“Please, please,” Felix whispered quietly.
“Were the clothes I provided not to your liking?”
His heart all but leapt from his chest as he slammed the lid shut and turned on his knees. Gethrin stood watching from the entrance. He wasn’t smiling.
Felix jumped to his feet, his head bowed. Thinking fast, and taking full advantage of his accelerated heartbeat and quaking limbs, he peered up at Gethrin with fearful, innocent eyes. “No, I want to please you. It’s just that it’s freezing in here," he lied, crossing his arms to move his hands rapidly along his bare arms. “And, also," he continued, dropping his eyes shamefully, “I was hoping I would find something to—to make things less—to make things more comfortable. I’m sorry, sir.”
The darkness that had flashed across the bandit’s face lightened upon hearing these words, and his mouth held the hint of a smile as he shrugged out of his leather cape and turned to close the tent flaps. And as he turned, Felix saw it. A folded piece of parchment in his back pocket. It had to be the letter. Excitement and relief flooded through him, but he forced his expression to neutral before Gethrin faced him.
“There’s lubricant in the drawer there,” Gethrin said, pointing to the table Felix had just searched before removing his pelt and bending to unlace his boots. “Get it. And you’ll soon be plenty warm, I assure you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Felix made a show of searching for the oil, gushing over its pretty container as he closed the drawer, then fixed his face with what he hoped was a shy, expectant smile, one that would hide his fear. He shouldn’t have taken the blade. If Gethrin were to check and find it gone … he shouldn’t have risked taking it, wouldn’t have taken it had he not been so tired and he’d been thinking clearly. But there was no going back now. With the tube in his hand, he turned to face Gethrin, who now sat on the edge of the bed, eyeing him sharply.
And it was in that moment that Felix realized his mistake.
Gethrin thought he was a virgin.
Initially, he’d mistaken Felix’s revulsion at his advances as a virgin’s understandable shyness, and when he’d asked, Felix said it was true. But this lie meant to dissuade Gethrin had instead inspired him, making him more desirable in the bad bandit’s eyes. He elated in thinking Felix was unsullied, especially by Torsten’s hands, and it was what he was expecting now—expecting he would be the first to sully him—which is likely why he’d not been killed the moment he’d walked into camp. But faking a smile was one thing. Felix couldn’t fake his virginity, not right now, not after the blissful time he’d just spent lying with Torsten, leaving his body delightfully stretched and sore and riddled with the evidence of their pairing. He’d not even had a chance to wash. And the moment Gethrin touched him intimately, he would know. He would know he’d been lied to, he would assume Torsten had sent him to spy, and he would likely kill him right off, or worse. Considering all the filthy, leering bandits in the camp, there could be worse things than dying quickly.
The only way out of this was to take charge of the moment, and he had some ideas. He could wrap his head around the problem, so to speak, and hopefully distract Gethrin into such profound oblivion that he’d be able to snatch the letter and run, or, at the very least, put him off long enough that he could clean up. And if that failed to satisfy his lust? He could claim he was assaulted on the way there. That yet a third group of bandits had waylaid him in the woods, had their way with him, then sent him on his way. But was that believable? Or would he be more likely to believe Torsten had assaulted him, gotten a few licks in before tossing him from camp. And if he thought that, it would make him hate Torsten even more than he already did, putting him at even greater risk than he was now, and Felix didn’t want that. He wanted only good things for Torsten.
“What are you waiting for?” Gethrin growled impatiently, quickly crossing the space between them and snatching the oil from Felix’s hand.
“I’m sorry. I’m nervous,” Felix said, his voice breaking.
“Doesn’t matter. I’m not.” Pushing the satchel from his shoulder, Gethrin grabbed a fistful of Felix’s curls and crushed his mouth in a violent kiss. His beard was as rough as a cat’s tongue, and he bit Felix’s lip hard, drawing blood. Felix whimpered as hands roamed greedily down his back and grabbed his ass, squeezing it painfully.
