The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(82)

“You need to get up anyway,” Noam said after a moment and squeezed his arm. “I have to talk to you. It’s important.”

Dara rolled over, eyes opening to narrow slits. Noam could just barely see the glimmer of black irises. He looked sick, or maybe just exhausted, green-tinged with both hands clutching the bedsheets.

For a moment, Noam thought about Lehrer’s brother—about Adalwolf, gone fevermad.

Only Lehrer wouldn’t let that happen to another person he loved. Right?

Noam was thinking that maybe he’d better let Dara sleep awhile longer and evade another fight when Dara finally sighed and opened his eyes all the way, shoving down the duvet and sitting up.

“Okay,” Dara said. He patted the bed next to him, and Noam . . . he hesitated for a second, heart doing something painful. Yesterday Dara said shut the fuck up and left and didn’t come back. But Noam couldn’t keep squatting on the floor either, so he took the invitation for what it was and sat with one knee pulled up onto the mattress, body angled toward Dara. The bed was still warm.

“I read in the paper this morning . . . ,” Noam started, but that felt so impersonal. He tried again, unsure if he should seem pleased about this or if Dara might . . . be upset, perhaps, because he and the general had been close. “Dara, Ames’s father was assassinated last night.”

Dara just kept staring at him, slim fingers braided together in his lap.

“He’s . . . dead,” Noam said. Just in case that hadn’t been clear.

Dara closed his eyes. He was trembling. Noam couldn’t see it, but, sitting this close, he could feel it. “Did the paper say how it happened?”

“It . . . well. They say he was stabbed to death.”

He watched Dara carefully, marking each minute shift in expression. Dara ducked his head, and Noam couldn’t see his face anymore. One unsteady hand dragged through his hair.

The reaction didn’t seem faked. But it sure was a mighty big coincidence—that last night Noam accused Dara of doing nothing, and now the general was dead.

But did Noam think Dara could really commit murder?

If the papers were true, then Dara went into that house, where Ames Sr. thought he was safe, and he stabbed the general sixteen times.

Noam edged closer, his touch drifting to Dara’s knee. He wanted to reassure him, somehow—but that was all it took to push Dara over the edge. Dara leaned against Noam’s shoulder, whole body shuddering now as he . . .

He was crying, Noam realized. Dara was crying.

Very carefully, Noam wrapped his arms around Dara’s body and just . . . held him there, while both of Dara’s hands took fistfuls of his shirt and clung on tight. He was feverish hot; Noam could feel it even through the sweater Dara wore. It was like holding on to a live coal.

“It’s going to be all right,” Noam murmured against Dara’s ear, even though he had no way of knowing that was true. “He deserved it. You know that. I would have killed him myself, if you had let me.”

Dara didn’t tell him to fuck off, though, and didn’t pull away. His weight leaned against Noam’s chest, one of Dara’s hands abandoning Noam’s shirt to press against the base of his skull instead. Gently, so gently, Noam stroked Dara’s back and wished he was better at this. He had no idea what he was doing, if he was comforting Dara in his grief, or if Dara just . . .

“Is there anything you need?” Noam asked eventually. His shoulder was damp, Dara still curled in against him and smelling like stale cigarette smoke. “Can I get you something?”

Dara lifted his head slowly. His eyes were so bright, almost glassy. Then he kissed Noam, soft lips pressing against Noam’s mouth, his hand on Noam’s hip. It was—Noam nearly lost his balance, but Dara’s power caught him, some invisible telekinetic force pressing up on the small of Noam’s back. He . . . he . . .

He kissed back. What else could he do? He slipped his fingers into Dara’s sleep-tangled hair, keeping him close. Softer, it was softer than Noam had remembered. Dara climbed into his lap, Dara’s firm thighs straddling Noam’s hips, his tongue in Noam’s mouth.

“Dara,” Noam started, though he couldn’t think what he was going to say.

It was . . . fast. Too fast, Noam thought. Too much. He tasted salt on his tongue, Dara’s tears.

“Stop,” he said, gasping.

Dara didn’t stop. He just kissed Noam again, body moving against Noam’s like he wanted everything Noam had to give. Noam hated himself in that moment, but he reached for Dara’s wrists anyway, pushing his hands away and pulling back from the kiss.

“I’m sorry,” Noam said. “But you . . . not now. I can’t. I’m sorry.”

He couldn’t have sex with Dara when Dara was like this. Not when Dara had been so eager to avoid him last night. How did he know Dara wanted him, and not just distraction?

Dara wet his lips, wide eyed and staring at Noam like he’d never seen him before. Noam still held on to his wrists, but Dara didn’t try to draw them away.

“You’re in shock,” Noam said when it was clear Dara wasn’t going to speak.

A small, tremulous smile flitted over Dara’s mouth, something almost self-deprecating. “I thought you wanted me.”

“Dara—”

Noam had never seen Dara lost before, but that was the only word for the way he looked in this moment. His hands were limp where Noam held on to his wrists, and the longer Noam kept touching him, the more uncomfortable he felt. He let go.