by Tinnean
They ran together, and it was exhilarating, as was Gareth throwing open the doors to his room and locking them tight behind him. The windows were ajar, allowing in the warm summer air, and a cool breeze moved gently through the space. Daemon was startled when Gareth tackled him, and they went sprawling together down onto the bed.
“Tell me, my lord,” Daemon said, smiling up at him, “what would you have of me?”
Daemon laughed as Gareth attacked him, answering with his voracious actions, yanking and tugging, pulling at the cowl, disrobing him fast, not caring if he ripped the garment to shreds. When Daemon finally lay under him, naked and heaving, disheveled and flushed, Gareth could barely breathe.
“Why… please, you must tell me: why hide yourself from the eyes of the world when you are by far the most beautiful man I have ever seen?”
“I was cursed by a witch.” He sighed, reaching up for Gareth. “And I do not know what magic you have that binds the spell or delays its return… I know not. I perhaps appear to those that want me as—”
“Not want you, daft man—love! I love you, Hektar Prahna loves you, my brother loves you! Even Mycah Ilen, for all his poxy pride, loves you! We all love you, and if that is what is needed to truly see you, then all the powers of Rieyn will only ever see a man with golden eyes and the most sinful mouth I—”
“Peace,” Daemon cut him off, lifting up and drawing Gareth down at the very same time. Their lips met in ravenous need, and Gareth was disrobed in a frantic rush. When Daemon’s hot skin slid over Gareth’s, he moaned loudly, deeply. He slanted his mouth down over Daemon’s and kissed him hard and long, missing nothing, savoring the taste of his lover, wanting it all. When Daemon’s hands pushed at him, it took all of his steely control to lift his lips from the smaller man’s.
“You… I need—”
“Move onto the bed.”
Gareth knew ways to take another man, either on hands and knees or with legs locked around his waist. Being asked to move so that he was seated, naked, against the headboard did not seem to be what he had envisioned. But Daemon had asked him to move, and looking at the man, just being allowed to watch the glow of the firelight slither over his bronze skin, was a blessing. The gold eyes looked as though they were melting, and the carnal heat in them made the muscles in his jaw clench. Scrambling over the bed, he did as he was asked and sat, legs parted in anxious anticipation.
Gareth watched as Daemon walked the length of the room, disappearing in shadow for a moment only to reappear carrying a small crystal flagon with a cork stopper. He crawled slow and boneless up the bed. His eyes narrowed in half as he reached out and wrapped a hand around Gareth’s ankle.
“Daemon, please, let me wet my cock to make the way—”
“Be still,” Daemon told him, uncorking the small flagon and pouring several drops of the spicy musk-scented oil into the palm of his left hand.
“What is that that you have?”
When Daemon wrapped his hand around Gareth’s already hardening shaft, the younger man cried out in pleasure.
“In a great nation like Rieyn,” Daemon began, “how is it that you know nothing of the oils of the East? The spit that would ease your way leaves no time for exploration and games.”
“I have used grease and—”
“Feel my skin slide over yours… is this not better than any that you have felt before?”
Gareth could only nod, as he could barely breathe. Watching Daemon’s hand stroke over his pulsing, swollen cock was almost painful. When Daemon straddled his thighs, lifting up, moving Gareth’s cock under him, his heart stopped.
“Daemon—”
“I mean to ride you.”
The smile was wicked and dark and rolled Gareth’s stomach over. Never, ever, had his couplings been anything but fast rutting in the dark. It was all the experience he had, and even though he wanted Daemon as he had never wanted another, he had thought it would be more of the same. The slow, sensual movement that he was being treated to was so much more than he could have ever imagined.
Daemon’s eyes locked on Gareth’s as he slowly lowered himself over the long, hard length of him.
“I had thought,” Gareth began, his breath shaky, strained, “that between men, the tenderness I craved could not be found.”
“Foolish man,” Daemon murmured, lifting up only to sink back down deeper.
Gareth’s moan of need was deep and husky, and as he clutched Daemon’s thighs, his fingers dug into the smooth, warm flesh.