His hands flexed helplessly at his sides, and his heart thudded a frenzied, fitful rhythm, as he wondered how many moments he had left to live. He couldn’t fight off Gethrin, couldn’t simply slap his hands away as he’d done with lascivious drunks in a tavern. Gethrin was about to slip his hands inside his pants, discover Felix had lied, and kill him.
It was like the final verses of an epic ballad, starring Felix as the valiant but slightly stupid hero willing to give his life for love, yet never realizing his sacrifice—brave though it was—would actually make things worse. Future audiences hearing such a tale would know. They would weep and shout out in warning each time the tale was told, desperate for a different, better ending.
On gaining tactile proof Felix had been recently fucked, Gethrin might be so enraged he’d slit his throat immediately. There might be no opportunity for tall tales about being assaulted in the woods. He’d be dead, and Gethrin’s rage would surely result in the entire camp taking off after Torsten, killing him and every one of the bandits that were left, and as savagely as possible.
And he couldn’t—he wouldn’t—let that happen. As dramatic and poignant as that ballad might be, he didn’t want to die choking on his own blood, clad in leather briefs and bells, his last sight that of Gethrin’s sneering face above him. And he didn’t want Dot to die, or that bitch Selon.
Or Torsten. Especially not Torsten.
Let someone else be the well-meaning martyr that made drunken patrons weep. He would be the one they cheered for.
Felix surged, enthusiastically returning Gethrin’s kiss and moving his hand to firmly grasp his groin, earning a deep grunt of approval. His plan might not work, but he had to try, and his new backup plan was in his satchel, wrapped in Torsten’s bandana. If he could produce the euphoric response in Gethrin he hoped for, he’d grab the letter and his satchel and run, perhaps picking up Gethrin’s coat on his way. If that didn’t work, he’d go straight for the blade. Either way, it was show time. He might well die, but he would die fighting.
Felix dropped to his knees, his hands squeezing the bandit’s swelling member through his pants. Gethrin groaned, a look of immense pleasure on his face as his displaced hands now found Felix’s curls. He cocked an eyebrow at him as his fingers wound and tightened in his hair. Then he closed his eyes, widened his stance, and let his head fall back.
It was his chance, and Felix took it. Moving his hands to the bandit’s backside, he began rubbing in a circular motion as he opened his mouth, pressed it to the fabric covering Gethrin’s groin, and after a quick breath, began blowing. Gethrin sighed deeply at this, his entire body easing with pleasure at the warmth. And as it did, Felix gripped the pocketed letter between his fingers and pulled.
Quickly now, he moved his hands to Gethrin’s hips as his mouth moved to the tie of his trousers, using his teeth to pull at the leather cords. Gethrin shook his head and laughed, and Felix giggled along as he slid the purloined letter into the backside of his own leather pants.
No going back now.
His satchel lay on the floor beside him, and as he continued with his teeth, and one hand moved to cup and fondle Gethrin’s leather-clad balls, the other hand opened the satchel’s flap, unwrapped the covering of Torsten’s bandana, and freed it.
“What’s that in your hand?” Gethrin asked quietly.
Felix’s mouth went dry as he released his teeth and looked up. Gethrin was looking down at him curiously, as if what Felix held clutched in his closed hand might be a pleasurable surprise.
And then Felix stabbed him.
As the blade plunged into Gethrin’s thigh, he roared, tightening his grip in Felix’s
hair, dragging him across the floor, and throwing him onto the bed. With a mad laugh, he pulled the blade from his leg and climbed on top of him. His eyes were blazing as he held the bloody weapon to Felix’s throat.
“What was that?” he growled. “You dare stab me with my own blade?” He was bleeding all over Felix and the silk coverlet, but it wasn’t the dramatic gush Felix had been hoping for. It wasn’t enough to kill him, just make a mess and seriously piss him off. “Why did you do that, little mouse?”
Felix struggled to find an answer that might save him as the blade pressed to his throat. He closed his eyes. He’d missed his chance.
“Gethrin!” someone yelled outside the tent. “Everything good?”
“Everything’s fine in here,” Gethrin yelled back. “Just getting rid of our rat problem.” He slapped Felix hard across the face. “Open your eyes!” he snarled.
