They were standing very close to each other now. Azaiah felt a wild urge to ask Nyx, then and there, to leave this camp with him. Walk the world together. Be his companion. But Nyx spoke before he could.
“I’m not going to wait for another fucking battle and another goddamned—no offense—game,” he said, and then he grabbed Azaiah by his tunic, pulling him close and kissing him.
His mouth was hot, insistent, and it tasted faintly of wine. Azaiah kissed him back, stumbling as Nyx pushed against him with sudden, eager aggression, a soldier’s reflexes, hands firm on Azaiah’s shoulders. Nyx said, “If you don’t want this—”
Azaiah put his hands on Nyx’s lean hips and kissed him quiet. He wanted. Of course he did.
He was awkward, but Nyx took the lead, sliding one hand up into Azaiah’s hair. “You’re so beautiful,” Nyx panted when he pulled back to breathe. His eyes were wild. “I never knew why I courted death in battle so often. I used to think I had a death wish. Maybe I did. It was just a different kind of wish.”
Nyx kissed him again before Azaiah could answer. That was all right—there wasn’t really anything he could have thought to say. Azaiah’s eyes closed, and he heard the thunder grow louder as his body went liquid and warm, Nyx’s touch hot as a brand. His hands were all over Azaiah with a desperation that Azaiah didn’t entirely understand but didn’t mind.
“Can you— Can we— You said you’ve had lovers before,” Nyx said, pushing him toward the bedroll, hands fumbling at the laces of Azaiah’s tunic.
“Yes,” Azaiah assured him. “We can.” His cock was hard at the thought of it, at how good Nyx’s strong, muscular frame felt against him. Nyx’s cock was also hard, and he was not shy about letting Azaiah feel it, pushing insistently against Azaiah’s hip as they kissed.
Nyx sucked on Azaiah’s tongue, one hand dropping down to rub over the swell of Azaiah’s cock.
“Do you want,” Azaiah started, but Nyx just moaned, a lovely sound that made Azaiah harden further, and kissed him again, giving up trying to untie Azaiah’s tunic and simply sliding his hands beneath it. Azaiah knew his skin was cold, but Nyx—whose touch was burning hot—didn’t seem to mind. “Do you want me to kneel for you?”
“Oh, fuck, yes.” Nyx moaned, again, head going back as he shuddered. “Gods, I want that.”
Azaiah did wonder, briefly, whether Nyx wanted Death on his knees or Azaiah, but perhaps it didn’t matter. The thunder grew louder, which would have been a concern if he were thinking clearly, but that was difficult with Nyx kissing him and trying to get his own pants unbuttoned at the same time.
When Nyx had his cock free, he put one hand on Azaiah’s shoulder, perhaps to push him down—but another sound broke through the camp, louder than the thunder, louder than the sound of their breathing in the enclosed tent.
It was the call to arms. And beneath it, the rumble of a storm growing closer. His storm.
War was coming. And that meant Death would follow.
Nyx swore, pulling back and hastily doing up his pants. He looked frantic, annoyed, raking a hand several times through his hair. Then he laughed. “I can’t fucking believe it. Why aren’t you the goddamn god of good fucking luck?”
“There is one,” Azaiah said, retrieving his cloak while Nyx hurriedly grabbed for his armor. “Not a god, but a spirit. Like the Green Man or the Dune Mother.”
“Not the time, Azaiah,” Nyx growled, then grabbed him and kissed him again, holding him by the shoulders. “We’ll finish the game next time.” His look, and the dominance harshening his tone, made it clear what he meant. “And if this is the end for me, then we’ll finish it when you take me to the river. But promise me something. If I die, I want it to be you. Not a ferryman. Not a priest acting in your name. You bring the storm when it’s for me, or I’m not going.”
“There is nowhere you will go that I won’t follow,” Azaiah promised, and with that, he drew the cowl about his head just in time; the door to the tent opened and two soldiers came in, hastening to give Nyx a report. They did not see Azaiah.
But Nyx did. Right before he ducked out of the tent to follow his soldiers, he glanced back and inclined his head, just once.
Azaiah waited until the sound of shouting and the sirens of war were eclipsed by the storm. Then he went out into the night, feeling the sudden, heavy weight of his scythe at his back.
ChapterSix
The Lord of Storms did not take Nyx that night. It was a bloody, brutal battle in the shadow of the Needle, leaving the flowers ruined and the army ragged, but he made it to dawn. Even Lamont wasn’t spared the fighting. To Nyx’s surprise, when Nyx found him sitting in the dirt in his ruined uniform with blood on his cheek, Lamont actually smiled at him.
“Do you think,” he said, panting, “that this will be enough?”
Nyx, still buzzing with battle fever and the memory of Azaiah’s lips on his, stared in surprise. “Enough for what?”
“For her.” Lamont gestured with his chin, and Nyx turned to the infirmary where Nadia was still resting. “You know her, Brother. Is it enough?”
Nyx considered Lamont, bloody and bruised in his expensive clothes. He’d been a terror for most of their lives, spoiled and hopelessly self-absorbed, but for the first time, he looked like a man. Someone Nyx could have tolerated, in another life.
“Maybe,” he said. “She’ll tell you to bathe.”
“Thank the gods.” Lamont’s smile broadened. “I wouldn’t want a woman who didn’t appreciate proper hygiene. Help me up?”
Nyx looked at the outstretched hand for a long moment before he finally took it, and Lamont walked off toward the infirmary.
