his shoulder, his nape. Ethan moaned and whined, fumbling for Peter’s obnoxious leather belt.
He wanted to go to his knees. Wanted Peter to lift him onto the counter. Wanted to be flipped around and railed, fucked, taken. Wanted to fill the bathtub and climb into Peter’s lap, ride him in the hot water, say his name and hear it echo—
But the kettle whistled, and three heavy knocks sounded at the front door.
“Ignore it,” Peter said.
Ethan whined, annoyed. “The kettle’ll boil over, and—"
Another three knocks, louder, heavier.
“Ignore it,” Peter said again.
“What if it’s the selkie?” Ethan craned away, settling his gaze on the door.
“The seal?”
“It was hurt. Let me just… Just stay here—”
“Absolutely not. You stay here,” Peter insisted, then stomped across the room.
Ethan followed at his heels, adjusting the too-big shirt and his loosened sweatpants. Desire snatched at the curiosity inside him, told him to keep the door locked, to yank Peter into the bedroom, to be selfish. But he couldn’t. Not without knowing if the selkie had left, if it’d listened, if his magic had betrayed him or not.
Peter opened the door and turned on the porch lamp. Muted yellow light poured over muscular shoulders, illuminating a lean shape standing on their welcome mat. He wasn’t quite as tall as Peter, but close. He wore the old gray joggers Ethan had left for him and shielded his left side with crossed arms. Relief unspooled inside Ethan, accompanied by a short gasp.
“I can’t swim,” the selkie said breathlessly. Water dripped from his nose and fell from his auburn hair. He said it again, growlish and desperate. “I—I can’t swim like this.”
Peter tilted his head. “Excuse me, but—”
“Of course, you can’t,” Ethan said. “You’re hurt, aren’t you? I knew it. C’mon, get inside.”
“Who are you?” Peter asked.
“Nico,” the selkie said at the same time Ethan said, “The goddamn seal.”
Peter adjusted his glasses and blinked, glancing between the pair.
Nico crept inside. He was barefoot and almost human. The webbing between his toes and fingers said otherwise, as did the faint spots flecked on his clavicles and printed on his torso. But still, he was acutely handsome, strong jawed, wide-mouthed, and well-built. His eyes were dark pits, flashing the faintest brown in the candlelight.
“Don’t bite me,” Ethan said, almost teasing. Almost.
Nico stood beside the kitchen table, shifting his gaze awkwardly around the room. “Don’t reach into my mouth then.”
“Well, I didn’t really have a choice seeing as you were dead, but it’s lovely to know you can talk.” Ethan filled a bowl with water from the kettle, retrieved the salve from the refrigerator and bandages from underneath the sink. He pointed at the washroom, speaking to Peter. “Grab some towels, please.”
Peter didn’t move at first. He stared at Nico, assessing him like an adversary.
“Sit,” Ethan said and gestured from Nico to a chair. He raised his brows at Peter. “Please.”
Nico sat, and Peter went, and Ethan thought he might vibrate out of his skin. Not because Nico was beautiful—he was—but because Ethan had done it. He’d succeeded. And it wasn’t until he came to stand in front of Nico that he remembered his lightweight shirt, how he was wearing nothing beneath his sweats, and had to convince his body not to go rigid.
“Do you know what happened?” Ethan asked, clearing his throat.
Nico watched him through his lashes the same way an animal would. Not prey—predator. “I was pulled under by a riptide, got caught in a net, and hit a reef.” He uncurled his arms and flinched, hissing through his teeth. Beneath his left bicep, a gash yawned open on his rib cage. The deep puncture didn’t bleed, but the flesh was raised and sallow, reddened around the edges and raw within. Infection seeped from the wound, pushed outward by a body desperate to survive. “It’s not that bad.”
“You’re right, it’s awful,” Ethan corrected. He wrinkled his nose and tipped his head from side to side, cataloging the nasty fissure. “But I can fix this, I think. You’ll be landlocked a week. Maybe two.”
“Landlocked?”
“If you don’t give yourself time to heal, this’ll get worse. Keeping it dry and clean are the first two steps, letting it close enough to stitch is the third.”
