In Pain and Blood (Spellster Series Book 1)

by Aldrea Alien

  So, why did the thought of the hound doing just that bother him?

  “No.” Tracker smiled at the man. His gaze flicked Dylan’s way and back. “Not tonight, I think.” He took a swig of his drink, watching the man leave over the rim of the tankard. “I do hope you have not drunk too much alcohol.”

  Dylan blinked, laughing as he realised that question was aimed at him. “Are you joking?” He eyed the empty inner of his mug. When had he finished drinking it? “The alchemists can brew an ale that’ll put you on your arse after a sip and leave you feeling light-headed for days.” They weren’t meant to, but that didn’t stop them. Sulin managed to sneak such concoctions into their room a number of times. They spent those nights seeing who’d pass out first, although neither one of them could ever remember who won.

  The hound’s focus seemed to shift to somewhere behind Dylan’s back and a tiny frown tugged at his brows.

  “Is something wrong?” He started to twist in his seat to see what the man had spotted.

  “Not at all.” Tracker grabbed his arm, gently coaxing him around. “I was just thinking… I am not sure I want to see a drunken spellster.” One side of his mouth twitched into a half smile. “You are bad enough sober.”

  Dylan chuckled. “I promise not to drink too much.” Marching across the kingdom was bad enough, he was in no rush to add a hangover. “I take it you’re done with securing our rooms for the night?”

  “I am. The women already have the key to their rooms, which leaves us with one all to ourselves.” His gaze returned to the man who’d served his drink, watching him move about the room, the hunger in those honey-coloured eyes plain. “And since they have vacated the bathhouse, I plan to make use of it and I wondered…” He twisted in his seat, suddenly giving Dylan his full attention. “I thought you might like to accompany me?”

  Dylan playfully thrust out his bottom lip. “Do I stink that much?” He’d been rather thorough in his daily bathing routine, much to Authril’s amusement. This morning hadn’t been any different.

  Grinning, Tracker set his empty tankard on the table. “No more than can be expected after a day’s trek. Still, soaking in some warm water certainly would not do you any harm.” The hound stood, one russet brow cocking when he didn’t follow. “Come.”

  The thought of finding a tub he didn’t have to squeeze into flitted through his mind. That hadn’t been possible since he was a kid. He snatched up his pack and followed Tracker across the room to the gloomy entrance of the courtyard. “So, we’ve just the two rooms?”

  The hound nodded.

  “You couldn’t wheedle a third through your negotiations? Or use one of those fancy token things the crown gives you?”

  Tracker smirked. “My utmost apologies in disappointing both you and Madam Gwen, but I am not about to use the royal sigils just so you have a spare room.”

  “She wanted one of the sigils?” Money. Of course she’d been after that and not intimacy. Sex didn’t pay her workers, buy food or maintain her inn.

  The hound frowned. “Why else would I have been so long?”

  “I thought…” Dylan let the sentence die before he stuck his foot in it. “You reek of perfume.”

  Tracker sniffed at his clothes, as if the leather wasn’t drenched in the scent. “I smell incense.” The hound halted. “Wait a moment. You thought I had been intimate with her? And it bothered you?” One russet brow arched at Dylan. “That is a little hypocritical, yes?”

  Dylan rubbed at the side of his neck. “I know,” he mumbled. He couldn’t help it, but every time he thought of someone else with the hound, his stomach knotted like a gnarled rose bush. He knew it was childish and possessive and, yes, hypocritical. It made him sick, but he didn’t know how to stop feeling that way. “I didn’t exactly get a warm welcome and you said you wouldn’t be long.”

  Sighing, the hound patted Dylan’s shoulder. “Sometimes I forget how little time you have spent out of the tower and how much of that time has been in company. But, if you will indulge me, is that also the reason for your sudden desire of space between us?” His fingers snaked into Dylan’s belt, coiling around the leather until it creaked. “Or are you perhaps looking for a place to spend time with our dear warrior before you visit me?”

