Page 23 of Nemesis Mine
“You,” said Maximillian stiffly. “For that, I need you.”
Cyrus’s eyebrows shot up before he could school his features. Of all the things for Maximillian to say, he had not been expectingthat. What could he possibly be planning that would lower him to coming here and admitting that he needed a wrongdoer’s help?
Although... discomfort was a good look on him. Cyrus eyed him contemplatively. It was quite fun, having a champion outside his comfort zone. He’d thought Maximillian was playing games, but perhaps the game belonged to Cyrus.
He let Maximillian stand there for a few more moments, tight-lipped and uncomfortable, whilst he considered. Then Cyrus said, “Do you want a drink?”
Maximillian eyed him sceptically. Cyrus put on his very best smile, which only served to make the champion look more wary.
“I assume you’re going to try and poison me?”
Cyrus opened his eyes wide. “Do I look like I would do that to a guest?”
Maximillian looked pointedly at the thumb jar.
“They weren’t guests,” said Cyrus.
Maximillian stared at him. A handful of seconds ticked by. Then he shrugged one shoulder, an attempt at nonchalance. “Fine. A drink would be good. As long as it doesn’t have anything weird in it.” Shame. “I’ll have whatever you’re having, I suppose.”
“I was going to make myself a cocktail.”
“What cocktail?”
“Champion’s Bane,” said Cyrus, straight-faced.
“That doesn’t exist.”
“It does in wrongdoer bars.”
“There are no bars just for wrongdoers.”
Yes, and for good reason. “How would you know?”
Maximillian just shook his head. “Fine. Whatever. Make me a Champion’s Bane.”
“Make me a Champion’s Bane,please,” Cyrus corrected. He took the irritated glance as a win and hid his own pleasure as he went to make their drinks.
Cyrus lingered over the cocktail. The sheer wrongness of having Maximillian here was giddying, and concentrating on the drinks gave him the chance to get that under control. It wouldn’t do to let the champion think he affected Cyrus in any way. He poured out well-matured mead, honey gold and all the sweeter for the fact he’d stolen it from a birthday party, with blackberries he’d coaxed into ripening early because he was fond of baking with them. A billowing cloud of purple swamped the gold as he gave the drink a shake. A sprig of lemongrass from the pot under his windowsill provided a tangy note, and as a final touch Cyrus added a generous glug of whisky. Then another, because ideally he wanted this to burn.
When he turned, he found that Maximillian had made himself comfortable on the couch. Cyrus expected him to look out of place, but he didn’t, with one arm extended up along the back of the couch and a leg curled under him. His boot was touching the upholstery. Cyrus breathed deeply and told himself he was too cool to care, thrusting the goblet at the champion and trying not to be obvious about it as he deliberated over where to sit. Maximillian was right in the middle, which meant he would have to sit closer than he would have liked. But he didn’t want to go back to his brooding chair and look like he was retreating. Feigning nonchalance, he sat down next to Maximillian, leaning into the arm of the couch and half facing the champion. His elbow brushed a muscled bicep as he turned. Ugh. He pretended not to notice.
Maximillian was busy examining the rich maroon liquid with a dubious look.
“Blackberries. Don’t worry, I haven’t drained some dopey peasant dry.” Cyrus paused. “Although that would’ve been—”
“A terrible idea.” There he went, interrupting again. It would not remain a novelty for long.
Maximillian raised his goblet, the rim almost touching his lips. He locked eyes with Cyrus, his gaze challenging.
Cyrus sighed. “So suspicious,” he tutted, like he wasn’t enjoying Maximillian’s discomfort. He took a sip of his own drink. Not bad; a fiery kick lurked beneath the sweet mead. Swallowing, he looked pointedly at Maximillian’s goblet. “Do you want me to—?”
No need. Maximillian was already taking a sip—a large one, more of a gulp. Clearly he wasn’t one to do anything by halves. He set it down, wiping his mouth, and gave Cyrus that same challenging look.
“Well done,” Cyrus praised condescendingly. “We’ve got over the first hurdle. No poisoning.”
“I think the first hurdle was you not dropping some ridiculous trap on my head the moment I walked in here,” muttered Maximillian.
“As if I would,” Cyrus said peaceably. At the back of his mind, he made a mental note to look into booby-trapping his front door. It was a good idea, so long as he remembered the triggers. “Anyway, now that we’re nice and settled—” He stretched out to illustrate just how comfortable and at ease he was, only to accidentally brush Maximillian’s leg with his own and then hastily yank his foot back. Damnit. “I’m curious as to exactly what you wanted to talk to me about. What you couldn’t say over letter.”
