NEW RELEASE An Elemental Meeting: The King's Weaver Book 3 (Ebook)

My name is Morgan, and that's the name I've chosen. I'm on the run from my family—finally living as the man I am.

But one rainy night at an inn, when my money's run dry and my past is catching up, I meet Lord Valtair, and I can't look away.

I first saw him years ago from afar, another lifetime ago. Then, I'd had an impossible crush. Because he only likes men, and I hadn't known that I was one.

But when he sees I'm in trouble now, he offers protection without hesitation.

He doesn't know me, but he knows the pain of a family who expects more than you can be.

And hiding together in his room...we have a night that changes everything.

A night that will haunt both of us forever.

An Elemental Meeting is a prequel novella to the events in The King's Weaver series, with a trans man and a court rake both trying to find their way in the world.

NOTE: While most of my books have little to no spice, this story needed some spice for the feels! We'll call it R, two peppers, and mostly non-descriptive. If you have teens reading this series, please check it first! This book adds to the main series story, but isn't required to enjoy An Elemental Husband.

Read on if you like:

🏳️‍⚧️ Newly hatched bi trans man

🏳️‍🌈 Gay court rake

🌲 On the run

🛏️ Only one bed

🫂 Hurt/comfort

✨Forbidden magic

It’s the kind of night no one should be outside in, the rain only stopping long enough to let me feel the chill. I hate traveling. Especially in the rain. Especially in the late autumn, when it all seeps into your bones until you swear you’ll never be warm again.

I leave my carriage, and the cold follows me through the door of the Crossed Keys Inn.

Then the warmth hits—bodies pressed close, voices loud with drink, the smell of roasting mutton and woodsmoke and wet wool. Nothing at all like the Barellan court. Nothing like the world I’m used to. Or my father’s manor house I came from.

Maybe, tonight, that’s a good thing.

And once I’m inside, rain drums again against the windows. At least it waited until I left my carriage.

I want wine. Forgetfulness, if I can find it.

Two days since my father's estates. Two days of his voice in my head: You need to settle, son. Find someone suitable. Stop this wandering about. As though my life is a problem to be solved with a ring and a marriage contract. He was the Minister of Finance for most of my life—but my life isn’t a sum he can calculate and solve.

As though any of the men at court see me as more than a way into the favors of my father, and now that my father’s retired, the king.

I told my father no.

Uh, loudly. And with great fervor.

I can still hear his shouts echoing off the stone walls of Valtair Manor.

But I’m here now.

I carefully pluck off my tight gloves, tuck them into my belt, stretching out my fingers from the ache.

The common room spreads before me, long tables crowded with travelers, the great hearth roaring at the far wall. Near the hearth, someone plucks a badly tuned lute.

I hope they’re not going to try to sing. I already have a headache.

It should all be an ordinary inn. The kind of scene you see on any given inn on any given road.

But my attention catches on a man sitting alone in the corner, hunched over his wine. He looks like he is trying to fade into the background.

But he’s staring straight at me with an intensity that I hadn’t expected here.

He's young—my age, maybe—clean-shaven, his pale face pinked as he stares at me. His dark hair is messy, cut short and uneven, like someone took shears to it in haste. His clothes don't fit right. The shirt pulls across his shoulders, hangs loose in front of him. Borrowed, or bought without caring about the fit.

But it's not the clothes.

It's the tension in his frame. The way his shoulders curve inward.

The door opens behind me and his eyes flick to the door, sharp and afraid, before he seems to take a breath and looks back to me.

As if I might actually be a point of safety in this inn from whatever he’s running from.

Then his eyes widen and he blushes furiously, wrapping his hands back around his mug before hunching down further.

But he still looks up at me again. Checking I’m still here.

I look away to give him a little bit of space for dignity.

What’s he running from? I know all about running.

He obviously recognizes me, but that’s nothing new—everyone knows who I am at the Barellan court. I’m the son of the former Minister of Finance and the crown prince Torovan’s best friend. Lord Thaddeus Valtair, notorious court rake. Now occupier of country inns.

He’s not dressed like nobility, but something in his bearing, and the way he met my eyes, tells me he’s not used to averting his gaze.

Nor should he have to be.

A short man with light-brown skin and a balding head appears at my elbow. The innkeeper?

“My lord! Welcome to the Crossed Keys. We’re honored—”

This man won’t meet my eyes like the stranger just did, and now I’m unreasonably annoyed. Maybe it was foolish to think I could have even one night away from the cares of my social position and the Barellan Court.

"I need a room." My voice comes out rougher than I intend. I cough and try to smooth it. "Private. And wine. Top shelf, mind you. Or better yet, back room."