Peter set two towels on the table. He moved cautiously, body held on a tripwire. “Nico, was it?”
The selkie lifted his chin, tracking Peter as he moved through the kitchen. “Yeah, Nico Locke.”
Ethan turned to look over his shoulder. “Will you pull the pumpkin out of the oven and fix that octopus?” He swiveled back to Nico. “Speaking of which, when’s the last time you ate?”
Nico flared his nostrils. His flighty gaze flicked around. “It’s been a minute.”
“What’s a selkie of your…” Peter hummed, considering. “Breed feels like the wrong word. Kind, I suppose. What’s a selkie of your kind doing this far south?”
Nico didn’t answer. His eyes moved quickly, and his knuckles whitened in his lap. He stayed eerily still, shivering on the wooden chair.
Ethan soaked a towel in the hot water. “This might sting,” he said, an uncertain warning, and pressed the wet fabric to Nico’s side.
Nico flinched and bared his teeth, sucking in a sharp, audible breath.
“I’m sorry—I know,” Ethan blurted and inched closer, sealing the towel over the wound. “This is the worst part, all right? But I need it clean.”
Everything—the air, the storm, the three of them—seemed strung between fight and flight. Peter made a worried noise, and Ethan scanned the selkie’s pinched face as Nico clutched the side of the table. But no one attempted to do anything other than what needed to be done. Peter took the pumpkin out before it burned, and Ethan dabbed at the gash until it stopped oozing, and Nico gritted his teeth. Once it was over, it was over. The towel hit the floor, Nico caught his breath, and Ethan thanked whatever god might’ve been listening for avoiding the selkie’s teeth.
“The salve might be uncomfortable to apply, but it’ll feel better after it’s on,” Ethan said.
“What is it?” Nico stared at the bowl on the table. Before Ethan could answer, he asked, “Who are you?”
“I’m Ethan Shaw. That’s my husband, Peter Vásquez, the man who pulled you ashore and brought you here.”
“I suppose it was your net, then?” Nico mumbled. He settled into the seat and stretched his legs, allowing his shoulders to drop. His attention was fixed on Peter.
Peter slammed a wide-handled knife through three tentacles. He met Nico’s gaze. “It was.”
Nico lifted his chin. Confidence came off him in waves, battling with the exhaustion purpling his eyes and the slight tremor in his hands. For a moment, Ethan thought he might’ve made a mistake, might’ve invited a territorial, vengeful creature into their home, but neither Peter nor Nico bristled or taunted. They did what most men tended to do—frowned, stared, and waited.
Ethan leaned backward, glancing between them. “Anyway, I’m his partner—hello, again—yes, me, the one who breathed life into your lifeless body.” He gave a sarcastic, little wave. “Peter happens to captain a fishing rig, and you happened to swim into his net. And by the good grace of Hecate, he happens to have a witch for a spouse. So, let’s all take a breath and be thankful to know one another.”
Peter raised his brows and gestured to Ethan with the slimy knife as if to say, He’s right.
Nico Locke shifted his jaw back and forth. “What is it?” he asked again, jutting his chin toward the bowl.
The tension seemed to dissipate. Landmine avoided. Ethan sighed and gave a curt nod. “A salve imbued with a healing spell. Organic, obviously. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“And you had it on hand for…?”
“You,” he said, tempering the heat in his voice. “I noticed you were hurt earlier, as I’m sure you remember, and I collected the ingredients in case you decided to stay.”
Candlelight gilded Nico’s upper half, chasing shadows across his olive skin. He assessed Ethan skeptically but didn’t move away when Ethan scooped the salve onto his fingers. Ethan spread the mixture as carefully as he could, paying mind to Nico’s stuttering breath and clenched abdomen.
“Did you try to leave in this?” Ethan shrugged toward the window. Rain pelted the glass. Lightning winked across the waves.
Reluctantly, Nico nodded.
“Well, don’t do that again. Not unless you’re on a boat or stitched up.”
“You can stay here,” Peter said. The octopus popped on a griddle, perfuming the room with lemon and black pepper. “We’ve got a rollout cot and extra blankets. You’ll have access to a shower, food, everything you need.”
