Blurred Bloodlines [2nd in Blurred Trilogy]

by Kallysten

  "Marc wants to see you,” she said abruptly, shaking away questions she didn't really want to answer and looking straight at Daniel as she lied to him.

  "See me?” He didn't sound too happy at the prospect. “What for? Didn't you tell him what we found out?"

  "Actually, I had to leave before I could. So you can tell him about that, too."

  Daniel observed her for a moment, his gaze sharp and unforgiving, like he suspected what she was up to. She returned the look without flinching. He had told her more than once not to worry about how much he fed, but she did worry. He was her friend, had been so for years, and he had taken care of her in the past. It was the least she could do to try and return the favor.

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  Chapter 18

  For the rest of the day after Kate's departure, Marc left Blake alone in the living room and retreated to his bedroom, although he kept a close ear on him. He needed to know if Blake could calm down from seeing Kate on his own, without Marc's intervention. For hours, Blake remained on edge, his scent too jumbled for Marc to make much sense of it, his heartbeat fluttering like the wings of a frightened bird trying to escape its cage. Staying away was one of the hardest things Marc had ever done.

  He only came out at nightfall to warm blood for himself and Blake. He had just finished his dinner and was still trying not to admonish Blake to finish his own when two sharp knocks on the door announced Daniel's arrival. As soon as he opened the door, Marc realized that Blake wasn't the only one whose feeding habits left something to be desired. As a human, Daniel had never been bulky, but his clothes now seemed a size or two too large. A pang of guilt rang through Marc. He should never have agreed to leave his Childe to his own devices. He had known from the start that it was a mistake, and he should have gone with Daniel anyway, whether his presence was wanted or not.

  "Come in,” he demanded gruffly before Daniel could say a word. “This way."

  He led the way to the kitchen and was already pulling a jar of blood from the fridge when Daniel followed him in.

  "Sit down,” he said as he filled two mugs almost to the rim before setting them in the insta-oven.

  The feet of a chair scrapped on the floor behind him. “Kate said you wanted to talk to me?” Daniel said, sounding diffident.

  Marc turned to look at Daniel and crossed his arms. Yet again, he could only feel guilt and sadness at how thin Daniel had become, his face gaunt and lined, and it took him a few seconds to realize what Daniel had said. He frowned, his mouth already opening to say that Kate had told him that Daniel wanted to see him, but he realized why she had sent Daniel to him. She had noticed Daniel wasn't doing well, and had figured Marc would want to know—and would be able to help. More than ever, Marc regretted having left her, regretted all those months spent away, and only hoped that he hadn't broken everything between them beyond repair.

  The oven dinged, and Marc used the pretext to fix his face with a neutral expression before he sat across from Daniel and pushed a mug toward him.

  "You left the squad to help Kate find Jen, then?"

  Daniel never looked at the mug, but his nostrils flared, giving away that he was all too aware of the blood waiting just in front of him. “I did,” he said curtly. “And this wasn't necessary, I already fed."

  His small gesture toward the mug stopped short of touching it. He curled his hand into a fist on the table.

  Marc reached out and pushed the mug further toward him. “Somehow, I don't think you're being all that truthful."

  Without so much as a hint of gold burning in his eyes as a warning, Daniel swept the mug off the table with a raging hand. It tumbled to the floor, shattering to pieces and splattering blood in long crimson trails.

  "You're calling me a liar?” he all but shouted, standing so abruptly that his chair tumbled to the floor behind him.

  Marc remained seated and held on to his calm, his only outward reaction being a raised eyebrow. “You're going to pick up that chair,” he said slowly, “sit down, and feed. Or I will make you feed, and you might not enjoy it all that much."

  Teeth bared, Daniel glared down at him. It occurred to Marc that things would have been much easier if Blake had been defiant like this. Then Marc would have known how to react; he had decades of practice in dealing with outright defiance.

  "I said,” he all but growled, “sit down, Childe."