“Tell me what you want.”
Gareth’s eyes as he looked at Daemon were almost black, so dark and liquid. “I want you under me.”
“Then take me. Make me yours.”
Gareth was careful when he rolled Daemon to his back because he didn’t, even for a moment, want to be separated. Having Daemon impaled on his shaft, watching him, was a dream he had no intention of waking from.
When he was looking down into the adored eyes, he gently bent and kissed each leg before he lifted them over his shoulders. “We cannot be parted, you and I…. I could not bear it a second time. I have too much that I want, and only if you see it with me, will it be real.”
Daemon nodded, unable to speak as Gareth eased out of the fluttering hole only to thrust back inside, sheathing the length of him in one smooth stroke.
“Please,” Gareth gasped, watching as Daemon arched up off the bed, “bind yourself to me. I want your oath.”
Daemon was lost in the sensations rolling through him, and looking up at Gareth, at the picture he made, eyes clouded, trembling with desire, he understood that for the man he loved, it was the same.
Gareth had been in bed with many men, but never had it felt like a joining, like a mating. As he pushed in and out of Daemon, feeling the hot, slick channel squeezing around his shaft, as he pushed deeper with each thrust, the muscles gripping him in velvet heat, he knew clearly why.
“You are my love,” he chanted with strangled breath and urgent pleading. It felt too good; there was too much emotion, too much raw, physical need. “Never leave me.”
“Never,” Daemon promised as one of Gareth’s hands anchored him to a lean hip and the other fisted his leaking shaft.
Gareth shifted his angle, at the same time lifting Daemon higher as he plunged down into him.
His name became a prayer.
Daemon’s shuddering climax brought Gareth’s roaring through him seconds later. Hearing Daemon call his name, watching him come apart under him, and feeling the muscles clamp down around his cock, contracting and squeezing, was more than he could bear.
He was certain, for a moment, that he had died, and then his arms could no longer hold him, and he collapsed on top of his lover.
The throaty laughter was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.
Gareth was careful as he eased out of his lover and then rolled sideways so Daemon could breathe. When he could see again, when the world had form again, he turned his head to look at the beautiful man in his bed.
“I need water.”
Gareth scowled at him. “These are the first words you would give me?”
One wickedly arched brow lifted rakishly. “I need water, my love.”
Gareth rolled off the bed to his feet. “Then I will fetch it for you.”
Daemon laughed and gestured Gareth to him. The kiss, when Gareth leaned back down, was scorching. The arms wrapped around his neck, the way he was held, made him dizzy. Gareth forgot that he was supposed to be doing something, and Daemon forgot what he needed. He pinned Daemon under him and devoured his mouth as he clutched the smaller man to his heart. Nothing else mattered but kissing Daemon and making up for lost time.
DAEMON WOKE to find Gareth spooned around him. When he pressed back against him, the bigger man trembled. Daemon smiled against the bicep under his cheek.
“I think you still need me,” he said as Gareth’s hand slid up his thigh.
“No, you need to sleep.”
“You’re a ter
rible liar,” Daemon chuckled, wriggling in the man’s arms. “And we both know you harden even now with desire.”
“Aye,” Gareth agreed, his voice a husky whisper as he licked a line up the side of his neck to behind his ear, at the same time fisting the hard length of Daemon in his hand.
“Have me again.”
Gareth moaned like he was in pain. “I’m trying to think of you and not me.”
“I know.” Daemon’s breath caught as Gareth continued to stroke him. “But perhaps I need you just as badly. Perhaps I want to be reminded to whom I belong.”
“You belong to me,” Gareth said hoarsely, his voice full of emotion.
“Then please”—he squirmed against him—“oh, Gareth, please.”
To hear Daemon plead, the desire thick in his voice, sent a wave of heat through the baron’s son. He moved the arm that had been under Daemon’s head, lifting it so he could turn and kiss him over his shoulder. Daemon’s mouth was ravaged, the kiss hungry.
