Their room was barely bigger than the skinny bed, with a narrow window framing a partial view of the neighboring building’s roof. Arthur leaned on the door to shut it behind him as Rory shoved off his jacket and flopped on the bed on his stomach.

“So tired.” He pulled off his glasses and fumbled to put them on the windowsill. “You can crash on top of me if you want, I probably won’t notice.” He rested his cheek on his own arm, his long-lashed eyes already closing. “Come on, bello, c’mere. I can actually sleep when you’re around.”

Arthur smiled, but his stomach was roiling.

If you ever get tired of me—if you ever take your magic away—I may die.

Just thought you’d like to know.

He took off his hat and held it in too-tight fingers. Gwen was right; he couldn’t keep this from Rory. He himself would never forgive Rory for keeping a truth like this from him and Rory deserved to know.

But how the hell was he supposed to tell Rory he was now responsible for Arthur’s life?

Rory’s eyes were fully closed, his expression soft, his breaths slowing. Arthur slid off his suit jacket and slipped out of his vest, trousers and dress shirt, folding them on the room’s single other piece of furniture, an ancient writing desk. He climbed into the bed, maneuvering until Rory was tucked under his arm, his head resting on Arthur’s chest. Rory curled into him with a soft noise of contentment.

The small window was open, letting in the night breeze and the sound of the club below, the upright bass, a soulful trumpet, a man singing. Cars passed along the street with rumbling engines, and the night air smelled faintly of diesel and rain.

Arthur was warm and almost criminally comfortable, and yet his entire chest ached as he glanced from the soft curls resting on his heart to the ceiling above.

This had all been fine when it was Rory’s magic that needed Arthur’s aura.

He wasn’t sure he could handle the reverse.

Chapter Nineteen

The floors were quiet when they woke, most of the tenants either night workers at the club or up late for other reasons, carousing perhaps, or simply Bohemians making art.

They’d agreed to meet the others for breakfast. Rory followed Arthur to a cafe a block over, with a walk-up counter inside. Arthur ordered in apologetic English, mostly by pointing at various things on the paper menu, and a few minutes later they had two china cups of coffee and a plate of flaky pastries that looked too delicate for Rory’s chapped hands.