  Daniel started shaking, as though he wanted to obey but was fighting the instinct. It took years, even decades before a Childe stopped feeling the need to obey their Sire, and even if Marc hadn't been close enough to assert his authority over Daniel in quite a while, the need was still there. A muscle ticked angrily in his clenched jaw as he picked up the chair, slammed it down and sat. Marc pushed the second mug toward him.

  "I'm not hungry,” Daniel muttered, but the fleeting look he cast at the mug betrayed him.

  Marc snorted. “You think I can't see that you're starving yourself? Stop acting like an idiot and feed."

  With another filthy glare at Marc, Daniel slowly reached for the mug and pulled it to him. He held it in his hand long enough that Marc started losing patience.

  "Feed,” he demanded, his tone leaving no room for protests or delays, and Daniel finally picked up the mug and brought it to his lips. His eyes closed tight as he drank in deep mouthfuls, and Marc shook his head at the barely concealed pleasure he could read on his Childe's face. Why did he have to sire the two most stubborn men he had ever met?

  As soon as Daniel had lowered the mug again, Marc grabbed it and stood. He had refilled it before Daniel even realized what he was doing.

  "I've had enough,” Daniel said hurriedly, “I don't want—"

  "Quiet, Childe,” Marc interrupted curtly. “You have enough when I say you do. Why can't you see you're weakening yourself by not feeding enough?"

  The oven buzzing behind him, he turned back to Daniel and observed him for a few seconds. Sullen and bitter, Daniel was nothing like the leader Marc had once admired, and Marc doubted he was the only one who had noticed. Kate must have seen it if she had been troubled enough to arrange this meeting, and others must have seen it, too.

  "They kicked you out, didn't they?” he asked quietly, drawing Daniel's eyes to him. “That's why you went with Kate. You didn't have anything else to do."

  Daniel didn't reply, but he turned his face away, refusing to look Marc in the eye. The oven dinged, and Marc brought the mug to him, although this time he remained standing.

  "I told you last time I saw you. Not feeding enough doesn't just weaken your body. It also makes you short-tempered and irritable. You can't lead anyone that way."

  Daniel didn't reply. He still hadn't touched the mug. Marc rolled his eyes at him and sighed. “Drink it. Now."

  After a beat and with obvious reluctance, Daniel did as he was told. Marc was watching him when he caught movement by the kitchen's entrance. He was surprised to find Blake there, only half of his face peeking out from behind the edge of the wall as he peered in. When Blake realized Marc had noticed him, he retreated out of sight, but after a few seconds he reappeared again, just one dark eye observing the kitchen. Curious as to what Blake found so interesting, Marc pretended not to see him this time. He wanted to see how long Blake would stay, and whether he would come any closer.

  As it turned out, he didn't, but he did stay just outside the kitchen as long as Daniel was there. Marc quickly gave up on berating him about feeding, and told him to return the next night at the same time. Daniel seemed to understand at once that Marc intended to make him feed again. Whatever he thought of that, he didn't say, and left without a word. Marc wasn't sure he would return, but that wasn't a problem. As long as he stayed in town, Marc wouldn't have much trouble finding him if he needed to.

  After cleaning the broken mug and spilled blood from the floor, Marc returned to the living room and sat down in his armchair by the fire. Blake was still next to the kitchen entrance, his back now to the wall, his gaze o
n Marc, though unreadable.

  "Do you remember Daniel?” Marc asked, deciding not to comment on Blake's uncharacteristic bout of spying. “I sired him almost two years ago now. He's just as stubborn as you ever were."

  Blake's heartbeat stuttered, and too late Marc noticed how frustrated he sounded—how angry.

  "Just as stubborn,” he repeated more calmly now. “But I didn't hurt him. Just like I won't hurt you. Nobody will hurt you.” Marc's voice dropped to a tired murmur, and he closed his eyes. “I wish you'd believe that."