Felix opened his eyes. Over the strained drags of his rapid breath, he thought he could hear wolves howling. He thought he must be imagining it, but then Gethrin turned his head to listen, and Felix used the moment to strike upward with his fingers, jabbing the bandit in his left eye.
“FUCK!” Gethrin threw himself off Felix, dropping the blade to hold his hand over his eye.
Felix scrambled off the bed and reached for the knife, but Gethrin kicked him. He fell, hitting his head hard against the side table. When the blackness and stars that swam before his eyes cleared, Gethrin was standing over him with his sword.
The bandit held one hand over his eye, and blood was seeping beneath his fingers. He laughed, but it was an ugly, unpleasant sound. “You’re not dead yet, because I’m still trying to decide if you’re pretty enough to be worth the trouble,” he said, moving the sword tip to rest above Felix’s heart. “Convince me. Use that pretty mouth to tell me, preferably in sordid detail, all the ways you’ll please me if I don’t run this blade through your heart. So start begging, mouse. And make it good if you want to live.”
Felix considered. Of course, he wanted to live. And he wanted Gethrin to die. He wanted the wolves to tear through the camp and kill him and all his evil bandits so he could go and be with Torsten. He wanted Torsten more than he’d ever wanted anyone or anything.
“Too good to beg?” Gethrin asked, swinging the sword away from his chest. “Then just get back on your knees and act like my good little mouse, and I’ll let you live. Just do it, love.”
Gethrin’s demands, the tenor of his voice, and even what could be seen of his face, seemed to have changed to that of an urging, a plea. He didn’t seem to want to kill him. If Felix was Scorch, he would have been able to think of a clever response. If he was Vivid, he would have eviscerated the man an hour ago. If he was Merric, he would have pushed to his feet, refused to beg, refused to get on his knees no matter what. And if he was Audrey … well, Felix didn’t think her the kind of woman to get on her knees for any man, ever, whether he was evil or not.
But he was Felix, and he’d done the best he could, which was substantially more than he’d ever thought himself capable of. He was opening his mouth to speak, still unsure of what he would say, when he heard another howl, unmistakably close now. He sent up a fervent wish. And in the next moment, an arrow whizzed through the barely-there opening of the tied tent flaps and pierced Gethrin through the back of his skull.
Felix screamed as Gethrin fell forward. He was only just able to knock his sword away before he collapsed heavily on top of him. The bandit gargled something unintelligible right by his ear, twitched mightily, and was still.
“Oh, Gods,” Felix whimpered, stunned beyond the capacity for movement.
He could hear howls and horses and cries coming from outside, raised voices, panicked yells, and then, above all other sounds, he heard a voice shout, “FELIX!”
“Gods, Gods!” Felix breathed, struggling to push out from under the bandit’s body. After several failed attempts, he was able to roll Gethrin off. He stumbled dazedly to his feet and answered the call, even though he knew he must have imagined it. “TORSTEN!”
A moment later, he heard horse hooves coming to a halt outside the tent. Felix grabbed the coverlet off the bed and draped it over the bloody mess, then reached for Gethrin’s sword, holding it up as best he could before him, not knowing who was about to come in.
“Felix, are you in there?”
It was Torsten’s voice. He had come for him.
“Yes!” Felix cried in excitement. “It’s me!” He rushed forward with the sword. “Stand back!” he yelled. He raised the heavy weapon with strength fueled by desire and slashed down, cutting apart the ties, and then Torsten was right there, his bow nocked with an arrow and his eyes rimmed with thick smudges of charcoal. Seeing Felix, he lowered his bow and pushed into the tent, pulling him into his arms and running his hands all over his body.
“Are you hurt? Did he hurt you? Are you hurt?”
Felix shook his head, surprised, relieved, and completely staggered. Through the rips of the tent, he could see the good bandits on horseback, raging through the group of evil, drunken ones, attacking with their bows. But Gethrin’s men were a larger group, and they were fighting back.
A grey wolf tore past the opening of the tent, and Felix gasped.
Torsten gave the space a sweep with his eyes before bending down to retrieve the leather cape Gethrin had discarded. He wrapped it around Felix’s shoulders, covering his near nakedness. “We must go,” he said.
