by Aldrea Alien
“Then give my regards to our dear warrior when you wake her.”
It’s not her I want. The words rattled about his mind and danced on his tongue, not quite bold enough to be said. Dylan idly scratched the side of his neck. “Sure,” he finally managed.
He parted the tent flap slowly. However long he’d been outside talking with the hound, Authril was well and truly asleep. And snoring loudly.
Dylan sat next to her and watched her sleep on. What they had between them was purely physical, the sort of relationship he’d expect back in the tower. He supposed that was the same thing Tracker offered. Except…
She didn’t give him warm butterflies whenever they kissed.
His gazed drifted to the tent flap. Tracker was right, keeping everything bottled up was only going to gnaw at him. He had to decide. Before Riverton. He’d find the right words before then. And hopefully, Tracker’s demeanour wouldn’t change the very moment Dylan was ensconced in his tent.
Dylan lay on the bedding of his tent, idly toying with the stone around his neck as he stared at the worn leather stretched above him. Six days into their journey to Riverton and he still couldn’t think how to go about telling Authril. He’d a rather sick feeling that this was not going to go over easy. What if she asked him to choose? How? There was no possible way he could compare them.
Authril was strong, in a multitude of ways. She was beautiful, too, and the little humour she showed was the type he adored. But when he tried to think of his life beyond this journey, he struggled to see her in it. They were friends, the sex merely a pleasant addition.
And Tracker?
Dylan grinned up at the canvas. Where did he start? The cocky attitude? The brazen way he faced the world despite everything he’d been put through? The fact the hound seemed to genuinely care about him? It set a strange fluttering feeling in his gut, more powerful than he’d ever experienced. He’d no desire to lose that until he absolutely had to.
Which lead him back to speaking with Authril.
This had been so much easier in the tower. The most common method there was to simply stop seeking sex with a person. Whilst he’d forsaken lying with her, they still shared a tent. He could change that, but the blind would notice if he swapped the tent he shared with Authril for the hound’s.
That the nightmares had resurfaced didn’t exactly help. They weren’t the ground-sucking terrors that had him waking in a cold sweat. Nor had he been plagued by the endless winding through a maze brimming with fractured memories, dreams which always trapped him in sleep but left his body exhausted.
These new nightmares haunted him with another fear. One that’d never plagued him until now.
The hound laughing as Dylan professed what he’d done, how much he preferred the man’s company, only to have that openness be ultimately rejected. Spending his nights alone in the dark because no one actually wanted him as much as he’d been led to believe…
Dylan rubbed at his temples with thumb and forefinger, trying to banish the glaring images still bouncing around his mind. Foolishness. Although he’d wake sweating over them, the dreams were little more than products of uncertainty in the face of the unknown. Yes, he’d never attempted this level of commitment to another before, but what did he risk? Authril would leave once they reached Wintervale. Tracker, too. He’d always known that.
He would have to tell Authril soon. She was likely to suspect it well before they reached Riverton, if she didn’t already, and delaying such news any more than he had wouldn’t be fair to either one of them.
If he could just think of the right words. Why wasn’t it easy? He spoke several languages, for gods’ sake, it should come to him.
The rustle of the tent flap preceded another’s entry.
Dylan lifted his head, then the rest of his torso as Tracker slipped into the tent. “What are you doing here?” Yes, Authril was currently on watch and wasn’t likely to return for at least another hour, but the man had never been in his tent before. Not when it was just the two of them.
Tracker held up his hand as he knelt near the entrance. “I will not stay long, if that is your wish. But you have not visited my tent since the night we left Whitemeadow. If I offended you with anything we discussed that night by the fire, I—”
“No.” He sat up, crossing his legs. “It’s just… I needed to think.”
Tracker rocked back onto his heels. “And I am interrupting your contemplation, yes? We can have this talk later.”
Unthinking, Dylan grabbed the man’s hand. “Stay. Please? There’s something we need to discuss.”
