by Aldrea Alien
The hound shook his head, straightening and beginning the return trip back to camp. “I already told you, I do not get jealous.”
“You know that’s strange, right?” He’d never agreed on exclusivity with anyone back in the tower and still, from time to time, he’d be overcome with bitter ire at the thought that the women he frequently had sex with would, in turn, be with other men. It was irrational and childish, and he’d generally spend hours after the fact scolding himself over it, but the feelings still happened. “Everyone gets jealous.”
The man’s brows rose. “Do they? I suppose being jealous requires an attachment to someone. Such closeness is forbidden amongst the hounds. I told you this, yes?”
Dylan remembered being told it was discouraged, like in the tower. That didn’t mean it never happened. “So, you’ve never been that close to someone that you wanted them all to yourself—”
Tracker waggled a finger at him. “That is possessiveness not jealousy.”
“—that you’d feel even the tiniest wisp of anger, of resentment, at the very thought of them being with another person? That you might even think about doing that other person harm?”
The hound halted as if he’d been run through. “Harm someone my lover loved?” he whispered. A haunted look darkened those honey-coloured eyes. “No…” The look vanished so cleanly that Dylan wondered if it’d ever been there. Tracker cleared his throat and resuming walking back to the camp. “But whilst we speak of attraction, you have a developed a certain fondness for my ears.”
Dylan smiled at the obvious attempt to divert him from the topic. It seemed he’d struck a nerve best left alone. “Well, their sensitivity is a well-documented elven trait, much like the way your people purr when content. Plus, you like it.” Another well-known fact.
Again, Tracker stopped. This time so suddenly that Dylan almost bumped into the man. “What was that? What did you just say?”
He ran the last few sentences through his head, trying to determine what had caused the reaction. “Elves have sensitive ears?”
Rolling his eyes, the man gave an exasperated huff. “Not that one. I know that. The other thing you said.”
“That you purr?” Why did that seem so surprising to the man?
“I do not!” Tracker snapped.
Dylan laughed. “I’ve been around enough elves to know you do so purr.”
The hound wrinkled his nose. “I am not some mouser,” he muttered before marching into the clearing.
He doesn’t know? Dylan distinctly remembered hearing Tracker purr back in Whitemeadow and the man had no idea he’d done it.
Dumping the wood they’d brought next to the fire, he settled nearby and patted the dry ground next to him. “Lie down. I’ll give you another massage and you’ll see I’m right.”
The elf twitched a brow at him. “Well, I suppose.” He sank to his knees, hauled off his undershirt, and stretched out. “If a massage is on offer, how could I possibly refuse?”
“Wait there.” He scrambled to his feet and into the tent he shared with the man, withdrawing the hound’s belt of vials and settling on the ground just outside the tent flap. He’d need oil if he was going to get the elf relaxed enough. He rummaged through the little glass containers filled with various coloured fluids, no doubt poisonous.
At his back came the soft rustle of grass as Tracker rolled onto his side. “You know,” the man drawled. “It is generally considered unwise to make a habit of rifling amongst a hound’s arsenal.”
“Are you afraid I might pour the wrong liquid on you?” Dylan carefully selected a promising-looking vial filled with amber liquid. Sniffing the contents proved him right. “I know what it looks like.” He’d seen them often enough in the hound’s possession.
Vial in hand, he straddled Tracker’s lower back and drizzled oil onto the bronze skin to the accompaniment of the elf’s soft gasp. Dylan started in the small of the hound’s back, rubbing little circles with his thumbs.
“Are you certain you would not prefer a more private setting for this?” Tracker asked as he pillowed his head on his arms. “It could get awkward.”
“Nothing we haven’t already seen,” Authril murmured. She sat on the other side of the fire, running a stone across the blade of her sword. Katarina lay beside the warrior, her focus still on one of the thick tomes.
Sudden heat took Dylan’s face, he breathed deep, willing it to fade. He’d forgotten they weren’t alone. Quite the sight he must look with the skirt of his robes hitched to his knees. Clearly, Marin hadn’t returned from scouting the way ahead or he would’ve heard such a remark from her.
