Page 95 of Nemesis Mine
Max rolled over, propping himself up and meeting Cyrus’s gaze. “You’d do that?”
Cyrus nodded. It didn’t require words.
Max studied him, his gaze soft. He tilted his face up to look at the sky again, eyes skimming across the stars. Then he grinned suddenly, that wicked little smirk that Cyrus had noticed all those months ago when they fought for thefirst time. He jostled Cyrus’s shoulder with his own. “Not sure Athaca’s big enough to contain you, anyway. How about Melaki? I heard it’s got plenty of woodland. You’re playing nice with the sprites now, you could see about starting your army.”
Cyrus elbowed him back. Max turned to face him, still wearing the grin that Cyrus loved.
Loved. That was the simple truth, and he was no longer afraid of it.
“I hate you,” Cyrus said, because contrariness was in his blood.
Max just smiled. “Love you too,” he said, easy as breathing, and when Cyrus dipped his head to kiss him, he was smiling.
A ship crossed to Melaki from the port just south of Eborre once every two weeks. It wasn’t a popular route, because Melaki was rugged and wild and remote.
It was perfect.
They would board separately to avoid suspicion. They had dark clothing to avoid catching attention and hoods to obscure their features. The ships were large enough to secure a berth for the horses, and the sprite was under strict instruction to stay hidden inside Cyrus’s pocket unless they were alone.
The sea stretched out before them as they emerged from the tree line. They had kept to the forest as they picked their way to the west coast, shielded from prying eyes by the twisting trunks and great canopies of ancientoaks and beeches and cedars. The trees would not let them lose their way.
Now, at the edge of the forest, they stood at the top of a grassy hill sloping down to a rough pebble beach. The sea glittered like jewels in the early-morning sun, the retreating tide snatching at smooth stones and trying to spirit them back to the depths. Further along the coast, the port was visible: far less busy than its southern equivalent near Heliarth, little more than a short stone jetty jutting into the water and a small uneven square for loading carts. When Cyrus squinted, he could make out an old, weather-beaten sign advertising wildlife trips to Melaki, propped up by a mooring post.
He closed his eyes and breathed in. The cold air was fresh and invigorating. It tasted like freedom.
“Well,” said Max. He had a hand on Gutgrabber’s bridle, his expression pensive as he looked out across the sea. Melaki was a faint green smudge on the horizon, barely visible through a distant haze. “This is it.”
Cyrus glanced at him, at the forest behind: the last of Athaca they would know. A pop of colour by their feet caught his eye. On a whim, Cyrus thrust Soulripper’s reins into Max’s free hand and crouched, pressing his fingers to the damp earth and calling to the bedraggled weeds that sprouted up past the dewy grass.
It took barely a thought; his power flowed easily. Cyrus’s eyes glowed a vivid purple. He felt the burst of magic as the plant responded to him, transforming into something lovely.
He stood, cupping the plant protectively. Max looked at him quizzically. Cyrus held out his hand and uncurled his fingers. “For you,” he said simply.
A little sprig of flowers sat in his palm, five delicate petals framing a bright yellow centre ringed with white. The petals were as blue as the sea where it reflected the sky. Blue as Max’s eyes.
Max stared down at the flowers, his expression morphing from touched to affectionate. He leaned in for a kiss. It was a chaste thing, a brush of lips against his own, but it ignited every nerve ending in Cyrus’s body. He knotted his free hand into Max’s sleeve, pulling him in for another kiss, and Max laughed softly into his mouth.
When he pulled back, Max looked down at the forget-me-not still bobbling between them before his eyes flickered to Cyrus’s face.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
It was beautiful. Like Max, and the life they could forge together. Somewhere quiet, secluded, with wisteria growing up the walls. A bed with the fluffiest pillows they could find. Plenty of sunshine, but enough rain for Cyrus’s plants. A workshop for Max, and a little black cat. Perhaps Cyrus would take up floristry after all.
A life with a little right, a little wrong. Good and bad, and always, completely, theirs.