After their previous stint of dreadful silence and aggressive eye contact, Ethan had expected Peter to fix their plates, place the cot on the floor, and retire to their bedroom without another word. But of course, Peter was generous. Of course, he was kind. He always had been. Ethan was sure he always would be.
“I can find other accommodations,” Nico said briskly. He searched the floor, brows pulled together in concentration. “If it’s…if it’s trouble, I’m sure I could—”
“It’s no trouble,” Ethan said, halfway to a whisper, and shot Nico a narrow glance. “Stay, heal, rest for a while.” When Nico opened his mouth to interject, Ethan blurted, “We insist,” and grabbed a roll of bandages.
Nico pursed his lips and stayed quiet.
The storm raged. Peter plated their dinner and uncorked a bottle of cranberry wine. Ethan wrapped the clean, white bandage around Nico’s chest, secured it with a metal clip, and took the dirty tools to the sink. Once the leftover salve was transferred into an airtight container, Ethan gave Nico a clean bath towel and sat at the table. Like this, patched together and scrubbing seawater from his skin, Nico Locke appeared far younger than he had on their doorstep. He was wildly handsome—long lashed and fierce, oddly built and tightly held.
Ethan rested a stemless glass on his bottom lip. He studied the markings on Nico’s chest, the blotchy spots reminiscent of his seal pelt. Wine sloshed against his mouth, and he said, “Peter asked you a question earlier. Where are you from?”
Peter kept his face relaxed, elbows resting atop the table, socked foot bumping Ethan’s ankle beneath the table. He sipped his beer—frosty bottle seated beside his wine glass—and tilted his head, saddling Nico with a questioning look. Double-fisting two separate libations probably, definitely, informed his raised guard.
“North,” Nico said. The fork looked obscure in his hand, propped against the translucent webbing between his thumb and index finger. He brought a piece of pumpkin to his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. “Obviously, my kind are typically found in the Arctic.” He leveled Peter with an annoyed glare. “But my colony migrated to a more hospitable climate once the glacier run-off became too fast and too unpredictable to manage. Some of us are in Alaska, others in Ireland. A few made homes in Norway. I…I’m not mated, so I tend to wander. I have an aunt in Reykjavík which is what brought me to these parts.”
“Reykjavík is quite a long swim from Casper,” Ethan said.
“It is. But I’d heard the stories about the mystical Casper flowers. Wanted to see for myself what this place had in store.” Nico shrugged. He shifted his gaze to Ethan and then to his plate.
“Stories,” Ethan echoed bitterly. He finished his wine in one go and poured another glass. “Yeah, I guess we’re rife with those ’round here.”
After that, no one spoke.
Peter toyed with his food for a while, picking at charred tentacles and cooked cheese. Ethan poured more wine, earning a suspicious glance from his husband, and Nico cleaned his plate. It was strange, sharing the silence with a man who’d always fit into his life like an organ, and a man who’d wandered into their home like a leak or a bear—capable of causing invisible damage or very real, very visible problems. That was the messiness, wasn’t it? The consequence that came with magic as intimate as necromancy. That both Peter Vásquez and Nico Locke carried a bit of Ethan with them. His magic, his lifeforce. The power in Ethan’s blood would call to itself from where it’d rooted in their bodies, a ripple traveling backward toward its source.
Ethan had torn Peter away from the reaper. He’d sweet-talked water from his lungs and made a sacrifice he couldn’t name. But Nico’s reanimation was a calculated kind of magic. A ritual he’d followed step by step, piece by piece. Dazed and trapped in thought, he took the dishes to the sink and ran the faucet.
Maybe Peter was right. Maybe Ethan had brought the selkie back to prove something to himself. That he could. That his blood didn’t have to cost quite as much as it had the first time. But now, he was inexplicably tied to the man he’d taken vows with and, somehow, to a stranger too. Vulnerability knotted in his gut. The same kind that came after babies were born, bankruptcies were filed, and divorces were penned. Regret, relief—both.
“Feel free to whatever we have in the fridge,” Peter said, shattering the silence. “If you need more blankets, they’re in the linen closet.” His hand closed around Ethan’s wrist. “C’mon, we’ll finish that in the morning.”