  “That… that’s not why I suggested—”

  Before he could finish talking, Tracker had him backing up and pinned against the inn wall. Their lips brushed together. Soft. Hesitant. Dylan leant into each touch, barely breathing between kisses. His insides quivered.

  “You know,” the hound breathed against Dylan’s lips, “if you desire to have me all to yourself for the night, you only have to ask. That is your wish, yes?”

  Yes. His mind was too fogged to form the right words. Dropping his pack, Dylan dug his fingers into the man’s outfit and tugged the hound hard against him. Their tongues entwined. Firm and insistent. It wasn’t enough. The impious fire in his gut burned for them to be closer still, but there was already the unforgiving wood at the back and Tracker’s warmth pressing against his chest. No purchase to obey the growing need blazing through his body.

  “Track…” Dylan moaned into the man’s mouth. His grip tightened, the leather and metal in his grasp biting into his skin. If they didn’t leave for somewhere private soon, he was going to undress the man right here.

  Those honey-coloured eyes opened, mirroring Dylan’s desire. The smirk Tracker gave was small. Teasing. “Perhaps we should retire early?” The question escaped his lips in a low rasp, thick and hot. “We have such a long day of travel ahead of us.”

  Dylan tipped his head back, letting it hit the wall with a dull thud, and groaned. Accommodations were on the next floor and that meant stairs. He really couldn’t face them at this moment. But what was the alternative? Snog and grope each other in some dark corner of the tavern like a pair of randy adolescents hoping nobody caught them? He was rather past the point where such an act would be enough. “There was talk of bathing, was there not?”

  Tracker laughed, the sound rich and dark. He clasped Dylan’s hand and silently led him across the courtyard. The cool early evening breeze kicked up as they strode past the stables, slapping his cheeks and dulling the fire running through his veins. Soft rustles within the stalls spoke of their passage being tracked by lazily curious horses. There didn’t seem to be any sign of a stableman or whatever they called the people who worked here.

  They rounded the end of the stables and came to halt outside a stone hut. “I do hope he remembered I like my water extra hot,” Tracker murmured whilst unlocking the door.

  The hot, acidic twinge of… distaste—if Dylan was entirely honest with himself, he’d admit to it being jealousy—hit his stomach at the memory of the man back in the tavern. His gaze swept over the hound’s back and an altogether spiky thread of possessiveness wove its way into his gut.

  Dylan took a deep breath, having to actively work to quash the feeling. It was not his place to interfere with the hound’s intimate habits. Who he slept with was entirely Tracker’s choice and he’d made it by refusing the man’s advances. “Did you actually specify two baths or—?”

  “Two?” The hound chuckled as he pushed the door open. Steam curled around the wooden panel, waving in the air like a sensual invitation. “You might want to take a look.”

  Dylan entered the steamy world of the bathhouse and took in the bath filling much of the floor space beyond the threshold. “It’s enormous.” He’d expected wooden barrels like back in the tower, although wistfully bigger, but this stone monstrosity embedded in the floor was almost a small lake.

  “Mhmm.” Tracker pressed his cheek into Dylan’s bicep. “A little more intimate than the pond we shared some time back. Warm without the aid of your magic, too. And you should be able to stretch out quite nicely, yes?”

  I can. He let his gaze sweep over the room, just to be certain he saw correctly. Benches lined the walls. A few towels sat on the nearest slatted surface, along with a bar of soap. The
re seemed to be little else. “So, I guess we’ll be sharing, then?”

  “Just like the women did, no doubt.” The man gently unburdened him of his pack and set their things on one of the benches.

  Dylan frowned and gave a noncommittal grunt. He really wasn’t in much of a mood to think about their companions. Whilst he could objectively state that Katarina and Marin were equally stunning women, knowing either one wouldn’t be interested in him rather took the shine off picturing them unclothed. Yet, even the thought of Authril naked and wet somehow seemed just as unappealing.

  His gaze fell on the man’s arm. “Do you think it wise to bathe with your injury?”

  Tracker waved the notion aside as if having his arm sliced open was nothing. “It will have healed over by now.”

