by Aldrea Alien
“At this particular moment?” Dylan echoed. The soft, giddy flutter of hope curved his lips before he could quash it. “You had another moment in mind?”
Tracker’s gaze drifted around the room. The air of confidence he’d displayed a few moments ago trickled away. His cheeks slowly darkened. Dylan had never witnessed the elf blush this intensely, not at anything. To see it now… His chest seemed rather tight. He’s right, it’s kind of cute.
“Later,” Tracker rasped. “I did think of broaching the subject when I could be certain of your safety.”
“Track, that…” He cleared his throat. “I know the wreath is practically a proposal in itself, but us… marrying—” Even the word felt weird to say. “It could never happen.” Who would dare to actually unite a spellster to anyone, let alone a hound?
“Not in Demarn, perhaps.” His gaze snapped around, sudden uncertainty clouding those honey-coloured eyes. “But there are other kingdoms, yes? You do not actually believe I will allow you to remain a leashed weapon in the army.”
“So, what are you suggesting? That we run away?” They were lovers, they didn’t need to be more. They couldn’t be. Then why do I want it so badly? To be his, completely. To know he belonged somewhere. “Won’t we be followed?”
“Not if we do it right. I can follow you to the front line easily enough. It would be a simple matter to slip away once we are there. Stage something that would have them believe you are dead.”
It sounded more like a fairytale than an actual plan and such tales were for normal people, not glorified weapons. Hearing Tracker speak as if… “The hound and the spellster flee the kingdom to elope and live happily ever after?”
“I am not so sure there has ever been such a thing as happy ever after, but we could certainly try for secure mutual existence.” A small, lopsided smile took his lips. “Be more than just a hound and a spellster.”
He grinned. First the garland, now a proposal? “You really just can’t resist going the whole hog, huh?”
The man rocked his head from side to side. “I do have a certain aversion to half-arsing things, yes.”
Dylan chuckled, slowly shaking his head. “Where would we go?” They couldn’t stay in Demarn, that much was certain. And he couldn’t dare enter the Udynea Empire without risking either of them to slavery.
Tracker shrugged. “Dvärghem is always open to those in need. Did our dear hedgewitch not say your knowledge would be welcome?”
She had. And being born human was no barrier to becoming a hedgewitch, or training under them. Whether they would accept him as such would depend on how much he really knew of the ancient dwarven knowledge he’d garnered. He knew it was far more than what was contained in the book he’d gifted Katarina, but he wasn’t sure whether it would be enough to have them accept him without being seen as a burden requiring more training than he was worth.
The elf fiddled with his ear, withdrawing one of the many earrings. “Here.” He placed the earring into Dylan’s palm. “I know it is not the proper token to give you, I am uncertain if having you wear a marriage band would even be wise, but you seem to have taken a shine to this particular piece.”
He had. It was the tiny jewelled dagger that hung from the man’s right earlobe and often found its way into Dylan’s mouth when they… Made love? Tracker was right. Sex had been more than just the physical act for quite some time.
And this tiny piece of silver was now his dowry. Not much and, still, far more than he was worth. His gaze lifted from the earring to those honey-coloured eyes. So wide and vulnerable. “You’re insane.”
Tracker’s lips curved, the visible tension in the man’s shoulders draining. “Possibly. But I have not heard an outright ‘no’ from you.”
No, you haven’t. This was a great deal more than he’d ever expected. “So, we’d be a couple?”
Tracker inclined his head, but not before Dylan caught an amused tilt to the smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “That is generally the gist of getting married, yes. If that is what you want, then I would very much like to give it try.”
“Go all domestic?” He toyed with the little dagger dangling on the pin, rolling the blunt blade between his fingers. Was he really considering this? “Become a family? Just you and me? As I understand it, marriages generally involve inheritance and heirs.” He’d nothing to offer the man beyond himself.
His lover peered at him through those long lashes. “I do not see how it could be more than us. Unless there is another lover you have been hiding from me?” Tracker leant closer. “And as for the latter… Well, children might be a little hard to make. We can certainly try for them—we can try a lot—but I cannot guarantee anything will come of it.”
