Three Kings, page 9
“You know your way to the inn, don’t you?” Ethan asked, hand still outstretched.
Again, Nico nodded. His expression fractured. “If you want me to go, I’ll go. I can stay there—”
“I just meant to get your things. Don’t be dramatic.” Ethan sighed, pushing his hand through his hair. His teeth weren’t clean. He needed to shower—God, he really needed to shower—and talk to his sweet, stupid, tolerant husband, and clear his head. “I need to run a few errands. Can you manage a visit to the inn by yourself? I’ll only be an hour or two.”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” Nico’s throat flexed. He looked handsome and eerie in the silver light coming through the window, freckled and sharp with his fae features and webbed hands. He inhaled deeply and exhaled like a sad hound, dragging his gaze from Ethan’s feet to his face. “You’re not a coward,” he said, defeated. “You’re kind and smart and good, and you scare me. That’s all.”
“Well, I stand by what I said—you are a menace,” Ethan said, half teasing. He put more distance between them. Because he wanted to be held. Because he wanted to kiss Nico Locke again. Most importantly because he wanted to kiss his husband. “I’ll leave the spare key on the table.”
Ethan stepped over the unrolled cot on the way to the bedroom. His heart was a runaway, going and going, his palms sweat-slicked. He curled his fingers into fists. Everything inside him pulled excruciatingly tight. What am I doing? Magic thrummed and jittered, and his anxiety morphed into nausea.
“Don’t do that to me again,” Nico blurted.
Ethan halted in the doorway.
“Please,” Nico added quietly, then cleared his throat. “Don’t.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t do what?”
“C’mon, you know exactly what. You wanted me to hear you? I abso-fucking-lutely heard you. Fine, good. Whatever. But if this is a game, and you’re playing with me to make your husband jealous—”
“You think last night was my idea?” Ethan laughed. Anger swelled. Pride and impatience did too. His mouth squirmed into a mean smile. He wanted to make his way back to Nico. Strike him with the back of his hand. Bite his throat. Ride him on the kitchen floor. Keeping his feet firmly planted was a practice in self-control. “Peter orchestrated that little show. For you, for me—for all of us. So, if you think you’re a plaything, then go.” He shrugged toward the entryway. “But don’t insult me with your juvenile self-importance. I’m not toying with you, and you don’t have the power to come between me and my husband. Have I been heard?”
Nico’s jaw flexed. His stony eyes hardened, and he spoke through set teeth. “Yes, Ethan. I’ve heard you.”
“Good,” Ethan said and slammed the washroom door behind him.
*
Casper was busier than normal. People hurried to and from the grocer and bustled around the market, carrying baskets filled with canned goods, linens, and loaves. Ethan pulled his scarf tighter and waved to Miranda Park as he made for the docks.
“Rumor has it that you and Peter have a houseguest,” Miranda called. She adjusted the overfilled paper bag in her arms and flashed a grin.
“Rumors are always a little true,” Ethan said. He walked backward, watching her plod toward the staircase attached to the crowded café. “I’ll call ’bout dinner soon. We’ll bake a pie, plan a reading, yeah?”
“You have my number; you know you’re always welcome.” She waved clumsily, lifting two fingers from the bottom of the bag. “Bring your guest too. I’ve heard he’s a looker!”
Of course. Ethan forced a smile, but before he could turn around, Miranda halted in place.
“Oh! Ethan! Before you go—Lucia was looking for you, I think. You know them? The new shopkeep at the herbiary?”
“Is that right…?”
“They have a needy client,” Miranda said, cringing. “Figured I’d clue you in.”
“Wonderful.” Three syllables gusted out on a tired breath. “Thank you. I appreciate the heads-up.”
“’Course, dear. I’m holdin’ you to that pie!”
“I know, I know. Soon,” Ethan hollered. He spun on his heels and shuffled toward the docks.
Miranda had been in Ethan’s life since they were children, growing like weeds rooted deep beneath Casper’s cobblestone streets. She’d officiated his wedding; he’d practiced simple spells with her, and they shared a lasting friendship he was grateful for. She knew his fear of the sea. Sensed how the unhealed bit of him leftover from Hurricane Katia worsened and festered. Even so, he’d never told her about his waning hope for a child. Never hinted at his heartsickness. Yet Nico, this stranger, this comet the sea had coughed out, had somehow peeked at Ethan’s most private worries. Ethan stuffed his hands into the pockets of his wool coat and blinked away thoughts of the selkie. Kissing him; being kissed by him.