  “I find that hard to believe.” He’d heard elves healed faster than dwarves or humans, but he’d only attempted this sort of healing on another human. It’s only been four days. A cut like what the hound had suffered should be still quite fresh. “Let me see.”

  Tracker grinned. “You are so fussy. But as you like.” He slowly stripped off the top layers of his clothing.

  Dylan grabbed the hound’s arm as soon as the limb was free of the man’s undershirt. He unravelled the bandage. Although the area was still quite pink in the centre, the cut appeared to have knitted itself together.

  “Another scar to add to my collection, yes?”

  “I would say so.” He ran his thumb over the new skin, watching the man’s reaction. To his amazement, the hound barely flinched. “I could probably remove the stitches. Give me one of your knives.” The slim hilt of one was pressed into his hand before he’d finished speaking. He eyed the mass of cloth and leather that was the top half of the man’s attire sitting on the nearby bench. Surely the hound couldn’t reach it from here. “Exactly how many of these do you have?”

  Tracker smiled. “You really should refrain from asking a hound those sorts of questions.”

  “Why?” He gently slid the blade tip beneath the first knot. The thread gave easily under the knife’s sharp edge and he pulled the stitch through. “Do I run the risk of having you invite me to see the full array of your weaponry?”

  A stifled chuckle huffed through the man’s nose. “I am pretty certain you have seen the extent of it. Truly though, we are taught that you can never have enough knives in your possession. I find them rather handy in taking down fleeing targets without killing them.”

  He dared to glance up. The man seemed serious. “So you’ve never thought of using arrows?”

  Tracker grimaced. “I have loosed a few in my time. After all, a hound’s training is not complete until they know how to use a wide variety of weapons. But I find bows somewhat cumbersome and so very temperamental. There is so much maintenance to be had. You have to keep the string dry, unstring it when not in use and restring it whenever you do wish to use it. Plus, I am nowhere near as proficient with it as our dear hunter.”

  “You’d be better at it than me.”

  “That would not be difficult. I saw Marin’s attempts to train you.” The hound clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

  Dylan halted midway through removing the final stitch to shoot the man a scathing look.

  “Such a glare!” Tracker scoffed. “You really need to work on your beside manner.”

  “That was the first time I’d ever handled a bow.” He could hardly be blamed for being so inefficient with an unfamiliar weapon.

  “Yes, and when I tried to teach you swordsmanship it was the second time you had handled a sword.” His expression gained a sly edge. “Or maybe the third, yes? You seemed know your way around a hilt.”

  Shaking his head, he pulled the last of the stitches free. “Must every conversation we have lead to that?” He was pretty certain elves had the same libido as humans, or at least the women did, but he was beginning to wonder about the men. One in particular.

  “Not every one. But I am standing half naked whilst you pull threads out of my arm. And you are so very serious whilst doing so.” Tracker tipped his head to one side. “I like seeing you smile. It is gorgeous.”

  Dylan slowly handed back the man’s knife. “Thank you,” he mumbled, instantly glad the bathhouse’s warm air had already flushed his face. Gorgeous? No one had ever called his smile that before. Smug, certainly, and oftentimes cheeky, but never gorgeous.

  The hound’s gaze fell to his arm. Tracker twisted the limb back and forth, examining the fresh scar. “Do I now have your approval to bathe?”

  Dylan indicated the pool with a sweep of his hand. “Be my guest.” He watched in a daze as the man shed the remainder of his clothing and strode over to the bath’s edge. He’d never noticed before how the candlelight made the intricate tattoos along the hound’s skin dance with each little movement.

  Tracker halted as he sat on the edge. He twisted on his perch to eye Dylan. “You are joining me, yes? Or are you perhaps merely planning to watch me get all hot and wet?”

  Dylan licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. He stripped before his mind had any time to reconsider, tossing his robe atop the hound’s attire.

  Padding over to the opposite side of the bath, he dipped a toe into the water. Blissful heat caressed his skin. Sighing, he slithered over the edge. It wasn’t all that deep, waist height at best, but there was a seat curving around the tub’s rim made of the same dark stone. Settling on it enabled him to sink lower still.