Tracker crawled further into the tent, settling before Dylan. “And that would be…?”
Having the hound so close made it difficult to think. No, that wasn’t entirely true, he could think. In fact, his mind was very clear. Just not on what it needed to think about.
Dylan tugged the man closer, tipping forward enough to meet the hound’s mouth halfway. It’d been five days since he’d last felt those butterflies. How could he possibly resist having the man right here and not kiss him? Taste him. Inhale that intoxicating scent, like life itself. It was everything Dylan needed.
Tracker leant back, the tilt of his head suggesting bewilderment. Still, those long fingers had already latched onto Dylan’s undertunic. “This is the talk you wish to have?”
“Shut up,” Dylan muttered, grabbing the collar of Tracker’s undershirt and dragging the man back into kissing range. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been with anyone in days. In the tower, he would sometimes go without such intimacy for weeks on end. But here and now?
There was something about the hound that made him feel like a horny teenager. It wasn’t because Tracker was an elf, or even a man. He’d been around plenty of elven men and never wanted them as badly as he desired Tracker. The feeling made it nigh impossible for him to remain in a confined space with the man and not touch him.
Those soft, warm lips swept over his, eagerly heeding his desire for more. Dylan slipped into the elf’s mouth to caress the man’s tongue with his own.
The hound moaned and deepened their kiss. His tongue, hot and eager, pushed back. He leant against Dylan, the heave of his chest pressing them closer still. One long-fingered hand slithered up Dylan’s side and into his hair, fisting the strands. With his other hand, Tracker tugged at the undertunic, seeking a way to lift it whilst it was still pinned by Dylan’s weight.
Dylan lifted his hips enough for the lower half to come free with the elf’s next pull, then broke their kiss to remove the undertunic entirely. Tracker followed suit, shedding his undershirt, before launching himself at Dylan.
Bare skin hit bare skin. They tipped to the ground in a mess of tangled limbs, open kisses and breathless laughter.
Tracker straddled him, grinding their hips together. Even through the leather of the hound’s trousers, his arousal was palpable. But rather than remove the impediment to something far more pleasurable, he opted to kiss and nibble his way along Dylan’s neck.
Dylan tipped his head to one side, giving the man full access. The elf’s pronounced fangs grazed his neck, pricking almost to the point of injury with each suck. His magic buzzed, the latent healing undoing the row of marks the hound left along his skin almost as soon as they were made.
The hound reached the hollow in his throat and sucked. Moaning, Dylan grabbed Tracker’s rear, digging his fingers into the leather. His arms jerked of their own accord, trying to drag the hound closer.
There was a muffled grunt as the man’s body slid up, then Tracker’s head slipped past Dylan’s ear to hit the ground at his back. A soft hiss spoke of brief pain. Tracker sat back, rubbing his nose. “Easy. I would prefer not coming away from this night with a broken nose.”
“Sorry.” Dylan ran a hand up the hound’s chest, pulling away when his fingers reached the man’s sternum and Tracker flinched. “What happened?” He certainly couldn’t be the cause of any injury there.
“This did.” He lifted the sma
ll, rune-carved stone dangling from Dylan’s neck. “Where did you get it?”
“Whitemeadow.” He recounted what Marin and himself had gotten up to whilst the man had been speaking with his contact.
“I see.” Tracker rubbed his thumb over the symbol. He tilted his head so that the thin gleam of firelight coming through a crack in the tent flap hit the stone. “This rune. It is—”
“An ancient Demarn protection symbol. I know.” Such markings were scattered everywhere across the kingdom. They used it for everything, etching them into fortresses and walls, surrounding the entrance ways of vaults and homes alike.
“A fitting want, I suppose, considering how we always manage to find trouble. Not that you need a protection charm.”
He chuckled. “They don’t actually work.” If that had ever been the case, then Udynea could’ve been stopped years ago. “Besides, I have something far more reliable at hand than a piece of scratched stone.”
“You refer to your magic, yes? I am aware how well it protects you.”
