Page 9 of Fought it Through the Teeth

He is mouthy and stubborn and utterly fucking breathtaking.

Bohdi has never once wanted to strip Morgan of that confidence — of other things, certainly, clothes chief among them — but he can think of nothing on this earth more attractive than Morgan's competence, and standing here watching it work is doing him no favors at all. It is the midwinter feast again. It is Morgan solid in his arms, Morgan meeting every challenge without flinching, Morgan being so precisely and completely himself that the force of it hits Bohdi square in the chest.

The tour ends in the great hall, where Ivan declares himself satisfied with the morning and orders ale brought. Morgan accepts a cup with gracious thanks and sits at the long table and does not look at Bohdi. Bohdi stands against the wall and watches the warchief settle into the chair beside the prince — heavy and contented, pleased with his new purchase.

Then Ivan turns to Bohdi, cup raised, smile broad. "You'll drink with me tonight, Bohdi. Man to man."

Bohdi grins. The grin costs him nothing — it never does, it is the cheapest weapon in his arsenal and the most effective. "It would be my honor, chieftain."

Ivan claps the table with one meaty hand, apparently delighted, and launches into a story about a bear hunt that Bohdi follows with every appearance of fascination and no actual interest whatsoever.

This is going to be easier than expected.

That is not the same thing as good.

Easier means Ivan is warming to him. Easier means the chieftain's defenses are lowering, that the blunt-force charm Bohdi has been deploying since they rode through the gates is finding purchase, that the man is beginning to see Bohdi as an ally rather than an obstacle. Easier means Bohdi can get close, share a drink, share a laugh, share the comfortable intimacy of two men who understand each other's world. It means he can find the moment when Ivan is relaxed and happy and alone, and put a blade in him.

Easier means the mission is working.

But easier also means the warchief is relaxing around the prince and the testing will shift from public to private. Ivan will begin to feel entitled to more than conversation, will start pushing at the boundaries of the arrangement, will want to see what the prince looks like when the composure cracks. And Morgan's composure is formidable but not infinite, and the man sitting beside him is a predator who has already consumed two wives, and easier is not a word that makes Bohdi feel safe.

He drinks his ale. He laughs at the bear story. He watches Ivan's heavy hand settle on the table a few inches from Morgan's, and calculates the distance between his belt knife and the chieftain's throat, and decides it is too far and there are too many witnesses.

The moment isn't here yet.

The chieftain stands to leave, calling orders to his men. At the doorway he pauses, turns, and looks at Morgan.

"Rest this afternoon, prince," he says, and the tone is almost solicitous, almost kind. "I want you fresh for tomorrow. We hunt."

He leaves. The hall empties.

Morgan sits at the table with his hands wrapped around his cup and stares at the wall, and Bohdi pushes off from his position and crosses the hall and drops onto the bench across from him.

"Hunting," Morgan says flatly.

"Hunting," Bohdi confirms.

"He's aware I've never killed anything?"

"I suspect that's the point."

Morgan's mouth compresses into a thin line. He lifts his cup, drinks, sets it down. "I don't suppose I can plead illness."

"You can plead whatever you like. He'll make you go anyway." Bohdi studies him across the table — the pale face, the tight jaw, the shadows under his eyes that the long road and one night in a strange bed have etched there. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You've been performing since dawn and you barely touched your breakfast and you're still saddle-sore. I can see it in the way you sit."

Morgan's expression does not change, but a flush creeps up the side of his neck — barely visible in the dim hall, but Bohdi's eyes are good and the flush is unmistakable. The prince does not enjoy having his weaknesses noted. That is unfortunate, because noting them is Bohdi's job.

"I can manage," Morgan says, and the tone is the one that precedes an argument. "I've managed so far."

"Yeah, you have." Bohdi lets that land, lets the honesty of it settle into the space between them, unadorned, without the grin or the teasing or any of the armor he usually wraps his sincerity in. "You've more than managed. Your handling of the chieftain is a masterpiece. I nearly choked twice."

Morgan stares at him. The flush deepens, spreading past his collar, and for a moment the composure cracks — not into vulnerability, not into the hurt that Bohdi saw yesterday, but into something startled and pleased and quickly hidden. Morgan looks away, down at his cup, and his mouth does something complicated that isn't quite a smile.

"Don't patronize me," he says, but the edge is gone from it.