  After a couple of seconds, slow steps announced that Blake was approaching. Marc opened his eyes just in time to see him take his place on the sofa, facing Marc, sitting cross-legged with his back to the armrest. He didn't make a sound, but he held Marc's gaze for an instant before turning his eyes to the dying embers in the fireplace.

  Afraid to read too much into this simple look, Marc didn't say a word, nor did he move. He watched Blake slowly doze off, his head resting against the back of the sofa. There were deep shadows under his eyes, and Marc knew why. He wasn't the only one who had had a long, emotionally charged day.

  Now, though, as his body slowly shifted until he was lying down on the sofa, one hand resting on his stomach and the other arm thrown behind him, Blake seemed to have found sleep, and without bad dreams to...

  No. Not so easy. There they were.

  It started with a slight change in Blake's heartbeat and in his scent, so slight that Marc could easily have missed it. A thread of fear, nothing like the overwhelming terror of some past nights, but still fear just the same. Fleeting emotions passed over Blake's features, too fast to clearly identify, but the general impression was that his dream, whatever it was, wasn't pleasant. Marc stood, ready to shake Blake awake and end the nightmare, but as he did, he noticed the beginning of tenting in Blake's sweatpants, and the hint of desire in his scent, mixing with the always-present fear.

  Sitting back down, Marc continued to watch Blake sleep, and wondered what images were arousing and scaring him at the same time. Had he been subjected to the abuse for so long that his body had eventually accepted it as normal, and now reacted to it as though the touches were welcome? It wasn't the first time Marc thought this, not the first time he had tried to think of a way to break the cycle. Not the first time Blake's scent had aroused him even as it twisted his guts.

  He missed his Childe, missed the stubbornness he had seen echoed in Daniel, missed Blake's smile and deviousness. Missed his body, and his mouth, too. Sometimes, he wondered if Blake would ever touch him again without fear gleaming in his gaze. He felt guilty at the thought, selfish, but almost two years with no relief other than that of his own hand had left him starved for touch, and more and more often he was afraid that it might affect how he treated Blake, how he touched him when, confronted with his need, he caved in.

  A sharp intake of breath pulled Marc out of his thoughts, and he froze, the heel of his hand pressed against his crotch. Blake, leaning back against the armrest of the sofa, looked at him not with fear but with undisguised fascination, his fingers twitching where they rested close to the now-obvious tenting in his sweatpants.

  There wasn't much point in pretending nothing was going on, Marc decided. Or maybe he was just too aroused to want to pretend.

  "That looks uncomfortable,” he said, pushing the words past the knot in his throat. “Want to get out of your pants? I know I do."

  His hands were shaking a little as he unfastened his pants and, lifting his hips off the armchair, pushed them and his boxers down to expose his cock. Blake's eyes widened slightly at the display, but he didn't follow suit as Marc had expected.

  "That's OK,” Marc continued, his voice as unthreatening as possible. “You don't have to do anything you don't want to. But you can do anything you want. Like, for example..."

  Marc hissed lightly as he curled his fingers around his cock. He felt a little foolish about displaying himself like this, and he only hoped that Blake would respond with more than a twitching of his fingers on his thigh.

  "I used to love watching you touch yourself,” he confided with some difficulty, aware that his words were what could potentially make a difference but uneasy as always in verbalizing sex. “Think you could do it now? I know you want to. Come on, Blake. Help me here. Help yourself."

  Marc continued to stroke himself under Blake's attentive eyes, desperate for a reaction, yet so shocked when it came that his hand faltered and stilled for an instant. Very slowly, as though he would stop at the first hint of Marc's reprobation, Blake hooked his thumbs under his pants waistband and pushed down. His cock sprung free, and the sight caused Marc's hand to start moving again, regular strokes, tight fist going up, looser down, spreading his precome along his length to ease the motion.

  "That's it,” he encouraged quietly. “Now just wrap your hand around your cock. Let me watch you. Please."