“Gareth,” he breathed out when he finally had to pull back to drag in air. He let his head fall back over the thick, powerful bicep, eyes closing as Gareth eased himself inside him, the channel still slick with oil and semen. Daemon’s deep, hoarse moan of pleasure was not to be missed.
“You are a gift,” Gareth said as he anchored the smaller man against him, his hand tight on his hip, sliding in so deep then slowly out. He felt Daemon’s body clench tight around him, listening to his labored breathing. “And one I never hoped to have.”
“Your plan is to keep me, then?” Daemon tried to tease him but failed miserably as his heart was in his throat.
“Always,” Gareth assured him with a deep contented sigh. “Say you are mine.”
“Yours,” he panted, pushing back against Gareth as he deepened his thrusts. “Until my last breath is taken.”
The words lodged in Gareth’s heart, and he would have made his own promise to the man in his arms if he had been able to speak.
Eight
GARETH TERHAZIEN stood at his window when his father entered his room. He didn’t turn at the sound behind him, too absorbed in the view and his thoughts. Torbald was about to call to his son but stopped himself as he regarded him. He watched Gareth stare out the window at the clay-colored sky. The breeze was blowing his hair back gently from his face, and Torbald could see his son’s profile clearly. He wondered when it had been that Gareth had taken on such a determined look.
Looking at his second-born, Torbald swelled with pride. Having looked on Ram and Mycah for nearly a month, he had borne witness to their regal bearing and had admired both men as well as their fathers. Suddenly, though, he saw those same qualities manifested in his own son. Gareth carried himself with the same confidence and grace. It was as his wife had been telling him for many years: Gareth needed to prove nothing to anyone. He simply was.
As Gareth turned and looked at his father, Torbald felt a chill steal down his spine. When had Gareth become a man? He had not marked the transition from the boy who sought to fill Ehron’s place at his side to this man standing in front of him.
“You look well,” Torbald told his son.
Gareth nodded, trying, as he had since he had woken alone that morning, to rally his spirits.
Talking to his family over breakfast had been agonizing when all he wanted to do was find Daemon. The inquisition of what he had done the previous night, where he had gone when he left the ballroom, was almost physically painful. He was too freshly abandoned to be so interrogated.
He craved only Daemon’s gentle touch and quiet voice. To be lying with him as he had been only hours ago, Daemon’s face buried in the hollow of his throat, the man’s arm thrown across his chest, snuggled tightly up against him, warm and naked—this was all he wanted. Slow breath on his skin, lean-muscled body in his arms, all that his senses could bear. Only sighs and whispers and sweet, urgent cries of pleasure—all he yearned to hear. Daemon’s gentle laughter, his shining eyes gazing at him with absolute adoration, making his heart swell. His throat hurt just to look at him. His hands smoothing the hair back from Gareth’s forehead, the feather-soft kisses on his closed eyes, cheeks, lips, and throat as he smiled up at him. Fingertips tracing a path down his chest, the flat plains of his stomach, and lower, his kisses branding, his husky voice so sensual, knotting his stomach with expectation. Gareth wanted Daemon to rush into his room and throw himself into his waiting arms. This was his only desire.
“Father, we must to the receiving hall,” Amelina called out to him as she swept into the room in a flurry of voluminous gold silk and brocade.
Never had Gareth been so thrilled to see her.
Torbald turned to her and then back to Gareth. The moment broken, he regarded his daughter.
“Oh,” Amelina breathed, crossing the room to her brother. He was stunning in his cobalt-blue doublet, which matched the deep-sea color of his eyes, with a high collar trimmed in silver. “Gareth, you take my very breath,” she said, bowing gracefully to him.
He smiled at her, and it lit his eyes, making them glow blue fire. She was transfixed at seeing him so genuinely pleased to see her. There had always been a rivalry between them, but of late it had drifted away as if it had never existed.
“Come, Gareth,” Amelina said softly, threading her arm around her brother’s. “Let us stroll together to the great hall.”