  Sighing, he stretched out his legs. Having his whole body submerged in one act was such a rich sensation. He’d dim memories of the feeling. Dylan rested his head on the edge and watched the hound slip deeper into the water.

  Tracker was taking great pains to slowly lower his injured arm and he grimaced as the wound sunk under the surface, but didn’t seem to favour it as he’d done a few days back. Slowly, perhaps mindful that he was being watched, the man started to cleanse himself.

  Although there was some distance between them, Dylan’s skin tingled. This wasn’t like the pond, with its open air and the possibility of being caught. He’d never shared a bath with anyone before. Strange how intimate the simple act of sitting in water could feel.

  He looked about them for another bar of soap or even a cloth. It seemed the hound had possession of the only ones.

  “So,” Dylan drawled. His churning gut demanded something be said to break the silence. He latched onto the first thing his mind could coherently think of beyond the man’s glistening skin. “Tomorrow we visit Reji.”

  Tracker leant back, his arms raised clear of the water as he scrubbed. “That is correct.”

  “The blacksmith,” he said.

  The hound chuckled. “You still do not sound convinced of his trade.”

  Dylan shrugged. Treasure he could understand, a prostitute of a high-end brothel must come across all manner of people and gossip, but he couldn’t see a blacksmith having the same reach.

  “Are we perhaps disappointed we will not be travelling to another whorehouse come tomorrow? If you desire, I know of such an establishment nearby that you can visit. I would hesitate to call it anywhere near as luxurious as The Gilded Lily, but they are very eager to please if you want to—”

  “I wouldn’t want to put you out.” Dylan was certain Tracker had turned down the man in the tavern for him, especially if he used their earlier kiss to judge the hound’s eagerness. To then opt to spend the night at a brothel instead wouldn’t be good manners.

  Tracker’s brows shot up. “Nonsense. If you desire some fun beyond our little group, I am not going to object. But if the thought of me being all alone is what bothers you, I could always come along? I could even join in if that is what you want.”

  He shook his head, although the image of Tracker watching him have sex with another prostitute the man no doubt knew like a close friend was a tempting one. “I’m fine with staying right here.”

  The hound shrugged, water sloshing around him. “As you like.”

  “So tell me,
how did a blacksmith become one of your contacts?”

  The hound grunted. “It is not much of a story, if I am entirely honest. Reji’s very good at what he does, although I think he mostly deals in weaponry now. And he has a great deal of high-paying customers. Last I heard, he had taken on a third apprentice just to keep up with the usual blacksmithing demands. But, to answer your question, we first met when I commissioned my sword. My order intrigued him. Not many elves—or humans, for that matter—can afford what I paid. I think I may have inadvertently sponsored one of his anvils.”

  It’d taken a little while for Dylan to come to grips with the idea of money. He knew of it, but the tower, or at least their occupants, tended to barter for anything they couldn’t outright ask for. Until he’d set foot in the land, he’d assumed their food came via the same system. That some people had less than others was a little easier to comprehend. “He wasn’t at all suspicious of where you got the money?”

  Tracker laughed, genuine fondness creased eyes glazed with the past. “He actually thought I had stolen the gold at first. It quickly became a choice of coming clean about who I was or facing jail. It sort of escalated from there.” He tipped his head, the washcloth idly running over his neck as he eyed their pile of clothing. “It is a fine sword, though. Worth every coin.”

  Dylan watched the hound struggle to bathe his back. The man had wrapped his braid around his neck and was attempting to keep it clear of the water by biting one end whilst flailing ineffectively with the washcloth.

  Finally, Dylan couldn’t watch any longer. He made his way to the man’s side and took the cloth from the hound’s unresisting fingers. “Let me.”

  “Far be it for me to stop you.” Tracker turned around. With his good arm, he reached back and lifted his braid higher up his neck until it sat well out of Dylan’s path. Water dripped off his elbows as he rested on the edge of the bath, each drop loud in the sudden quiet.