“My satchel!” Felix yelled, hurrying to retrieve it.
Once outside, Torsten picked him up and placed him in the saddle of his horse, then pivoted swiftly, letting loose an arrow into a bandit running toward them with his sword raised. Jack fell to the ground with a thud, his sour face becoming slack as Torsten mounted the horse behind Felix.
“Get your head down,” he ordered, nocking another arrow. “Stay down.”
Felix bent low on the horse’s neck as Torsten turned them around. He didn’t speed into the thick of the fighting, but galloped around the edges of the camp, releasing a second arrow, a third. Felix watched as wolves jumped at the throats of Gethrin’s bandits, and as more arrows flew, finding their targets in the chests of the leather-clad bandits. Torsten whistled, and when he led their horse into the trees, Felix could hear more horses moving behind them.
“You got him?” Felix heard Selon call out.
Torsten shrugged his bow over his shoulder and held the reins in one hand, his other pulling Felix up to brace against his chest. “I’ve got him,” he shouted back.
Felix turned his head into the soft fur of Torsten’s pelt. He was beginning to tingle all over, and the front of his body began to chill even as his backside began to heat up; the numbing effect of the petals was finally wearing off. After they’d ridden a mile or so from Gethrin’s camp, Torsten slowed the horse to a stop, threw Gethrin’s cape off Felix, eased out of his pelt, and settled it over his bare shoulders. The others stopped next to them on their mounts, their bandanas still up to hide their faces. Even so, Felix recognized Dot astride a tall, speckled mare. Everyone who remained in Torsten’s camp had come.
“They’re not following,” Marilyn reported, cantering up to their cluster.
“Not yet,” Torsten rumbled.
“Where should we go?” Selon asked. She’d tied her spiraling hair into a knot to keep it out of her face. “Alex?”
Felix could feel Torsten’s sharp nod behind him. “Let’s finally take him up on his hospitality.” He clicked his tongue and their horses were off again, winding their way through the forest.
“Torsten,” Felix began, his hands seeking contact where Torsten’s arm was firmly wound around his waist. He felt both as tired and as happy in that moment as he’d ever been in his life.
Torsten hushed him. “Rest now. I won’t let you fall,” he murmured softly. “You’re safe.”
The words were a salve on his jangled nerves, and Felix relaxed into the warm body holding him, closing his eyes. He was with Torsten;
he was safe. And even better, he had the proof Torsten needed, crammed down the back of his pants.
16 - A Good Plan
It must have been a combination of shock and profound weariness that made the ensuing trip feel so short, as it seemed Felix had barely blinked before they were arriving in the small, ramshackle village. The hour was late, but the sound of horses tromping along the dirt road stirred the sleeping villagers quickly, and Torsten had only just managed to dismount when they started peeking out their windows and carefully cracking open their doors.
Felix was putting his arms around Torsten’s neck, accepting his help from the saddle, when he caught sight of the glowing eyes. “It’s the wolves,” he whispered, nodding his head as he clung tightly to Torsten. “They must have followed us.”
Torsten glanced past him to where six white wolves were padding out of the trees, their maws bloody. One was significantly larger than the others, and it was at the forefront of the pack. It limped as it continued to approach, holding its hind leg delicately off the ground. Felix tried to maneuver out of Torsten’s arms to get behind him, but Torsten only held him more firmly. “They will not harm you,” he said calmly. “You don’t need to fear them.”
The wolves walked directly through the gathering of Torsten’s bandits, but no one seemed bothered but Felix, who trembled, and the horses, whose riders soothed their nervous whinnies as they passed. One came so close that its tail brushed Felix’s leg, and he couldn’t stop the frightened squeak that escaped his lips. Marilyn extended her hand to it, letting her fingers drag through the fur of its back. By the time the slow-moving pack began to disappear behind one of the houses, Felix felt lightheaded, his experiences of the past few hours threatening to overwhelm him. The bodies, the pyre, the cave, Gethrin, and now wolves walking through a village as if they owned it. It was too much. He moved closer to Torsten, as close as he could get, and the little bells on his boots jingled absurdly.
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