  Marc could have sworn the ‘please’ was what did it. Blake's hand trembled when he took hold of his dick, but he did, without Marc's hand forcing him to, and that was all that mattered.

  "Good boy."

  The praise rolled off Marc's tongue too easily, and he regretted it just as fast, until he realized that it spurred Blake on. Slow moves at first, almost hesitant, as though Blake had forgotten how to pleasure himself, gradually faster as he followed Marc's lead, his hips arching off the sofa, his mouth opening on harsh pants.

  Mindless words fell from Marc's lips, more praises mixed with pleas to continue, a senseless babble that seemed to reassure Blake and give him confidence. And while Marc knew abstractly that he should have been glad that Blake was finally touching himself, finally putting an end to the torture he had been inflicting on the both of them, all he could think of was how striking Blake looked, so close now, skin flushed, eyes closing in pleasure, bottom lip caught between his teeth, hips pumping into his tight fist until at last, at long last he was coming, pearly white coating his hand, Marc moaning for the both of them.

  It had to be a test.

  Blake couldn't imagine that it was anything other than a test.

  His Master had made up a new game, another one whose rules he hadn't explained, but Blake thought he understood.

  If his Master demanded it from him, he was allowed to touch himself. Not for his pleasure, though, of course not. For his Master's. He had to offer him a good spectacle, had to satisfy his eyes the best he could.

  It was a test, and Blake did not want to fail.

  He never wanted to fail again. Never wanted to disappoint his Master. Never wanted to be punished again.

  He knew, though. He knew it was only a matter of time.

  It always was.

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  Chapter 19

  Marc had hoped that, once Blake had reached an orgasm on his own, he wouldn't require help anymore. But the scent of Blake's desire permeated the air again just a day later, thankfully after Daniel's second visit.

  When Blake once more silently pleaded for Marc's hands to touch him, Marc could have screamed in frustration. After arguing with Daniel again about how much he fed, Marc was in no mood to battle with Blake about this, too. He gave in and brought Blake off, promising as he did that it was the last time, knowing, also, that it wouldn't be and that each time he caved in he only made things more difficult.

  Blake's nightmares were just as upsetting. They seemed stronger than before and left Blake panting and drenched in cold sweat, his heart hammering in his chest. Marc didn't know what to do about them, since his presence and reassuring words didn't seem to make things any easier for Blake. If he only knew what monsters inhabited Blake's dreams...

  The answer came from Kate, and it was so strikingly obvious that for a while Marc remained dumbstruck, amazed and a little ashamed that he hadn't thought of it himself.

  She had accompanied Daniel on his third visit, although she waited in the living room while Marc once more coaxed his Childe into feeding in sufficient amounts. Marc s
upposed she had hoped to see Blake, but Blake was in his room, hopefully sleeping and recuperating from the previous night's bad dreams.

  After Daniel had left, for the first time muttering a quiet, “Thank you,” when Marc demanded that he return the next night, Marc joined Kate in the living room. She was standing by the fireplace, warming her hands and staring at the flames absently. When Marc came to her, he opened his arms, and she didn't hesitate before stepping into his embrace.

  "Is he still asleep?” she murmured, the words muffled against the fabric of his shirt.

  Marc listened closely. He could hear Blake's heartbeat at the end of the hallway, echoed by Kate's in his arms.

  "I think so,” he said just as quietly and held her a little tighter. “I hope so. He has barely caught any sleep in the past couple of days."

  Her fingers clenched on his back. “Since I arrived,” she said in a broken voice. “It's my fault. I made him worse again."

  "No, of course not.” Marc rubbed a hand up and down her back soothingly. “He has nightmares. He's been having them since the beginning. This is just a bad phase."

  "Maybe he has nightmares about me.” She swallowed hard enough that he heard her throat tick. “Jen said... she said the demons can do magic. She said they made her believe it was people she knew that were hurting her. Maybe they made Blake believe it was me hurting him. Maybe that's what he dreams about. Maybe—"