He cleared his throat. “If we’re bothering you…”
“No, no.” The hedgewitch straightened her back and closed the book with a dusty thump. “I’ve not heard an elf purr before, it would be enlightening.”
“You are not going to hear me purr, dear woman. I never have and I am not about…” His words tapered into a low moan as Dylan slid his hands up the man’s back to curl around the tattooed shoulders.
Dylan leant forward, letting a gentle pulse of heat run through his hands. The hound’s hips, pinned by Dylan’s weight, jerked. Chuckling, he flipped the man’s long braid to one side. “Time to get you loose,” he whispered into the elf’s ear.
Tracker’s breath shuddered from his lips and the bronze skin beneath Dylan’s fingertips pebbled.
Unlike last time, there wasn’t much tension in the muscles. He sought out the little there was, focused on ridding each and every knot no matter how tiny. Hopefully, massaging the man’s upper body would be all he required to get the elf purring or they would have to depart into their tent. Even if seeing the man naked wasn’t exactly a foreign sight to the others, there were some things he’d prefer to keep to just Tracker and himself.
He worked methodically down the hound’s back, tugging the waist of the man’s trousers down just that little bit more with every sweeping descent his oiled hands made of Tracker’s spine. They wouldn’t come off all the way thanks to the tight belt and laces. Dylan could insist on the hound undoing both, granting him access to that perfect arse, but he’d a feeling that asking the man to roll over at this moment would be a bad idea for their audience.
Dylan had lost track of how many times he’d slid his fingers over the man’s shoulders—likely in the double digits, now—but as he did it again, a soft, barely audible, purr drifted up.
Finally. He was beginning to think his hands might drop off before the hound conceded. With the jerk of his head, he indicated for the hedgewitch to come closer.
She did, quietly making her way around the fire and sitting next to them. The purring gained volume. Katarina pressed her fingers to her lips, stifling the giggle that shook her body.
He bent close to the hound’s ear. “You’re purring.”
At once, the sound halted. “I was not.”
Katarina snickered. “You were. It was like listening to a giant cat.” She stretched forward, her fingers hovering over his head. “Makes me want to scratch behind your ears.”
“I would not recommend it, dear woman.” Tracker lifted his head, a suggestive grin twisting his face. “Unless you plan to scratch an altogether different itch afterwards.”
“Oh?” She pulled back, her cheeks darkening. “Oh! Yes… uh… I mean to say that I forgot stimulating the area around an elf’s ears provokes instant arousal.”
The hound laughed, bouncing Dylan. “Instant? I would hardly say that, but you certainly should not touch if you are not also looking for something more.”
“Is that so?” Dylan murmured as he lightly ran an oiled finger along the top slope of the elf’s ear, circling around the sparse earrings in order to maintain skin-to-skin contact.
Tracker tensed beneath him. “You wicked man,” he rasped breathily. “I hate you so very much.”
Chuckling, Dylan slowly pulled his hand away.
The hound’s head tilted to follow. “When did I say stop?” he
whined.
Dylan continued tracing the outer angles of the elf’s ear, smiling to himself as the sounds emanating from the man alternated between soft moans and low purrs. Tracker was certainly going to seek some sort of recompense for this. But if the toll was anything like last night, then Dylan was more than willing to pay the price.
“I wonder,” Katarina said, drawing Tracker’s attention. “I’ve seen a number of your kind with adornments in their ears. But if they are as sensitive as your people claim, then why do it? Don’t they hurt? And why have so many? Do they have a particular meaning?”
Tracker propped himself on his elbows. “They most certainly hurt when I first had them pierced, but why would they now? It is no different to humans, and dwarves, I would think. As for doing it in the first place…” He shook his head. “It is a simple matter of vanity, my dear woman. No meaning other than I enjoy having them.”