The Oyster bobbed against the dock, chunky and scaled with black barnacles. Across from the boat, the dockworkers unloaded the morning haul, transferring giant crabs and lobsters into tubs and tossing red-bellied snapper into ice bins. Peter worked alongside his men, dressed in a windbreaker and a black beanie, laughing as he lifted a crate and stacked it carefully in front of a delivery rig. When he saw Ethan, he paused, brow furrowed, and brushed salty droplets from the front of his jacket.
“What’re you doin’ here?” Peter asked and tipped his head. He curled his gloved fingers around Ethan’s palm. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine. Do you have a minute? Or can you take a quick lunch?”
Peter nodded, turning to holler over his shoulder. “Unload the haul and weigh out the snapper, all right? I’ll be back.”
His crewmates were a jubilant bunch, shouting, “Aye, cap,” and offering friendly greetings to Ethan while they continued the day’s work.
Peter tugged at his gloves with his teeth, plucking his fingers free, and clasped Ethan’s hand. “Sally’s serving chowder today. Unless you’d like to walk or—”
“No, no, let’s sit down.” Ethan steered them toward the craggy pub situated on the corner where the belly of the town met the docks.
The Golden Clam was Casper’s only dive bar. Light from dim lamps illuminated the narrow building, built with red brick and saddled with a stained bar. High-top tables lined the wall, and toward the back of the building, near the kitchen and toilets, four upholstered booths sat unoccupied beneath framed black-and-white photographs of Casper landmarks. As always, Peter chose the booth topped with a photo of the lighthouse—their lighthouse—and slid into the seat across from Ethan.
Ethan fiddled with his hands on the tabletop and chewed on the inside of his cheek. Peter watched him expectantly, swiping his beanie off.
“Opening our marriage.” Ethan sounded out each word. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and blinked, trying to find a clear path through the conversation. A way to start. A solid direction. “You…” Another breath, another pause. “That’s something you want…?”
Peter stayed entirely too still for entirely too long. His mouth was gently set, stubbled jaw relaxed, earthy eyes set on Ethan. He took a deep breath. Didn’t nod, didn’t shake his head. “It’s not something I’m opposed to,” he said finally. “If we hadn’t met him, maybe not. But we did. And meeting him changed things—”
“Meeting him doesn’t have to change anything,” Ethan said, deadly serious.
“Ethan, c’mon. Be honest with me.”
He rolled his teeth across his bottom lip. Guilt weighed like an anchor in his gut. “He kissed me this morning. I…I kissed him—we kissed.”
At that, Peter Vásquez stiffened. His shoulders went rigid, and his mouth slackened, but the anger that appeared was gone in an instant, wiped clean and replaced with stoicism. He stayed silent. Blinked and breathed and folded his hands tightly atop the table.
“Talk to me,” Ethan whispered. “Tell me where we go from here. I’ll make him leave. I’ll never speak to him again. I’ll—”
“Do you love me?”
Something hot and jagged pricked his throat, thickening his voice. “Of course, I love you. Jesus, Peter. I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember. I’ll always love you. I just—”
“Then what’re you worried about?”
“Hurting you,” Ethan snapped. He sniffled. “Ruining us.”
When Peter opened his mouth to speak, Sally Turner appeared beside their booth, notepad in hand, wearing a friendly grin.
“Good to see you, Captain Vásquez. And you, too, Ethan. What can I get you today, hmm?”
Ethan smiled tightly, hoping his eyes didn’t look as glassy as they felt. “Tea and chowder, please.”
“Same, Sally. Thank you,” Peter said.
Sally nodded and circled the bar where she punched their orders into an old computer.
Slowly, Peter reached across the table and covered Ethan’s hands with his own. “Mi amor, look at me,” Peter said. Ethan pressed his lips together and lifted his eyes. “Your love for me and my love for you aren’t weakened by our connection with someone else. Nico fell into our lives and I…I don’t know how to feel about it, okay? I don’t. But I know you see something in him, and I know I want to understand him, and I know we trust each other enough to explore whatever this is.”