Dylan’s gaze drifted to where the fresh scar stood out against the man’s banded arm. Not aware enough to avoid throwing himself between Dylan and a target, it would seem. “No,” Dylan breathed. “I don’t mean that.” He propped himself up enough to caress the man’s cheek. “I mean you.”
The soft hitch of the hound’s breath was loud in the otherwise silence of the tent. Tracker ducked his head and the faintest hint of heat flushed the cheek still pressed to Dylan’s palm. “Flatterer,” Tracker mumbled. The soft, wet brush of the man’s lips alighted on the heel of Dylan’s hand.
Dylan sat up, cupping the back of the hound’s head as he reached up for a kiss. Their lips met, soft at first, but steadily growing heavy with need. Coaxing pressure on his shoulders had him being pushed back onto the bedding.
Tracker abandoned the kiss to plant more down Dylan’s chest whilst the man’s fingers picked at the tie holding Dylan’s smallclothes fast. Loosened, Dylan aided the hound in stripping him of the last of his clothes.
Once Dylan was naked, the hound wasted little time in playing. He enveloped Dylan’s length with such speed and ferocity that it took all of Dylan’s willpower not to cry out. Still, Tracker continued to greedily suck, moaning.
Then, just as Dylan was certain he would slip over the edge, Tracker let him fall free of the elf’s mouth.
Dylan waited, each of the man’s shallow breaths upon his skin stoking the fire of anticipation burning in his gut.
And yet, Tracker remained unmoving.
Dylan shuffled onto his elbows. What was he waiting for? “Track?” he whispered. The hound wasn’t usually one to tease like this. Had Tracker heard something? Surely, the man wouldn’t just kneel there like a statue if that were so.
“Are you and our dear warrior not on such good terms anymore?”
“We are,” he mumbled. If not quite as intimate as they’d been in the past. And, if he were to judge by the current days of the month, Authril would be more amenable to his magic than that particular sort of attention. But whatever made the hound think now was a good time to discuss it? “Why do you ask?”
“No reason. I just happened to note you have not been with her tonight.”
“And just how do you know that?” he muttered under his breath. Dylan bit his bottom lip as the words hung between them. Did he really want to know the answer?
Tracker laughed softly, warming Dylan’s groin with his breath. “Elven ears hear a great deal and you are not as quiet as you like to profess.”
Dylan was well aware of the vastly superior hearing elves had had to that of either human or dwarf, but he hadn’t really put much thought into how well they could hear. Now? An altogether different concern came to mind. “Then should we be doing this?” he whispered as he propped himself up on his elbows. “Authril took first watch.”
“Of that, I am aware,” the hound murmured. “But she is currently patrolling the perimeter and, considering how dense some of the bush is here, she could be some time doing it. We are afraid of being caught, yes?”
“A little,” he admitted. There was always a chance she hadn’t heard them during the times he’d slunk into Tracker’s tent, but with her awake, whilst they were in the tent he shared with her? If she hadn’t known before, she would quickly find out.
“We could do this another time, if that is your wish. Wait for her to fall asleep?”
Dylan wet his lips. That plan sounded like a far better alternative to doing anything here and now. But then again, he was already naked and more than willing. “Or we could be quick.”
Laughing, Tracker sat back. “Oh, you are serious.” He cleared his throat. “Forgive me if I broke the mood. That was not my intention. I just…” He gave an irritated huff. “Let me start again.” He bent back down, once more wrapping his fingers around Dylan’s length.
“Are you jealous of her?” The question was out before he’d a chance to stop it. He lay there, silently cursing himself. Of all the foolhardy things to ask. Surely Tracker wasn’t the type to force him into choosing between them. The man had known Dylan had been sleeping with the other elf before they even began their own little tryst.
“Jealous?” The chuckle that left the man’s lips veered onto the softer side of nervous. “Dear man, I have never been jealous in my life. Besides, this is just fun, yes?”