Odessa smiled as she watched her children a few moments later as they walked in front of their parents toward the meeting with the delegation from Narsyk. Amelina was relating an amusing incident, by the way she was smiling and laughing, and Penn grinned widely at her from the other side of Gareth. She had no idea where her oldest son was, and she realized suddenly that she had not even concerned herself with his whereabouts in many days. She startled, and Torbald squeezed her hand against his arm before asking her if she was well.
“Do you mark where your son Ehron goes, my love?”
“He is with his intended and his new family,” Torbald soothed her. “I know he was just returned to you, but you must release him again.”
She nodded. All had worked out for the very best, and she owed Daemon for that.
Gareth searched the crowd for Daemon but could not find him. The crowd thickened the closer they got to the Great Hall, and people moved in a slow press now down the twin staircases, each able to accommodate ten people across.
The aristocracy came in their finest silks, brocades, fur, glittering jewels, shimmering gold and silver. The nobility of Rieyn was a feast for the eyes, the wealth of the nation on display for the delegation from faraway Narsyk.
As the crowd filled the hall, Daemon stood still and silent with the other consuls behind the seconds, or triaris, who were lined up behind their prefects. When Caseen Jun, Ehron’s second, turned to look at him, Daemon’s head tipped up.
“I had thought you would discard those robes once the war was over, consul.”
“I would not frighten anyone, triari.”
Caseen grunted, his voice lowering. “Hektar speaks that the man beneath the robes is exquisite, meant more for concubine than war.”
Daemon shrugged. “And yet you yourself have reaped the benefit of my blade.”
Caseen chuckled, reaching out to pat Daemon’s unseen cheek. “Indeed. I would have you stand at my side ever.”
Daemon nodded, and Caseen turned back to face forward.
More people surged into the hall, and as the nobility moved in front of the row of prefects, everyone had to step back. Daemon was pressed back into the folds of the twenty-foot-high drapes that hung in front of the iron doors of the Hall of Judgment.
Daemon shifted on his feet, nervous suddenly, accidentally bumping Caseen from behind. Caseen turned and scowled at the consul before straightening up and shifting his stance so that he was just behind and to the side of Ehron. Mycah stood on the other side of him, with Ram to his right. Nictorus had taken position beside his son.
At that moment, Eculis Pol, Keeper of th
e Castle, the head of the archlord’s private guard, walked into the circle that the crowd had made around the powers of Rieyn and sank to his knees before the archlord.
“Cerus Tapal, there are men here from Narsyk that ask for the privilege of an audience.”
Cerus turned, and as he did the crowd parted, creating a path for the small twenty-member delegation from Narsyk to walk through. They had already been granted permission to see the archlord as soon as they could make their way from the harbor to the castle. They had made landfall that morning and now waited to be received. Cerus gestured to Eculis Pol to allow them to approach.
Cerus did not know what he had expected from the people of Narsyk, but it was decidedly not what he was seeing. In contrast to the richness of fabric, design, and color that the nobility of Rieyn displayed, the simple black and white of the contingent from Narsyk was a shock. He had expected similar opulence, but there was none. All wore the same wide-legged black pants and soft, black leather boots. Over a white high-collared shirt that was tight around the neck and throat and fastened down the front came a stiff white jacket with a wide collar that covered completely the entire back of the neck and was cinched tight at the waist with a wide black leather belt. All wore black gloves that seemed iridescent in the morning light. The only discernable difference from one to the other was that the three women in the party wore their hair up in intricate knots held in place by several ornate combs and straight, lacquered pieces of wood. The combs had charms attached to them that flickered and caught the light.
The entire party bowed at once, and only the man in front straightened again. He took one step forward, and then his black eyes settled on the archlord. His voice resonated in the silent room, deep and clear without a trace of accent or warmth.
“Great Archlord of Rieyn, we humbly come before you seeking to offer you a gift in exchange for that which we seek.”
“Please, please,” Cerus said, motioning to the others to raise their heads. “Tell us who you are so that we may all know the speaker whom we have the pleasure of addressing.”