“I hear men in the elven tribes pierce themselves to impress a mate,” Authril said, glancing up from her sword. “The more piercings the more virile he’s meant to be.”
The hound’s hips twisted beneath Dylan as the man turned to face the warrior. “I had not heard this.”
She nodded. “I heard the really wealthy ones, those that own a caravan, have piercings in all sorts of places.” Her gaze flicked down. Dylan was pretty sure he was mistaken, but she seemed to be indicating the man’s groin.
Humming, Katarina rummaged in her belt pouch. She pulled out the slim wooden box he’d seen her use a multitude of times on their journey. It held a capped metal inkwell and a featherless, metal quill. The small, leather-bound booklet he would often see her scribbling in late at night also surfaced from another pouch. She took up her quill and, after a precise dip into the ink, proceeded to write furiously across the page.
“Are you taking notes, Madam Hedgewitch?” Dylan asked, already knowing the answer. She gave it in the way her nose scrunched as the quill moved, the tip twisting to one side whenever she sought out more ink to carry on.
“Of course,” she replied without lifting her gaze from the book. “I’ve never heard of this elven purring phenomenon and can only assume others back home have not either. It must be recorded.”
“Truly?” Tracker stretched himself out in an attempt to peer at the woman’s words. Dylan had seen the hedgewitches handwriting and, even if Tracker could read Dvärg, the words looked about as legible as Dylan’s own spidery writing. “Whatever for?”
Dylan chuckled. “Because it’s knowledge. No one hoards facts quite like the Dvärghem Coven.”
Katarina smiled. “Does it happen to all elves?” she asked, pointing the end of her quill at Authril. “If you were to give her the same treatment, she would also purr? Or is it a male thing?”
Authril straightened. “You want him to massage my back?”
“Of course, dear woman,” Tracker murmured before Dylan could respond. “Not only for experimental purposes, we certainly cannot have you thinking that our dear spellster was giving me preferential treatment.”
Dylan left the hound where he lay to sit next to the warrior. “Only if you’re willing.”
She smiled and, in answer, shucked her thick armour padding before lying down. “Concentrate on my lower back.”
Unlike when he’d done this with the hound, Dylan felt a little self-conscious as he straddled Authril’s outstretched thighs and slid his hands beneath her undershirt. It didn’t help that Tracker watched his every move. His actions had gone well beyond a mere massage whilst at The Gilded Lily, so why did this suddenly seem more indecent?
He took a deep breath. The warmth of healing passed through his fingers before he thought to staunch its flow. He repositioned his hands down at her waist before she could mention it, rubbing his thumbs into the tight muscles either side of her spine to the sound of her soft groan.
“What is going on?”
Dylan glanced up at Marin’s voice to find the woman standing on the edge of the clearing, a speckled bird about the size of her head dangling in her hand. He withdrew his fingers to the disjointed harmony of Authril’s disappointed grumble. This definitely required an explanation. “I—”
“It’s just a little experiment,” Katarina replied. She’d taken up position near the warrior’s head, her quill poised over the inkwell. “Dylan was just showing me the purring ability our elven companions possess.”
Marin plopped herself down on the other side of Katarina. “You didn’t know about it? Pretty much every one I’ve met does it at some stage. They’ll growl, too.” She leant over the hedgewitch to poke Authril’s nose. “Especially when you try to suggest saving a little pork for the journey.”
The warrior slowly rose onto her outstretched arms, making an assortment of garbled words and sputtered utterances. “I did that once,” she snarled. “And if you’d grown up in the slums, you wouldn’t give up good meat either.”
Dylan pushed against the warrior’s firm shoulders, trying to get her to resume lying flat. She didn’t budge. “Unless you lie down, I’m stopping.” He glanced up at the other women as Authril heeded his warning. One waited intently for something to happen, whilst the other looked on with a bored, knowing expression. “I could also do the two of you, if you’d like?” he added.
Marin eyed him, then the two elves. “I’m good.”
