Page 107 of Dragon’s Ending

“Your fault,” Ben pointed out as he unbuttoned the red coat.

“Most things are.”

I crossed the room towards him and helped work the ridiculous coat off his shoulders before pulling him close. He was warm from the crowded hall below and smelled faintly of cinnamon and orange.

“Mm,” he said approvingly after I kissed him. “Much better.”

I backed him slowly towards the bed, hands sliding beneath his shirt almost without thought. I loved touching him. Loved the little sounds he made when I kissed the corner of his mouth, the way his hands settled automatically on my hips to pull me closer.

“You know,” I murmured against his neck, “I’m beginning to suspect Father Christmas outfits might become a personal interest of mine.”

Ben laughed softly, breath catching a little as I kissed him again.

And then his phone buzzed loudly on the bedside table where he’d left it during his performance.

We both froze.

“No,” I said immediately.

Ben was already laughing as he twisted to look past me. “It might be important.”

“If it’s not an actual emergency, I’m setting fire to the phone.”

He reached for it one-handed, still trapped between me and the bed. His brow creased slightly as he read.

“It’s Evelyn,” he said. “About those markings on the castle wall.”

It’s not that I wasn’t interested, but I had Ben plastered against me, I was half-hard already, and honestly? History was not my priority right now, shocking though that would be to my historian.

“They’ve waited centuries. I think they can manage half an hour more,” I told him.

Too late. He was still reading. “Oh, of course,” he said. “You know Evelyn and I both recognised those marks?”

“Mmmm,” I said, kissing his neck, and he shivered.

“That’s because,” he managed, “they’re in an illustration in a medieval manuscript we have—God, Dominic. It shows…”

His voice quavered as I licked the spot under his ear that always did it for him.

“Bedivere—fuck—putting Arthur in the boat to Avalon when he’s dying.”

“Go on,” I murmured as I nipped at his jaw. Not because I had any great interest in this illustration, but because it was fun watching Ben try to hold on to his historian brain when his body was thrumming with need.

“The marks are—are carved into the prow.”

He made a different little sound then, and something about it made me pull back to look at him properly.

Ben was staring at me like the world had just tilted beneath his feet.

“Dominic,” he said breathlessly. “You’re descended from Bedivere, who was entrusted with Arthur’s body. Your family’s lived here forever. The name of the bloody house. Do you think—is it possible?”

“Possibly,” I said helpfully. “What, exactly?”

“Do you think that older structure was built to mark Arthur’s resting place?”

It took me a moment to follow his reasoning.

“Bloody hell,” I said, as what he was saying finally penetrated. “You mean—that’s where King Arthur is buried? Not Glastonbury, or any of those other places, but under our castle?”