Relief battled with the confusion ratcheting inside Ethan. He searched his husband’s face—ocean-chapped, ruddy, beautiful—and offered a thoughtful nod. “I don’t want you to think this has anything to do with…with us though. It doesn’t. What’s happened with Nico, how I feel about Nico, none of it has anything to do with how I feel about you, or us, or our family. I need you to know that.”
“I know.” Peter squeezed his hands. “I need you to know that I’m okay with this, whatever it is, as long as we’re in it together.”
“Yes, yeah, of…of course. I told Nico the same thing this morning. I just… What’re we doing, Peter? How do we even navigate this?”
“Did you think of me when you were with him?”
Ethan blushed terribly. He cleared his throat, unlinking their hands as Sally set two steaming bowls of chowder on the table, accompanied by thick-sliced bread and their teas. Once she’d left, he nodded. “It wasn’t planned. He… We were talking, he kissed me, I kissed him back, then I stopped it.”
“Because you thought of me?” Peter asked calmly.
“Because I won’t do anything with him without you.”
“Then that’s how we do this,” he said, spooning chowder into his mouth. Peter’s boot tapped Ethan’s ankle under the table. “We keep loving each other; we keep trusting each other. People do it all the time, darling. That’s the thing with love—there’s enough to spare. And if it isn’t love, if this experience with Nico is physical, period, and we’re a pit stop in his life, then… Well, then we enjoy it together.”
Ethan stirred his chowder, nodding. His heart felt too big in his chest, weighty and full behind his binder. Of course, this was his husband. Kind and generous and open. Ethan Shaw was lucky. God, he was so lucky.
“He’s…” Peter adjusted his glasses, a nervous tic. His face reddened. “He’s quite beautiful, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, he is. I’m sure he knows that though.”
Peter snorted. “Seems as much.”
“You’re fond of him, then? This isn’t you reacting to my fondness?”
“I wasn’t fond of him—he’s a dick—but I watched you two together, and I noticed him noticing me. His attention is difficult to miss.”
“He is a dick, but he’s sweet too. Sometimes. Rarely.”
“Noted.” Peter smiled.
Ethan dunked his bread into the chowder. “So, you’re not angry?”
“That he kissed you?” Peter scooped more chowder into his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. “Angry isn’t the right word. I’m…I’m unused to the idea of someone else kissing you. That’s all.”
“And you’re certain you won’t make an attempt on his life if he kisses me in front of you…?”
Peter smirked, cheeks dimpled, brows lifted. “We’ll find out. You’re sure you won’t try to kill him if he kisses me?”
Ethan turned the thought over in his mind. Tried to picture it—Nico kissing Peter—and busied himself with his lunch. The idea frightened him. Thrilled him. Made him eager for it. When Peter hummed, prompting an answer, Ethan tipped his head. “We’ll have to see, won’t we?”
Peter laughed in his throat. He linked his ankle around Ethan’s boot and swayed their tangled feet. “You’re the love of my life, Ethan Shaw,” he whispered, poking at a carrot in the bottom of his bowl. “That’ll never change.”
Ethan’s heart lurched. You perfect idiot, he thought and met Peter’s dulce-brown eyes. “And you’re mine, Peter Vásquez. Even when you bring home dead seals.”
“Handsome seals,” Peter corrected.
Ethan laughed, snorting like a schoolboy.
Chapter Eight
After wandering the market and spending a thoughtful hour on the beach, Ethan arrived at the lighthouse. Three shadows cross the domed windows on either side of the front door. His belly was full, his spirit lighter, but anxiety still spiked at the sight of people—presumably not Nico—prowling around his home. He buried his nose in his scarf and sighed, breathing in the scent of laundry soap and day-old cologne. The shadows shifted and scurried. When the door cracked open, Nico peeked outside.
“You have guests,” Nico said and flicked his gaze toward the living quarters. “Clients? I don’t know. People are here.”
“And you let them in?”
The selkie shrugged. “What else was I supposed to do?”
“Not let them in,” he seethed and walked inside.
