A Lesson in Thorns (Thornchapel #1)(95)

Chapter 27





To Thee Do We Send Up Our Sighs





St. Sebastian doesn’t know what to do with his hands or his face or his rapid, giddy heart.

He sits on the bed next to Poe while Auden tends to her hand. He disinfects and then bandages each tiny cut, scratch, or puncture made by the thorns, and with each one, after he cleans it but before he covers it with a plaster, he bends down and gives it a soft, reverent kiss. As if the little cuts are precious to him, as if Poe is precious to him.

Auden is unbearably handsome like this, kneeling in front of Poe with his brows drawn together in concentration and his mouth soft with tender focus. And even more unbearable is the memory of Auden’s eyes when Auden held his throat and made him come.

Fuck, those eyes. Gorgeous and selfish and sexual and only for Saint in that moment.

Only for him.

Except they were for Poe too in a way, and the memory of her small hands exploring him makes him hot all over again. He would have come with her too, if he’d had enough time, he would have wrapped his hand around her own and shown her how to be rough with him, how to toss him off quick and mean like he does to himself when he needs to come.

She’s as unbearably beautiful as Auden is handsome right now, naked and petite and curvy, her damp hair tumbling down to her waist in dark waves and her plump mouth parted as she watches Auden kiss and fuss over her cuts. Saint wants to try again—or maybe not so much try again as do it all over so he could watch her this time, watch her face as Auden pinned him to the wall by his throat and masturbated him. To tell her that he wants her like he wants Auden, that he wants them both, that he wants everything but he doesn’t know how to hold all this wanting inside of himself without breaking.

It feels like he’s been pried open, like the air is blowing across his pulpy, beating heart, and like the slightest touch on that exposed organ will kill him.

So he doesn’t know what to do with himself as Auden tends to Poe and then finally finishes his work, standing up and stretching his back with a low, male groan. Poe, clean and kissed and sleepy again, lays her head on Saint’s shoulder and promptly starts snoring tiny, quiet snores.

“I need to go back out to the ruins,” Auden tells Saint. “We got out of there so fast, and I can’t stop worrying about something still being on fire.”

Saint glances pointedly at the windows, which are striped with thick rivulets of rain. “Nothing’s still burning in that.” It costs him something more dear than he’d like to admit when he adds, “Stay. Stay here with us.”

For a minute, Auden looks like he wants nothing more in the world than to peel off his wet boxers and crawl into bed with Poe and Saint and sleep off their strange night in a warm, tangled cuddle.

But then he sighs, and with the sigh comes a look of resignation that Saint knows from long experience can’t be fought.

“I won’t be able to sleep until I check. But you should stay,” he says. “She needs to be snuggled.”

“You don’t want to be the one to do that?” Saint asks, incredulous. “You’d let me?”

“I’m delegating,” Auden says with a raised eyebrow. “But I’ll be back, and then I’ll be seeing to her snuggling myself.”

He says it so soberly, so seriously, that Saint can’t help but laugh a little. “You can relax, General Guest. I’ll keep the snuggling beachhead safe and surrender it immediately upon your return.”

Auden’s dimple dents in, as if he’s fighting a smile, and then it disappears again. “Keep her warm,” he orders, as if Saint is his to order, and then he leaves.

I’m not his to order, Saint reminds himself as he carefully settles Poe under the covers. One soul-quaking hand job didn’t erase the years of pain and guilt and anger between them. One perfect moment with Auden cracking open his every fantasy and bringing them to life didn’t change the ugly, spotted truth.

They could never be anything more than enemies. Anything closer than two men who want the same woman.

He turns off the light, strips off his boxers, and climbs into the bed, pulling Poe close against him. She’s dozy and limp and warm, and burrows trustingly into his chest in a way that makes him strangely and fiercely protective. Tomorrow, he tells himself, tomorrow he’s going to sort this all out with her. He’s going to apologize for all his indecision and all the times he pushed her away, and then he’s going to choose her over everything else. Everything.

It feels like he’s just had this thought, just made this promise to himself, when he opens his eyes and realizes the rain has stopped and Poe is awake.

“What time is it?” he asks, his voice husky from the sleep he hadn’t realized he was having.

“Close to three,” she says.

He’s probably only been asleep for an hour or so, then. He blinks at the dark windows, knowing Auden is still probably out in the ruins, checking for fires and gathering their things. He feels a stab of guilt for not helping, and tells himself he’ll help tomorrow. He’ll take care of the fallen tree and anything else that still needs doing.

Poe’s up on one elbow staring down at him, her delicate, ethereal face in an expression of troubled unhappiness.

Alarmed, St. Sebastian sits up. “Are you okay? Are you hurting? Do you need me to get anything?”