Ethan stole a glance over his shoulder. He hadn’t expected to find Nico watching him, but the selkie sat unmoving at the dining table, lit by waning candles, tracking him with dark, amber eyes. He slouched in the chair, lips parting, as if he had something to say. Nico closed his mouth, and Ethan looked away. Peter’s warm, wide hand settled on his tailbone, and their bedroom door wheezed on its hinges, shutting behind him.
Chapter Four
The storm stayed.
Thunder cracked, rain fell, and Ethan hardly slept. He let his gaze wander, scanning the hamper, the crowded dresser, a photo-strip pinned to the wall. The wine cushioned him. It kept him woozy and dazed, acquiescing to thoughts of Nico, of Peter, of magic, of life, death, and children. Lightning blinked through the bedroom window, and he noticed Peter beside him—those pretty eyes cracked open, lashes casting thin shadows along his cheekbone.
“Can’t sleep?” Peter rasped.
Something akin to regret but not quite—shame, maybe—swelled inside him. Ethan turned onto his side, whispering into the space between them. “I haven’t been unsatisfied,” he said. Not exactly the truth, not false enough to be a lie. “And I’m not…I’m not at a loss, but I don’t know how much hope I have left to spare. I need to refill my well. Stop thinking about it for a while.”
Peter brushed his knuckles along Ethan’s jaw. He was quiet for a while, nodding gently, staring at Ethan’s mouth. He clucked his tongue and finally said, “How could you possibly think I don’t enjoy you?”
Oh. Ethan parted his lips, but nothing followed. No explanation. No excuse. Sadness ballooned in his chest, airy and familiar and too big to ignore. Because I’m unwantable. Because I’m barren.
“Because I’ve failed you,” he croaked, and for the first time since they’d said yes, a family; yes, let’s try, Ethan cried. He hiccupped and sniffled, sucked in little gasps and shook. He hadn’t shed a tear after any of the four, five, six wasted pregnancy tests, hadn’t trembled in his paper smock at the fertility clinic, hadn’t cried alone when he’d stayed in bed, hips elevated, staring blankly at the ceiling. But that night, his mouth wobbled, his lungs ached, and he simply fell apart.
“No,” Peter said desperately and pressed his lips to Ethan’s forehead, his temple, his cheek. “You haven’t. You haven’t.” He brought Ethan closer, curving around his smaller frame, giving patient assurances. “Of course not. No, mi querido.”
Once the floodgates opened, there was no stopping it. Ethan babbled, spouting ridiculous things. Untrue things. I’m sorry; I wouldn’t blame you if you left me; this is what you get for marrying a witch; I’m fruitless; you deserve better. The pillow under his cheek grew damp. His face surely reddened, and his throat became tight and chalky.
How was there this much pain in loss he hadn’t experienced yet? How could the absence of something—a child he’d never carried—even constitute as loss…? He couldn’t pinpoint an answer. Couldn’t logically find a reason for such deep, unrelenting grief. But Peter held him, as he always did, and he whispered against his skin, as he tended to do, and he loved Ethan fiercely, as he had for a decade. Ethan folded against Peter’s chest and hid there, seizing through trapped sobs and ugly gasps.
“Te amo,” Peter whispered, “te amo, te amo,” like a chorus in the dark room.
Ethan didn’t remember falling asleep. But at some point, he must’ve because he woke to an echo of that te amo ghosting through their silent bedroom. Sunlight warmed the floorboards, and seagulls screeched, scouring the shallows for fish displaced by the storm. He faced the window, lying on his side with Peter still curved around him, a protective crescent tucked against his back. He pawed at his clumped lashes and inhaled deeply, thankful for the rest, thankful for the release too. Crying was something he actively avoided. He’d go red-faced and glassy-eyed, but he’d never cry. Not like that. Not like someone who’d lost something.
The last time he’d wept, he’d knelt over his drowned husband, raking a ritual out of thin air. This time, the emptiness left him elated.
Peter woke quietly. His breathing shallowed, and he dragged his fingertips over Ethan’s forearm, sharing the stillness.