“Well, I’d very much like to see what effect your healing magic has in a less drastic situation.” Katarina smiled and dipped her quill as he returned to massaging Authril’s back. “I’ve heard rumours of spellsters doing incredible feats with such magic.”
Dylan frowned as he dug his fingers into a particularly knotty spot just below the elf’s neck. Authril groaned and squirmed for a brief moment beneath him, but uttered no word of complaint. “What feats?” The tower heard little of the abilities spellsters in other kingdoms were capable of. Not even the knowledge of Tirglas, where they kept their spellsters as cloistered healers, was allowed in Demarn. Although knowledge for the latter kingdom probably paled in comparison given the strict guidelines the Tirglasians let them live by.
Katarina opened her mouth to explain.
“My dear hedgewitch,” Tracker blurted, panic flickering across his face. “You speak as if such information is yours to give freely. If Dylan was to arrive at Wintervale with knowledge he could not have possibly gained within the tower, it could be detrimental to—” His gaze swung to Authril, the corners of his mouth lowering.
Under Dylan’s steady ministrations, the warrior had begun to purr.
“Fascinating,” Katarina breathed. “I expected a higher pitch, but the frequency and rhythm is completely different. I wonder why. Are you using magic?” Her quill paused in its act of scratching furiously across the page only long enough for Dylan to shake his head. “Then it can’t be that. It’s a pity we haven’t more elves to test any advanced theories. I suppose the Coven could arrange that.”
“I can hear you, you know,” Authril grumbled before nudging Dylan’s rear with her foot. “You’ve stopped.”
Chuckling, Dylan resumed kneading along the warrior’s back to the immediate return of her purring. Katarina was right, Authril purrs didn’t vibrate her body as much as Tracker’s did. Perhaps it was due to Dylan having to work harder at getting the hound’s muscles to relax before the man began to purr. He pressed deeper into Authril’s flesh, searching out every little knot just as he’d done with Tracker.
The woman’s purring grew deeper, more pronounced.
Movement on the other side of the fire had him lifting his gaze. The hound had stood, mild distaste twisting his lips. Their gazes locked and, swearing softly, Tracker left the fireside for the edge of camp.
Finding only relaxed muscles beneath his fingers, Dylan carefully lifted himself off Authril’s purring form to follow the hound. The man poked around the bushes, gathering bits of wood even though they’d already collected more than enough for the night. “Track? Are you all right? If it’s because of what I was doin
g—”
“No, no.” The hound stood in a rush. “It is nothing like that.” He frowned back at the camp. “I was not aware we could make such a sound.”
He really hadn’t known? “You must have heard it at least once. You don’t exactly inspire silence.”
Tracker laughed. “Oh, I have heard moans, screams and everything in between.” He flashed Dylan a lopsided grin. “And that is just coming from me.”
“How could you not know, though?” Unless all of the hound’s past encounters had been human. The thought hadn’t occurred to him before now. Did Tracker not find his own kind attractive? Was that why the man hadn’t attempted to use his charms on the warrior? “You must have purred before we met.” It happened whenever an elf was content, he couldn’t imagine living through three decades and never feeling that way.
The hound shrugged. “If I ever have before, then I was too young to recall doing so. That night at Whitemeadow, when you tied me up. I…” A small, warm smile curved his lips. “I did not anticipate your actions and—” He sighed. “I thought the purring had to be a fluke.”
He bumped the man’s shoulder with his own. “If it’s any consolation, you also purr when you fall asleep.” He grinned. “I must be rather comfortable.”
Smiling, Tracker wrapped his free arm around Dylan’s waist. “You are. Very much so. I shall miss having such an amicable pillow once we reach the capital.”
Dylan rubbed at his forearm as they turned back towards the fire. The evening suddenly seemed a lot cooler.
He hadn’t given much thought as to what would happen once they entered Wintervale, at least not when it came to the hound. Realistically, Tracker would return to his brethren, tell his superiors what had transpired in the tower and be on his way, back to roaming the kingdom in search of more spellsters whilst Dylan was leashed and sent the battlefield.