Laughter snorted through Dylan’s nose. He shook his head. “I’d be a terrible father, anyway.”
“I somehow doubt that.” There was an extra spark in those eyes. “So,” Tracker drawled, dragging out the word until it shuddered down Dylan’s spine. “If it is not a ‘no’ does that mean it is a ‘yes’?”
He returned the earring to its rightful owner, folding the elf’s long fingers over the piece. “Help me fix my mess first. Get me away from the army camp.” He touched the collar, felt its coolness radiating through his fingers. “Get this off me, then I’ll think about it.”
The man rocked back on his heels, clutching at his chest. “Oh, such a difficult man to please.” His lover leant against him, tipping him back until he was effectively pinned against the floor by a pair of wiry bronze arms. “But I fully intend to see you freed and mine within the month.” His hand slid down Dylan’s chest, his fingernails lightly scraping skin almost to the point of pain. “Until then, how about you get on the bed so I may repay this early morning’s favour?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
Tracker sat up. “Now, now, darling, I really could not in good conscience leave you in such a state.”
“Darling?” Dylan teased.
His face grew neutral. Uncertainty bloomed in those honey-coloured eyes, mingling with a flicker of panic. “You would prefer I called you something else?”
“No, I…” Dylan rubbed at his neck. He hadn’t expected the alarm. Did Tracker think that, after everything, he’d crossed a line Dylan didn’t want him over? Grinning, he settled on the edge of the mattress. “I actually kind of like it.” Darling. Just the thought of his lover speaking the word sent a swell of rich warmth through his chest.
Seemingly emboldened, Tracker slunk along the space between them to kneel at Dylan’s feet.
A soft whine tightened his throat as he took in the image of the elf between his legs. His breath hitched as the man wrapped those long fingers around his length. He slid his fingertips along the man’s shoulder and up the nape of Tracker’s neck. “Now this brings back memories.”
Those gorgeous eyes lifted, visibly drinking him in. “Good ones, I hope.” His gaze dropped. “Hello,” he whispered. “Miss me?” Tracker licked up the side of Dylan’s length, his thumb deftly toying with the tip. No tricks, only the skittering heat of his breath and the slickness of his tongue. He didn’t need to do any more than that.
Dylan leant back, resting his weight on one arm, and watched his lover, ever enrapt. His hips jerked, rocking instinctively to the motion of his lover’s hand. Always seeking more.
A soft groan left Tracker’s lips, his breath hot upon Dylan’s skin. The elf enveloped Dylan’s length. Then, his cheeks hollowing, the man pulled free a few frantic heartbeats later to slide down again.
His fingers combed through the elf’s hair, brushing the tips of Tracker’s ears to the sweet sensation of his lover’s moans.
Those honey-coloured eyes held Dylan’s gaze. He slowed, opening his mouth wider so only the flat of his tongue rubbed the underside of Dylan’s length. The man’s eyes flashed a mute dare. How long can you last? they teased. How fast can I make you reach the end?
Dylan swallowed. His breath already came brokenly. The fire in his
gut burned as molten as his lover’s eyes. He bit back a groan and fisted the blankets. Determination to wring every last second from this moment demanded he defy the man. Who knew how long it’d be before they could be with each other again?
His answer must’ve showed on his face, because Tracker laughed. It shook the man’s shoulders and caused his tongue to jump in a most satisfying manner. Then, with a huff of contempt that heated Dylan in a multitude of places, the elf engulfed Dylan’s full length and sucked.
He bit his lip, trapping the groan that sought freedom. His head tipped back. Despite his earlier resolve, he eagerly allowed the man to dictate the pace. Usually, Tracker would keep him from completion, deny until Dylan was on the verge of begging for release, then sate with a fervour that bordered on fanatic.
Right now, that fanatic reigned unchecked.