"Of course, of course." He's already bowing. "Our finest chamber for you, my lord. Fresh linens, good bed. And I'll send up a bottle from the southern valleys, excellent vintage—"

Better than the north. I don’t want anything to remind me of my father’s estate.

I count out coins without looking at them. More than the room costs, but I don't care.

"I'll eat down here."

His brows rise—nobility doesn't always sit in the common room—but he recovers. "The best table, then. By the fire—"

"That one." I nod toward a table with a clear view of the corner.

He hesitates, then snaps his fingers at a serving woman. I shrug out of my cloak, hang it near the door.

The serving woman clears the table, and I sit, stretching my legs under it. Which is welcome relief after the cramped ride in the carriage. The fire's warmth, finally, starts to seep into my bones, but it doesn't touch the tightness in my chest.

I don't look at the corner.

But I'm aware. Of the way he shifts in his seat. Of the tension radiating from him even as he tries to project calm. Of his gaze sliding again toward me when he thinks I'm not watching.

The serving woman brings wine. I pour and take a long drink. It's decent—better than I expected from a roadside inn. The pewter cup is cool in my palm, and the wine burns going down.

I still don't look.

But my awareness narrows to him. To the set of his shoulders, the nervous energy barely contained. The way he takes another sip, and I catch myself tracking the movement. Watching the line of his throat out of the corner of my eye. The way his hand tightens on the mug.

This is madness. I came here to forget. To blur the edges of the last three days until they stop cutting. I don’t need this stranger who obviously comes with problems. He might think he’s trying to blend in, but he looks like a storm of drama just waiting to happen.

The lute player starts something that might be a ballad and gods, yes, he is going to sing. Someone laughs too loud near the fire.

He doesn't move from his corner.

I don't move from my table.

When I let myself look again, he's already watching me. But he doesn't look away like someone caught staring. He just...watches. Like even though he doesn’t want to be seen, he wants to be seen by me.

He holds my gaze for two seconds. Three.

Then he lowers his eyes with careful casualness, color rising again in his cheeks.

Heat crawls up my neck.

Gods, but he is handsome, in a delicate way that only emphasizes the noble bearing he’s trying to hide. The bad haircut frames his round face in a roguish cast, only adding to the appeal. He’s lean, and the way he holds himself show confidence in his strength, though he’s not by any means bulked out.

And he’s interested. I know he’s interested.

Is he worth dealing with whatever he’s running from?

Or, is he flirting because he wants to play the games of the Barellan Court here? Am I just falling into another person who wants to use me for my connections?

My fingers tap against my cup. I should eat. Then go upstairs and let this night end. Maybe flag down the innkeeper again and tell him I’ll eat upstairs.

He’s hunched over his mug again. His face is still flushed crimson.

And I have the sudden dizzying awareness that he’s asking himself similar questions. Because yes, I know my reputation as a court rake. I do know. And usually, I don’t care.

Yes, he’s interested. But does he want to spend that interest on me?

And that…that short circuits my better judgment. He knows who I am, and he’s still hesitant. He’s looked, but he hasn’t made any moves to put himself in my good graces. Not anything like would happen at the court.

I carefully take a sip of my wine.

I haven't felt genuinely intrigued by someone in months. This pull. This spark of interest. And a hint of danger to spice it all up.

The serving woman brings food, and it almost feels like an interruption of intimacy. But I catch myself, tuck my napkin into my collar, and survey the meal in front of me. It’s been long hours since I last ate on the road, and my mouth waters with the smell of it.

Roasted chicken, warm bread, cheese.

I glance to the man in the corner, and now he’s not looking.

I look back at my meal on a wooden tray, then scoop up the tray and make my way over to him.

And now he’s gripping the edge of the table, looking up at me with dismay.

I slow as I near his table. Did I misread the signals?

“Do you want company?” I ask. And waggle the tray.

His lips part. He’s trim but not thin, but his eyes fixate on the meal like he hasn’t eaten in a day.

I set it down and slip into a seat across from him at the table.

“I can’t eat your meal,” he says.

“Well, I can’t eat it all alone.”

Which is probably true. It’s a large portion, and I have a waistline to maintain.

His mouth pulls tight. He looks around and leans in. “If you’re trying to seduce me—”

I grin and sit back. “I was going to say the same. Those eyes you were making at me.”

He flushes again, but keeps glaring at me.

I wave at the food. “Dig in. It’s a gift, from a fellow traveler. And I didn’t want to eat alone. The seduction is optional. But…on the table. If you want.”

His lips twitch somewhere between a smile and a scowl, but he doesn’t need any more coaxing to eat.

“Maybe,” he says. And flicks up another look at me through thick lashes. While he turns bright crimson. Again.

Heat pools low in my belly. And gods but I’m losing all will to look away.