He reached for the door handle, but Tarquin was out of the vehicle and around to his side before he even remembered he needed to take off his seatbelt. Tarquin opened the door and reached in for him, and Alaric was gently lifted from the seat and placed carefully on his feet on the sidewalk.
He swayed, and his knees threatened to buckle. Tarquin pulled him close. Alaric tried not to be obvious when he pressed his face to Tarquin’s shoulder, aching for a moment of peace. His body wanted to sleep, and he was having trouble focusing, his worry about whether or not he still had a job colliding with the whys and hows of what Tarquin did to his emotions and the insane degree of attraction he was feeling for him. Touching Tarquin, feeling the strength in his body, and the way he smelled was everything Alaric needed, and he mourned the loss of it all, knowing soon Tarquin would leave.
Alaric could not recall a time he ever felt like this for another person, and he wanted to hold onto to it for as long as he could.
Tarquin gestured to the cracked pathway leading to the front porch. “Shall I carry you? You’ll need at least twelve hours of rest before your nervous system stabilizes. I stopped the curse, but your body still needs time to recover from the ordeal.”
His mother was probably watching from the front windows and worrying about what was going on. If he got carried up the front walk and into the house, she would think he was dying. Never mind that he did nearly die, he wasn’t dying now, and his mother did not need any more stress.
“No, please don’t. Maybe just help me to the door?” he all but begged, and Tarquin sighed quietly and scowled, obviously thinking Alaric was being needlessly stubborn.
A strong arm wrapped around his waist, and Alaric leaned just a little bit into Tarquin as they walked together up the concrete path to the covered front porch, the door set back enough to be hard to see from the path. He wondered why Tarquin was so patient with him, someone he only just met that morning, and then had to save—Alaric didn’t think many people would be so kind or caring in the current situation.
Each step made his legs tremble, and when they got to the stairs leading up to the porch, he had to grab onto Tarquin’s arm and cling, close to passing out again.
Tarquin grumbled something about stubbornness, and then Alaric was lifted off his feet and carried swiftly up the stairs and across the porch to the door. The heavy wood and leaded glass door opened just as they reached it and Tarquin set him gently on his feet again.
“Ric, baby, what happened?” Olivia Keening rushed from the house and wrapped her arms around him, making him fall back into Tarquin. The dragon grabbed his shoulders and kept him upright, strong hands holding him securely. Alaric groaned, embarrassed and feeling a bit ill.
His mom gasped and jumped back, only just seeming to notice Tarquin looming over Alaric. She took a few steps back, so she was just inside the house and gestured for Alaric to come inside. “Baby, come sit down, you look horrible!”
“Thanks,” he grimaced. “Mom, I’m fine. I promise.” He was lying through his teeth, and his knees were about to give out. Olivia grabbed his arm and tugged, and Alaric almost keeled over.
“Enough of this,” Tarquin said, and the porch spun as Alaric was swept off his feet again. “Madam, please lead the way to his bedroom.”
His mom sputtered but pointed over her shoulder with a shaking finger to the stairs behind her in the foyer. Tarquin wasted no time and stepped inside the house, adroitly navigating the stacks of new flooring, piled drywall, and abandoned plastic sheeting covering the walls and the railings on the stairs. Alaric gave up and buried his face in Tarquin’s shoulder, cheeks burning.
The house was an absolute mess, holes in the walls, parts of the ceiling exposed to the studs, crown molding torn down, wallpaper ripped and faded. A haphazard collection of renovations that had stalled just after beginning, all due to the asshole who stole his mother’s money and ran off with her future, and Alaric’s. No one was going to help Olivia Keening, and the police had no leads. Alaric uprooted his whole life and hopped an international border to help his mother, and a part of him felt like it was a failing endeavor already, even after a few weeks.
Up the stairs, and his room wasn’t hard to find, considering it was the first one past the landing overlooking the foyer below, the empty chandelier chain swinging in the breeze where it hung from the open door. A suitcase sat open at the foot of a broken dresser and his bed was a mess, but thankfully the room was in a better state than the rest of the house. No holes in the ceiling or walls in here, and the attached bathroom still had hot water, though the ancient toilet malfunctioned every other use.
Alaric was gently deposited on his bed, and Tarquin knelt at his feet, tugging off his dress shoes. Alaric flushed, heart jumping at the sensation of having the powerful dragon touching his feet. Thankfully he wasn’t ticklish, though a part of him still wanted to giggle at the incongruous experience. Tarquin was gentle and didn’t linger as he touched, no part of it weird or intrusive. Everywhere Tarquin touched warmed, tingling sweetly, and he fought against the impulse to touch in return. Tarquin was solicitous and nurturing, qualities he would never have expected, and he was left confused as to what it was about him that warranted such behavior from the powerful dragon.
Tarquin stood, reaching past him to adjust the covers. He helped Alaric out of his suit jacket, which was carefully hung on a hanger and put away in the wide-open armoire on the outside wall of his bedroom. It was original to the house and worth thousands, but it weighed a ton, which was why it was still in the house.
Tarquin came back and stood over him. Alaric blinked up at his boss, wondering what he was supposed to do next. “Lie down,” Tarquin ordered, though gently. Alaric sighed, brain sluggish, not understanding. Tarquin shook his head, then with a guiding nudge, helped him slide down under the covers.
“I’m still in my clothes,” Alaric murmured, exhausted and unable to muster any strength to feel a shred of embarrassment.
“Sleep now, worry about that later,” Tarquin rested a hand on Alaric’s hair, and a soft wave of magic buzzed as it traveled down from his head, fading as it went before leaving him. It sort of felt like it did when he’d slept on his arms, but without the numbness. The magic carried away his fretfulness and residual worry, and he settled deeper into the bed. Pulling his hand away, Tarquin stepped back from the bedside.
“Get some sleep. You have tomorrow off. I’ll check on you in the morning.”
“I’m not fired?” Alaric asked sleepily, eyes closing.
“Definitely not fired. Rest.”
The last thing he saw before sleep pulled him under was Tarquin watching over him.
Chapter 4
Olivia Keening hovered nervously outside her son’s room, and Tarquin only stepped away when he heard Alaric’s breathing even out in slumber.
She eyed him with some trepidation but managed a smile when he joined her in the hall, pulling the door closed until it was only open an inch or so. Her son took after her, though she was blonder, a pale gossamer color. Same features and eyes, though. She smelled of nerves and stress, and an underlying sense of illness. Not terminal, but Olivia Keening was not well.
“Is Ric alright?” She fidgeted nervously, almost whispering. “What happened?”