His stomach dropped a little at that. Stupid. He knew what this was. No point trying to attach anything bigger to it. “Yes, but—”
“And I assume it is the same with our dear warrior. So, what reason would I have to be jealous? Unless you wish to change the nature of your relationship with her.” He rocked back onto his heels. “If that is so, then we need not pursue this fun of ours any further.”
Dylan’s chest constricted as if he were back in his nightmares of being sucked underground. He said it so easily. He didn’t recall Tracker giving any indication of caring that Dylan slept with another or even that he covertly sought out the man’s presence. Had he somehow misread the hound? Dylan opened his mouth to speak, only to have Tracker talk on.
“But if that was the case, then I do not see why you would choose to initiate this.”
“I… don’t think of her that way.” That she and him both knew what went on between them would stop the moment they reached Wintervale made things easier.
Tracker slunk up Dylan’s body. “I thought not,” he breathed. Their lips brushed together.
Dylan pressed close, his breath hitching as the chilling bite of the man’s belt buckle hit his abdomen. He grasped the hound’s rear. There was no fumbling to find it, his hands simply knew where to land. Dylan rocked against the hound, groaning at the raw sensation of leather against his skin. It wasn’t as good as the man’s mouth, but if Tracker wasn’t prepared to finish him off another way, then this would do.
Then, just as he was about to fully relinquish himself to mindless action, Tracker broke the kiss.
“She is very possessive of you.”
“I know,” he gasped. His hips still moved of their own accord. Did the man not realise how close he was? Surely, they could talk after.
“Do you think she would still let you play with the both of us if she knew?”
Dylan chewed on his bottom lip. Thinking with half of his thoughts swamped in pleasure wasn’t easy. Whilst he’d already made up his mind about telling Authril—even if he wasn’t yet sure how—he hadn’t voiced his intentions of leaving the warrior’s side to the hound. Now’s as good as ever. He took a deep breath. “Actually, I—”
The hurried crash of something barrelling through the undergrowth froze his tongue. The unmistakable clash of steel meeting shield echoed through the night.
“Bandits!” Authril roared. “To arms!”
The call was like being doused in icy water, with a similar reaction. You have got to be kidding me. No chance of it being a joke. Not with the shadows of other people dancing around the fire.
Tracker dove
for the side of the tent where Dylan kept the quarterstaff, then the hound was out into the fray. The grunt of someone dying just outside the tent opening followed swiftly after.
Dylan scrambled to help. He wrestled with his smallclothes, already drawing forth his power to unleash on the first unsuspecting foe.
The tear of canvas preceded the arrival of one such unfortunate man. The bandit careened into him, sending them both to the ground. The tent fell around them, burning as Dylan let forth with a blast of fire. A pulse of air in the man’s direction had him flying across the clearing, still screaming from the burns.
He took in the rest of the fighting. It seemed to be a small group, likely thinking they could sneak up on the camp whilst everyone slept. They couldn’t have waited another minute? Most of them had their hands full with the two elves. They wouldn’t be any trouble for much longer.
One of the bandits abandoned his companions to run at him, his axe raised high.
Lightning streamed from Dylan’s fingers. It hit the man square in the chest. The bandit collapsed, still twitching. He turned from the dead man in search of his next target. Not even half a minute? A woman erupted from the bushes. Her feet barely touched the ground before he flung her into the tree. Gods, he’d been that close that five more seconds likely would’ve sufficed.
Pain lanced across his side. Crying out, he fell to his knees as an arrow flew over his head. He clutched the wound. It was healing but, by the gods, it burned. Dylan threw up a shield. Idiot! He should’ve realised there’d be more where that woman had come from.
He glanced up in time to see an arrow shatter on his shield. Another arrow, flying in the opposite direction, greeted its call. Marin had entered the fight.
“Dylan!” Tiny pinprick shocks racing along his body preceded Tracker kneeling before him. Long fingers lifted Dylan’s head until he was staring into twin pools of concern. “Are you all right?”