Tracker’s head bobbed, his nose brushing against Dylan’s stomach at every down stroke. He’d halt only long enough to catch his breath, then return with same single-mindedness. Soft moans escaped the elf, thrumming through his throat and buzzing against Dylan’s length. It tingled through his body, pebbling his skin.
A tune caught his ear as he teetered on the edge. The elf wasn’t moaning. He hummed. Long and low. Sending every nerve in Dylan’s body thrumming to that tiny beat.
His hips jerked, an uncontrolled spasm, pushing him that little bit further into his lover’s mouth. Tracker dug his nails into Dylan’s rear, holding him tight. All movement ceased beyond the low thrumming of his throat.
The notes increased in force and the heat in his gut surged to flood his senses. Every pause, every ripple of the elf’s throat, became another spike of pleasure, each one building on the last until his body strained for release. Sounds escape his lips. Obscene moans and whimpers that he hadn’t heard since their first time together in the tower.
His thighs squeezed shut, trapping his lover’s head, as he fell over the edge. He clamped his teeth, trying to contain the cry ripping through his throat and lost. The yell distorted, leaving him hoarse.
Tracker’s throat tightened around him, swallowing.
He fell back, his arms too weak to support his weight. His gaze swept blindly across the ceiling, the world a blur. Everything buzzed, from his toes to his scalp. He could feel his blood rushing through his body. Each pulse hitting his temples like a dwarven war drum.
There was the softest brush of lips on his stomach. “Are you shaking?”
He nodded in affirmation, his throat too sore for words.
Tracker stretched on top of him, his head pressed to Dylan’s chest and a smug little hum leaving his lips. “I missed hearing this,” he whispered. “The way your heart beats afterwards. There are few things sweeter than listening to that frantic pace returning to normal.”
Smiling, Dylan ran his hand up his lover’s spine, working small circles between the elf’s shoulder blades.
A brief purr emanated from the man. “Trying to lure me back to sleep, are we?” He crept further up Dylan’s body, kissing as he went. “It is almost dawn, you know. You need to wash and dress. We cannot have you leaving for the border looking all bedraggled.” Tracker halted his climb, his breath heating Dylan’s collarbone. He shifted and a strange wetness slid under the metal wrapped around Dylan’s neck.
Dylan jerked, trying to escape the touch. A difficult feat with the elf’s weight pinning him in place. “Did you…?” The words danced like shards through his throat. He coughed, hoping to banish the sensation. It didn’t help. “Did you just lick under my collar?”
Tracker nuzzled behind Dylan’s ear. “Let me take it off.”
“Not now. Didn’t we just agree on that?” It’d be easier to make it to Dvärghem if everyone thought they were dead.
“I want my Dylan back,” his lover whispered, the words wavering. “All of him.”
“I’m still me. Just not so magical.” Or was it the magic that Tracker wanted? He’d been so free with it in their little tumbles, never sure which one would be the last. And even with the man unable to feel the full effect, the elf revelled in every second Dylan used his power on him. But he’d sworn otherwise.
Tracker sat up, all of the man’s weight settling on Dylan’s stomach. “See, you say that as if it is of no consequence, but I watched that woman leash you. I saw what it did, how you reacted. I see you now and… How can you not feel that the light in your eyes is gone? This—” He brushed his fingers across the collar, setting the metal to humming. “—locks a part of you away and I will see you freed from it as quickly as I am able.” He hovered over Dylan, a feral spark gleaming in his eyes. “And no one, absolutely no one, is going to leash you ever again. I will kill whoever tries.”
Dylan drew the elf back down onto him, wrapping his arms around his lover and holding tight. Anything to keep the man from seeing his tears. “Track, I—”
The doorknob rattled.
Tracker’s body stiffened, his breath barely registering against Dylan’s chest. The elf lifted off him, pressing a finger to his lips although Dylan hadn’t tried uttering another word. Terror widen his eyes, he stared at the door as if it would explode at any second.
