Three Kings

by Freydís Moon

Ethan Shaw carried two knives, one for lilies, the other for veins.

“What if it bites you?” he muttered, and straightened his glasses with a bent knuckle. “My mother’s exact words after I told her we were engaged,”

Because love was indomitable, but it could be lost and ruined and squandered.

Marriage was intrusive and messy, but somehow, Peter Vásquez made it easy.

“You’re insufferable, you know,” Peter whispered. Ethan’s mouth ticked into a smile. “Isn’t that why you married me?” “I married you for your cooking, clearly.”

“That creature in our shed is alive because of a successful, safe ritual. You’re alive because I could not fathom letting you go. Those are two very, very different things.”

“I would’ve bled every drop of magic to bring you back. I would’ve killed to bring you back. That selkie got a small taste of me; you were given the opportunity to take all of me. There’s your difference, darling. If that botched ritual had called for a sacrifice, I would’ve slit the first throat within reach. Surely, you’re aware I wouldn’t do the same for a seal.”

It was a heady type of missing when you missed a person you already belonged to. Loneliness knotted in his chest. He had someone. Loved someone. Honored vows with someone. But he missed the desire, missed being lusted after.

“That you’re a witch. Seduced yourself a sailor. Whispered to his heart after it stopped beatin’ and told it to start again. People say you got him under some kind of spell too.” They purred, running their hand along the cat’s back. “Got him hooked on you.” “Well, he’s a captain, actually.”

neither Peter nor Nico bristled or taunted. They did what most men tended to do—frowned, stared, and waited.

“Do you remember our wedding night?” Peter asked. Ethan laughed in his throat. “Of course, I do.” “You were aggressively drunk.” “I was marginally tipsy.”

He could never harden them. Not at sea, not at home. Even in his anger and his worry, his eyes were brown sugar. Warm and syrupy and readable. Those same eyes had looked back at him since they were boys—since he’d hardly known he could be a boy—and he knew the hurt splintered behind them.

“Are you eating that like an apple?” Nico asked, hollering over the sea’s loud song. Ethan chewed. “It’s a tomato, and I’m eating it like a tomato.”

“I’m not sure what you’ve done to me, what your magic’s done to me. But I don’t think I can handle ever hearing you like that again.

Im not crying... It’s allergies

“I don’t get you,” Nico said haughtily. “I almost took your hand off; I don’t know how to speak to you; I put a knife to your throat. Why bother with me? What am I to you?” “An asshole with no manners,” Ethan mumbled.

“Besides, you’re our very rude, very broody guest.” Nico huffed. “You’re tiny and awful. You know that, right?” “I do.”

“You confuse me. You both do.” “I confuse myself.”

“You’ve never had beer-in-the-butt-chicken before?”

Why you gotta call it like that tho???

They worry, you know. Estoy con un brujo.” “Oh, so it’s my fault you’re a heretic,” Ethan teased.

“We’ve accidentally wrangled ourselves a selkie who can cook and spelled him into liking us.” Peter snorted, cheeks reddened from liquor and laughter. “Good for us, darling. Praise be.”

“You’re not a coward,” he said, defeated. “You’re kind and smart and good, and you scare me. That’s all.” “Well, I stand by what I said—you are a menace,” Ethan said, half teasing.