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Authors: Denise Rossetti
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he shrugged off Fort’s restraining hand. “Fine. I’ll relieve you of my company.” He turned away.
“No.” Fort spun him around, holding him in place without effort. “I was…” he ground the word out under his breath, “scared.”
“Twister, why?” Griff’s forehead creased, then his teeth flashed. “Ah,” he said, on a note of discovery. A devilishly slanted brow quirked.
“How can you do that? Night after night?”
Griff shrugged, his dark eyes fathomless in the moonlight. “My family’s been in the Fair for generations. I started as a child and never stopped. Scared, huh?” He stepped right into Fort’s body until they were chest to chest. “For me?”
The iron band cramping Fort’s guts tightened. Very deliberately, he pushed the disturbing memory aside. Griff’s lithe body, somersaulting in the shadows of the Big Top, so very, very high above the unforgiving floor. But the edgy sensation had settled in his gut, the unresolved tension quivering in his muscles. He pulled away and got his feet moving. “No,” he managed. “I was worried you’d puncture Katahaya. Terrible waste, that.”
“True enough. C’mon, I’m starved.” Griff nudged Fort’s arm with his shoulder.
“Ember’s wagon is down here and mine’s just beyond.” After that, he said nothing more, but he hummed under his breath the rest of the way.
Like Fort’s, Griff’s van was in the outer circle of the Fair, closest to the surrounding trees. Unlike his, it was relatively new and big enough to have a separate sleeping area.
Positively spacious in comparison with his own shabby quarters. But Fort wouldn’t 40
Strongman
have swapped, not for anything. Absently, he changed his stance, easing the weight on his bad leg, while he eyed the width of the bed with some degree of envy.
“Like it?” Griff pulled a folding table away from the wall and set the steaming dish on it.
Fort picked up the shirt slung over the back of a chair. “Not very tidy, are you?” he said severely, folding it in a couple of rapid moves. Order was always reassuring, especially military order. His fingers flexed, gripping the fabric, creasing it. Lufra, he knew right now he’d never be able to watch another show, not if it turned him into a gibbering idiot the way this one had done.
Griff watched his hands, apparently fascinated. “No,” he said. “No, I’m not. Put it on the dresser and let’s eat.”
Ember’s noodle dish disappeared rapidly while Fort and Griff thrashed out the implications of Valaressa’s latest treaty with the Children of the Mother. Fort stretched his bad leg under the table, trying to get comfortable, as the tumbler kept up the lively banter. Still arguing, Griff cleared the plates, brewed roberry and dug out a squat bottle of Aetherian brandy.
Fort’s brows rose. “This a special occasion?”
Griff thunked the bottle down on the table and put his hands on his hips. He was still wearing those gods-be-damned tights. Fort hauled his gaze back to the tumbler’s face, but that was worse, because Griff was smiling and there was something so hot, so tender and teasing in his eyes, that Fort had to set his jaw against the surge of pained arousal.
But all Griff said was, “I thought it might settle your nerves for the music lesson.”
“Why, you little—!” Fort rose slowly, deliberately, using his height, looming over the table, over Griff. “My nerves don’t need fucking settling. And to hell with music lessons. I told you I don’t—”
Griff chuckled. “Does you good, you know.”
Fort gripped the edge of the table so his hands couldn’t get away from him, grab the tumbler and shake him ‘til his teeth rattled. Hungrily, he eyed the bruises on Griff’s throat. “What does?” he grated.
“Being teased. No one’s brave enough, are they?”
No one cares enough .
He came back to himself to hear Griff calling his name, obviously not for the first time. The other man gripped his arm and
“No.” Fort spun him around, holding him in place without effort. “I was…” he ground the word out under his breath, “scared.”
“Twister, why?” Griff’s forehead creased, then his teeth flashed. “Ah,” he said, on a note of discovery. A devilishly slanted brow quirked.
“How can you do that? Night after night?”
Griff shrugged, his dark eyes fathomless in the moonlight. “My family’s been in the Fair for generations. I started as a child and never stopped. Scared, huh?” He stepped right into Fort’s body until they were chest to chest. “For me?”
The iron band cramping Fort’s guts tightened. Very deliberately, he pushed the disturbing memory aside. Griff’s lithe body, somersaulting in the shadows of the Big Top, so very, very high above the unforgiving floor. But the edgy sensation had settled in his gut, the unresolved tension quivering in his muscles. He pulled away and got his feet moving. “No,” he managed. “I was worried you’d puncture Katahaya. Terrible waste, that.”
“True enough. C’mon, I’m starved.” Griff nudged Fort’s arm with his shoulder.
“Ember’s wagon is down here and mine’s just beyond.” After that, he said nothing more, but he hummed under his breath the rest of the way.
Like Fort’s, Griff’s van was in the outer circle of the Fair, closest to the surrounding trees. Unlike his, it was relatively new and big enough to have a separate sleeping area.
Positively spacious in comparison with his own shabby quarters. But Fort wouldn’t 40
Strongman
have swapped, not for anything. Absently, he changed his stance, easing the weight on his bad leg, while he eyed the width of the bed with some degree of envy.
“Like it?” Griff pulled a folding table away from the wall and set the steaming dish on it.
Fort picked up the shirt slung over the back of a chair. “Not very tidy, are you?” he said severely, folding it in a couple of rapid moves. Order was always reassuring, especially military order. His fingers flexed, gripping the fabric, creasing it. Lufra, he knew right now he’d never be able to watch another show, not if it turned him into a gibbering idiot the way this one had done.
Griff watched his hands, apparently fascinated. “No,” he said. “No, I’m not. Put it on the dresser and let’s eat.”
Ember’s noodle dish disappeared rapidly while Fort and Griff thrashed out the implications of Valaressa’s latest treaty with the Children of the Mother. Fort stretched his bad leg under the table, trying to get comfortable, as the tumbler kept up the lively banter. Still arguing, Griff cleared the plates, brewed roberry and dug out a squat bottle of Aetherian brandy.
Fort’s brows rose. “This a special occasion?”
Griff thunked the bottle down on the table and put his hands on his hips. He was still wearing those gods-be-damned tights. Fort hauled his gaze back to the tumbler’s face, but that was worse, because Griff was smiling and there was something so hot, so tender and teasing in his eyes, that Fort had to set his jaw against the surge of pained arousal.
But all Griff said was, “I thought it might settle your nerves for the music lesson.”
“Why, you little—!” Fort rose slowly, deliberately, using his height, looming over the table, over Griff. “My nerves don’t need fucking settling. And to hell with music lessons. I told you I don’t—”
Griff chuckled. “Does you good, you know.”
Fort gripped the edge of the table so his hands couldn’t get away from him, grab the tumbler and shake him ‘til his teeth rattled. Hungrily, he eyed the bruises on Griff’s throat. “What does?” he grated.
“Being teased. No one’s brave enough, are they?”
No one cares enough .
He came back to himself to hear Griff calling his name, obviously not for the first time. The other man gripped his arm and
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