Page 74 of Nemesis Mine
“Here.”
Footsteps behind him, then warm hands on his waist. “What’re you looking at?”
Cyrus showed him. Max leaned over his shoulder to look. He was clad only in a black towel slung around his hips, and his hair was still wet, droplets trickling from his hairline. Cyrus allowed himself a moment of appreciation before he pulled the parchment out of Max’s way.
“Don’t drip on it,” he admonished.
Max moved away, spotting his own letter and picking it up. “You’ll be sticking that up on the wall, then?” he asked absently as he started to read.
“Maybe,” Cyrus muttered. “If it doesn’t clash with my art.”
“I’m sure it won’t.” Max’s attention was on the scroll, which drooped towards the floor as he unfurled it. Cyrus turned to watch as the little crease in his brow evened out, his eyebrows raising slightly. Then his face broke into a relieved smile.
“It’s a report from our canvassing. It says that talk on the ground in Heliarth sounds promising. It sounds like we’ve done enough to win.”
Cyrus hadn’t expected his own relief to be quite so intense. But there it was, a sudden rush that felt like breathing in new air.
“Told you,” he said. “I’m never wrong.”
Max’s grin softened. He discarded his letter, leaning in to press a quick kiss to Cyrus’s cheek. “We did good. Both of us. Congratulations, greatest menace.” He glanced at the front page. “Though I don’t think they really did you justice.”
Cyrus’s mind unhelpfully conjured an image of Citrus the one-toothed wonder. “I’ve had worse.”
“I know,” said Max cheerfully. Damn him, of course he’d seen.
He turned his attention to the latest offerings, making a pleased noise under his breath at the fresh bread. Already he was brighter, humming to himself as he slathered honey over a thick slab of rye. Cyrus leaned over and helped himself to the punnet of berries. Tart juice burst over his tongue.
“I could get used to this. Beats what they used to give me.”
Max swallowed his mouthful and smirked. “Youcanget used to it. Heliarth’s champion and the most feared wrongdoer in the land. We’re all set.” He held the bread out. “Want some?”
Cyrus took a bite, offering the berries in return, and set some water to boil. He turned to the little herb pots he’d lined up by the window. His back to Max, he touched a fingertip to one of the seedlings, urging leaves to sprout forth with a burst of their cool, crisp scent. It was nice not to have to hide this from Max anymore, but still, it felt strange for anyone to see the true nature of his powers.
He could sense Max watching, interested, though he didn’t push. Cyrus turned and showed him the pot.
“Not bad,” Max commented, taking the pot to examine it. He traced the delicate veins of a mint leaf. “Handy trick. You’re making tea?”
“Notbad?”
“Sorry, sorry. Here, I’ll make it up to you.” Max leaned in and kissed him. His beard needed a trim; the scratch against Cyrus’s skin sent a shiver rattling through him. He tasted of honey, counterpoint to the sharp berries.
Max pulled back and grinned. A smudge of purple juice from Cyrus’s mouth had stained his bottom lip. “Better?”
“Nope,” said Cyrus. “Still horribly offended.”
“Fine.” Another kiss, and another. Max abandoned the pot of mint in favour of crowding into Cyrus’s space until they were pressed up against the worktop, Max’s strong arms winding around him. He breathed in woody cologne and lavender oil, and wherever he looked there was warm golden skin, still scattered with water droplets. Cyrus wanted to bite him.
A sudden noise from outside: loud buzzing from the sprites, the kind they made when they all barrelled out of their trees to greet him, except this time it was accompanied by a burst of noisy chirping rather than their usual eager chatter. Cyrus recognised the pitch of it. Questioning, agitated. He turned his head sharply to the door just as another noise reached their ears—an indignant squawk, closely followed by a familiar voice.
“Get off me—getoff, I said! Ouch! No wonder he keeps you around, dreadful pests—”
The buzzing increased in volume as the sprites followed Balthazar to the open door. He came into view with a hand raised to ward off the creatures still swarming around him.
“Maximillian, I need to talk to y—oh!”
Balthazar stopped dead, his eyes wide as he took in the scene: Max’s towel slung low, his arms looped lazily around Cyrus’s waist, their bodies pressed so close. Their mouths, berry stained.
“Bal,” Max murmured, without letting go. Nor, after a cursory glance in Balthazar’s direction, did he take his eyes away from Cyrus. “You wanted to talk to me?”
