Into the North

by Amber Huxley

Death was nothing new to him. He’d spent seven years in the legion and seen more men die than he’d ever seen born. But this was different. There was a permanent chill in this forest, a deep foreboding that spoke of gods more feral than his own. He did not want to die in this forest, in the lands of these gods.

“We do not walk about naked, if that’s what you are asking.” He relaxed down into the lake, letting the heat lap away at his embarrassment. Agnar followed him in, then took him by the wrist and pulled him close. “It is a shame. When Nerthus provides such beauty, to keep it hidden is blasphemy.”

“Ask your question.” Marcus bit the inside of his cheek, then forced the words from his lips. “Then why do you still kiss me?” Agnar’s head tilted a little to the side, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Because I still wish to.” His gray eyes searched Marcus’s face. “Do you not kiss in Rome? Or do you not enjoy kissing?”

“You are mine. I would not share if Nerthus herself appeared and demanded to have you.”

“You are not lost, little Roman. You are mine. And you are right where you belong.”

Agnar stared at the simple beauty of Marcus’s cheekbones, perfect in their resting state. He was stunning in the rare moments he relaxed. The few times the tautness in his jaw had dissolved into a smile made Agnar’s heart tighten in his chest. His full lips, whose shy kiss the night before had made Agnar throb with the need to keep and protect them, were pouted now as he slept, and Agnar had to resist the urge to run his fingers across them.