Throne of Ash and Shadows

Chapter 8 Katya Vasiliev

I knelt on the bed, watching as Ometz sat at the edge, his bare back to me, his shoulders weighed down by burdens I could not yet name. His blonde hair, wet and tousled from his shower, fell into his eyes, and he ran a hand through it absently, trying to push the tension away. He was wearing nothing but gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips, revealing the scars that littered his torso—reminders of battles fought and won. The scars were a stark contrast to those of my brother, which were more numerous and ugly, telling a different kind of story, one marked by survival and pain.

Ometz rubbed his face with his hands, letting out a long, weary sigh. He had been more stressed than usual, the weight of something unspoken hanging between us like a fog, thick and suffocating. I couldn't help but wonder what had changed, what storm was brewing in the depths of his mind.

I traced my fingers lightly up his back, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my touch. His muscles tensed for a moment but then relaxed as I moved my hands over the expanse of his broad shoulders, gently massaging the tension from them.

"Tell me," I whispered, my voice soft, coaxing, though I already knew he wouldn't. Not tonight.

Ometz exhaled deeply, his breath a low sigh as he leaned back against me, his head resting against my chest. For a moment, his eyes closed, the lines of tension in his face softening. When he finally opened them, his gaze met mine, and something in those green depths stirred—a quiet storm held at bay, just for now. His calloused hand lifted to my face, tracing the line of my jaw with a tenderness that made my heart ache. His thumb brushed over my lips, lingering there as if he needed to feel my breath, to remind himself that I was real.

"Amica mea," he whispered, his voice rough with weariness, the Latin words—my love—rolling off his tongue like a secret. I felt the warmth of his affection in those simple words, but beneath it, something heavier lingered, something he was not ready to reveal.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, resting his head against my chest, my fingers gently threading through his hair. "Pulchritudo mea," he murmured, the words like a prayer—my beauty.

I sighed softly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, feeling the steady beat of his heart against my skin. He didn't want to talk about it tonight. I could feel it in the way his body relaxed against mine, as if he was seeking solace in the quiet moments between us. He wanted to escape, to lose himself in the warmth of our shared bed, to forget about the burdens that weighed on him, if only for a few hours.

"Promitto..." I whispered, moving his hand away from my lips, tracing the scars that marked his knuckles. "That you will tell me tomorrow."

He gave a small smile, a shadow of the one I used to know, and nodded. "Promitto, amica mea," he echoed, the words thick with exhaustion and something else—something that felt like a promise laced with uncertainty.

He rose from the bed, walking over to his side, and I watched him, my eyes tracing the lines of his strong back as he removed his watch and set it on the bedside table. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he was trying to shake off the weight of the world before coming back to me.

When he returned to the bed, his hands found mine, pulling me gently to straddle him. His body was warm beneath my hands, solid and familiar, the scent of him—clean and fresh from the shower—wrapping around me like a comforting embrace. He cupped my face in his hands, his green eyes searching mine, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Gratias tibi ago, amica mea," he whispered—thank you, my love.

I smiled, though the unease in my chest hadn't left. I placed my hands on the sides of his face, my thumbs brushing over the rough stubble on his jaw. "You're welcome, puer pulchellus," I whispered back, calling him beautiful boy, a term I had used so many times before, back when everything was simpler, when love was pure and untangled from the complexities of politics and war.