I’ll keep trying.
To keep him well.
To keep him happy.
Merlin, I’m too turned on to think. I love him, I love him. But I also want to do this, whatever it is that works between us. With Agatha, it—No, never mind, that doesn’t matter.
I’m holding Baz’s jaw and kissing him. I’m stroking his cheek like he’ll break. My cock is in his hip. He’s pushing his briefs off, he’s trying to stay under the blanket—I help him.
This would be good enough. Just this. Baz. Finally. Beside me.
“You don’t disappoint me,” he says, reaching for me.
“It’s all right,” I say. “I knew what you meant.”
He holds my face in both hands. I hold his like it’s precious.
This is what people do. This is what we’ll do. Baz and me.
His lips are pinkish grey. His tongue is nearly red. His fangs are down, I’ll be careful.
“You smell so good,” I say.
His eyes are half closed. “Like a cave.”
“Like cold water.”
“That’s not a smell, Snow.”
I lick his lips. “So good.”
“Stay with me,” he whispers. “Don’t get lost in it.”
“I won’t,” I swear. “I’m here.”
He makes a fist in my hair. “Stay with me.”
“I will.”
BAZ
Maybe this is enough. Simon. Finally. Beside me.
Maybe it’s too much.
Maybe I’m the one getting lost …
（This is what I wanted, but I didn’t know what it was like. His heart is beating in my throat. His hands are everywhere. His tail. He has so many ways to hold on to me.）
I push his face away from mine. “I need—”
“What do you need, babe?”
I hold on to his cheeks. “I need you to know that I’m not disappointed in you.”
“Baz, it’s okay. I know.”
“I believe in you.” I cover his mouth, so he’ll listen. “Simon, I believe in you.”
He doesn’t try to argue. Not right away. His face looks so red under my hands. My bloodless fingers. My blue nails.
Simon pulls my wrist down. “Do you trust me?”
He knows I do. That I did, even when I hated him. （I never hated him.） “Yes.”
“Can I touch you?”
I nod my head.
83
SIMON
I’m not crying. Neither is Baz.
My wings hurt. I lie on my stomach, so I can spread them out.
Baz sits beside me, and I know he’s inspecting the damage from yesterday.
They’re just cuts, I’ll live.
I feel his fingers on the back of my neck.
“You can be angry now,” I say.
He pulls my hair.
84
SIMON
A few hours later, Baz is sitting on my bed with his violin, holding it like a guitar. He’s not playing anything, really. Just making cheerful noises with it. I didn’t know Baz’s violin was capable of cheerful noises. At Watford, it always sounded like it was crying.
“Does that hurt?” he asks.
I’ve got my wings folded up as tight as I can, and I’m buttoning a shirt over them. “Yeah, but there’s no way around it.”
“You could leave them out,” he says, “and I’ll cast spells at everyone who looks at you.”
“Seems impractical,” I say. “I’ll cope. I can spread them out once we get to Lady Ruth’s.”
“She’ll like that.” Baz stands up, leaving the violin on my bed, and comes over to me. He moves my hands away and finishes buttoning the shirt. It’s his shirt, an olive-green cotton one with complicated stripes and short sleeves.
（I’ve never even seen Baz wear short sleeves.） “Are you going to dress me every morning?” I ask.
“If you allow it, absolutely.”
I’ll probably allow it, what do I care.
“I don’t want to wear flowers,” I say. Baz is wearing flowers. His button-down shirt is grey with sprays of pink and blue lilacs. He makes it look manly somehow, with his indigo trousers and grey lace-up shoes. I’d look like a sofa.
“No flowers.” He kisses my cheek. “So noted, rosebud boy.”
I look up at him. “That’s what the ghost called me—your mother. That’s what she said.”
Baz is looking in my eyes. “I remember.” He runs his thumb over my cheek. Then my bottom lip. “My rosebud boy.”
Lady Ruth has the door open before we get to it. “Simon!” she says. “Baz!