Were they searching for their missing spellster? Of course they are. What other reason would anyone have to come to what should’ve been an empty room at this early time of the morning? Foolish to believe they’d trust him to remain within the castle grounds. We shouldn’t have done this. They should’ve parted ways at the garden, kept contact brief and secret until Tracker could unleash him.
And now they risked being caught. Suspicion would be thrown on a hound who chose to dally with a spellster and Tracker would have a harder time getting near him once they left for the border. If they even let the elf leave the capital.
The door shook as the person behind it tried harder to enter. Something slammed against the wood, issuing a muffled thud.
Spitting several breathless curses, Tracker launched off the bed. He scrambled for his clothing, withdrawing the infitialis dagger.
Dylan struggled to get a grip on his power. He clawed at the collar, his fingers hooking behind the metal, desperately tugging. Nothing. Tracker swore he could remove it, so there was a way. Some sort of trick. “Track,” he hissed.
The door came down.
Several men and women raced into the room. They spread out, sword and daggers at the ready. All of them wore the distinct black armour of the King’s Hounds.
Hunter sauntered through the doorway. Those cool, green eyes surveyed the room, seemingly uninterested in its contents. “Really, One-four-eighteen-seventy?” Her lips curved into a small, and decidedly unpleasant, smile. “I thought you, of all people, would not dare risk this again. Was your last lesson not enough?”
Growling, Tracker lunged for her.
One of the human men tackled him. They rolled across the floor, stopping at the woman’s feet where the man delivered several blows to his pinned opponent.
The woman drew her dagger and grabbed the elf’s braid. “Hold him steady.”
Tracker struggled anew. “No!” he snarled. “You have no—”
The blade made its first cut.
Dylan leapt to his feet, unsure what he could possibly do against so many, only that he needed to stop this. The hounds flanking Dylan grabbed him the second his was upright, forcing him to sit back on the bed. His struggles only served to have them tighten their hold. “Stop her!” he pleaded.
“Keep out of this, spellster,” growled the man on his left. “Or the next cut will be your neck.”
He bit the inside of his cheek, forced to watch as the dagger sawed its way through Tracker’s hair. His lover no longer fought those who held him.
By the time the woman was able to toss the braid aside, Tracker had fallen silent. Shock froze the man’s face. He stared at the ground, not even blinking back the huge droplets falling from his open eyes.
Sagging and dazed, his lover was hauled upright. One of the men muttered something to Trac
ker, the words too quiet for Dylan to make out. It didn’t seem to make much difference to the elf.
“You are so wet,” Hunter said as she bent over Tracker. She shook her head, the tail of her blonde hair flicking over her shoulder. “Crying over a few strands of hair when you should be glad it was not your throat.”
Snarling, Tracker spat in her face.
She straightened, wiping the spit from her cheek, and laughed. The sound lifted the hairs on the nape of Dylan’s neck. With no change of expression, Hunter slammed her knee into Tracker’s stomach, watching as he crumpled in the men’s grip, gasping. “Why are you just standing there?” she snapped at the surrounding hounds. “Move! The master will want them taken care of before dawn.”
Movement came from somewhere behind him. Dylan twisted in his captor’s arms, trying to see what they were doing, and a sack fell over his head.
The sacking stank of rancid oil and what might’ve once been fish. Despite being naked from the neck down, Dylan was sweating and the course hessian clung to his face. Dust pricked at his eyes and tickled the back of his throat. Breathing was fast becoming difficult. He coughed, but it made little difference.
Still, he moved his head from side to side, trying to see through the tiny holes in the weave. His bare soles told him they’d descended stairs. Flashes of stone and torchlight confirmed they were inside. Possibly beneath the castle if he correctly recalled Tracker’s recounting of where the hounds trained.
He was going to die down here. Dylan blinked back the tears stinging his eyes, trying to convince himself the sacking was to blame. He wasn’t ready to die.
His ears told him Tracker was close behind, fighting and swearing every step of the way. Dylan gave an experimental tug at the hand guiding him. The grip tightened, their fingers digging into the tender flesh of his upper arm. No chance of escape then. Not whilst he was still leashed.