The first thing Ethan noticed was Nico Locke’s attire. Instead of borrowed sweaters and loose pants, he was dressed in a fitted shirt and dark-washed denim. An unfamiliar leather coat hung from the rack, and a utility pack slouched against the wall next to discarded shoes piled by the door. The second thing Ethan noticed, after he’d forcibly glanced away from Nico, was Lucia Belle leaning against the kitchen island and a woman pacing like a caged tiger.
“Good afternoon.” Ethan hung his coat and uncoiled his scarf. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
“Mary Whitt needs a spell.” Lucia, swathed in a sweaterdress and knee-length gardening boots, arched a sharply penciled eyebrow.
“I do; I need a spell,” Mary snapped. Her thin mouth folded into a frown. Lines fissured outward from the corners of her lips. She had crow’s feet, a wrinkled forehead, and a mop of ash-blonde hair.
Ethan had seen her at the market before, slinging faux flowers and pawning lily oil—argan mixed with perfume—to foolish tourists. He’d also seen her at the docks, batting her eyelashes at sailors and fishermen during the swampy summer months.
“You’re the witch, aren’t you?” Mary continued. “You’re the one who can make things happen?”
“I can’t make anything happen, Miss Whitt. But I might be able to assist you if you tell me what you need.” Ethan brushed past Nico and stepped over Lucia’s crossed boots. He filled the kettle at the sink.
Mary stopped in her tracks and folded her arms. “My ex cheated on me with a busboy from the pub.”
“And?”
“And I want you to make her pay for it.”
Ethan laughed. A single, raspy hah. “That’s not a service I offer.”
“Then what do you offer?” Lucia asked, interjecting with an impatient sigh.
“I’ll pay you.” Mary gritted each word through clenched teeth. “That bitch deserves—”
“To be at peace.” Ethan spoke over her. “I won’t harm your ex, but I will try to mend your heart if you’re open to it.”
The lighthouse quieted. Lucia hummed, smiling wryly. Mary considered the offer. Her eyes trailed the window. When Nico took two, three, then four mugs out of the cupboard, Ethan wrinkled his nose and said, “I didn’t offer.”
Nico narrowed his eyes. His auburn hair was slicked away from his bold, bony face. “And here I am thinking you’re generous.”
“I’ll take some tea,” Lucia purred and turned toward Mary and nodded. “I’d consider his offer, honey. Angry hearts take a while to heal. Time you don’t got.”
Ethan poured steaming water into the cups Nico had set on the island and gestured to the tea cabinet. “Help yourselves, I guess.” He added a chai bag to his cup and met Mary’s guarded eyes. “Five hundred for the spell.”
“Excuse me?” Mary laughed, loud and brash. “You’re kidding, right? For what, exactly? To mend my heart? Make the hurt stop?” She croaked, voice waterlogged. “That’s rich coming from a man like you. Witch bitch with no—”
“Two hundred for one night’s sleep,” Ethan barked, snapping his teeth at her. “I’m sure it’s been a minute, right? Since you’ve slept peacefully? I’m sure you’ve been lying awake, wondering what a busboy had that you didn’t.” He watched her wilt and snarl like a possum. “Call me a bitch in my own home again, and I’ll give you warts. Understood?”
Magic afflicted the lighthouse. Turned the air inside out and made everything slow and heavy. Lucia sipped their tea. Nico did the same, leaning on the counter with his eyebrows raised and a mug perched against his mouth.
Mary trembled. Her fingers formed fists, knuckles whitening. She nodded tightly, though, just as Ethan thought she would, and reached into her beaded purse. She slapped folded bills into his palm. “If I don’t sleep, I’ll come back for that.”
“If you come back, I’ll turn you into a walrus,” he teased, voice slippery and mocking. Still, he pocketed the cash and kicked a chair away from the table. “Sit.”
Mary plopped into the chair, clutching her purse to her stomach. “Will it hurt?”
“At first, yes.” Ethan attempted to focus his thoughts. To stop staring at the place near the refrigerator where he’d kissed Nico. To stop following Nico’s slow breath, to stop searching for his shadow on the floor, his reflection on the window. He wanted to be done with this, but he didn’t think he’d be rid of Mary Whitt without sending her home with some sort of spell.
