by Cari Z
“Thank you.” Rafael let himself be led into the back, past well-furnished halls and rooms, some with closed doors, some open. He glanced into a few. One was empty but one was definitely full, and the groans of contentment that emerged from it echoed into the hall. Feysal smiled again.
“Some men enjoy an audience.”
“We all have our little ways,” Rafael replied.
“True. You smell of blood.” He stated it as fact, without any judgment. “Shall we start with a bath? My daughter can take and clean your clothes.”
“That sounds good.”
“I thought it might.” Feysal unlocked the door at the end of the hall and led Rafael inside his private rooms. After the door had shut behind them, he leaned in close, pulled Rafael into his arms and kissed him deeply. Tension and buried distress fled as Rafael relaxed into his friend’s commanding embrace. It was a luxury he didn’t often allow himself, this loss of control, giving his strength over to vulnerability. Rafael had learned to love obedience at the hand of his master, but in the Lower Half obedience too often was simply slavery. Feysal he could trust, though. Feysal had learned the truth. Even knowing that, Rafael still found it hard to speak of what he had done that past night. He didn’t want this session to be an easy one. He needed to be punished.
“What do you want, Rafael?” Feysal murmured against his lips, his tone coaxing but stern. “What do you need from me?”
“Before the bath…” he began hesitantly, but continued when he saw Feysal frown. “Before the bath, will you whip me?”
“You’ve not asked for that for years,” Feysal said neutrally, but Rafael could see the concern in his eyes. “Who did you kill last night that brought you to this point?”
Rafael gave a small, choked laugh. “Myself, perhaps.”
“Ah. You shall get what you need.” Feysal kissed him again, then let him go and backed away a bit, removing his kaftan. His bare chest was broad and heavy with muscle, and shining golden rings hung from his nipples. “I will draw an explanation out of you, Rafael,” he said confidently. “You will feel better once you’ve spoken about your troubles. Now remove your clothes and lay against the cross.”
Rafael peeled off his leather jerkin and dark tunic, wincing a little at the stickiness of the material. His breeches and boots followed and in moments he was naked, his eyes cast down toward the ground submissively. He walked over to the far wall and leaned against the cross, relaxing his body into the wooden frame and splaying his hands and feet wide. He relaxed even further as Feysal wound supple strips of suede around his wrists and ankles and bound him tightly to the device. He stroked his hand tenderly down Rafael’s back then stepped away. Rafael closed his eyes and absorbed the noises of bare feet padding across the carpeted floor, the ring of a small bell and the brief opening of the door. He heard fingertips against leather handles, tapping one tool then the other as if debating their relative merits. Finally a decision was reached, the steps came close again and there was a moment of delicious stillness before the first crack of the whip resounded against his flesh.
The pain was concentrated, snapping and forceful. No delicate introduction with nine tender tails today. The bullwhip flickered across his right buttock, leaving it throbbing. Rafael moaned.
“You don’t have permission to speak yet, Rafael,” Feysal said firmly. “Save your breath for when the will is there.” He lashed him twice, lightning fast, across his shoulders. Rafael nodded, then gave himself over to the feeling.
Feysal was skilled with the whip. The pain was consistent, burning and biting but not going so deep as to truly wound. It touched him everywhere, from the small of his back to the nape of his neck and even once across each ankle. Not a murmur escaped his lips, although the desire to emote was building fast inside him. His cock was painfully hard against the wooden cross and he pressed it harder still, wanting to surround himself with physical pain and block out the mental anguish, block out the memory of what he’d done that night and the other memories that threatened to resurface and drown him in sorrow again.
“You killed last night.” Crack. “A High One.” Crack. “Someone you knew.” There was a pause, then Feysal said, “You may speak.”
“I had never met him before.”
“But you knew him nonetheless.” Crack.
“I knew him because we were the same. Molded by the same man.”
“Ah. Your former master, Xian.”
“My… Yes.”
“Another assassin, then? You’re lucky to be alive.” Crack.
“I wished at first that I wasn’t,” Rafael confessed, glad that Feysal had forced the words out of him. He didn’t want to think about the creature he had killed, but if he was going to recover from it, he would have to. “We could have been like brothers. I could have been him, if I had…”
“If you had what?” Soft hands caressed his shoulders now, drawing long, slow burns out of the heated lines crisscrossing his frame. “If you had what, Rafael?” The hands gripped tight for a moment, turning the burn into a searing flame.
“If I had not been judged unworthy,” Rafael gasped. The pain eased minutely as he went on. “If I had been a better child, a better apprentice, a better student. If I could have made him want me more…”
“Ah.” The hands moved up into his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp. “I understand now. Do you?”
“Yes.” The pain had eased, lessening and moving away from him.
“Do you want release?”
“I want you to take me in a way that pleases you.”
Feysal chuckled. “Oh, you please me greatly just like this, Rafael. Spread for me like a feast, glowing with the marks of my care and attention… Feel how you please me?” He ground his cloth-covered erection against Rafael’s ass. Feysal was very well endowed, and Rafael had had him enough times to crave him when the mood struck. The mood was hard upon him now, passion flowing into the wake left by his subservience and emotional release. He pressed back as best he could in that position, wanting deeper contact.
Slick fingers slipped inside his passage, rubbing in soothing circles and opening him up. The first entry was painfully sharp, but, like with the whip, the pain mellowed into a smooth stream and pleasure followed fast. There was a rustle of cloth, the sound of skin on skin, then Feysal’s bulging crown was pressing past his protective ring and inside him. The rest followed quickly in three progressive thrusts, and Rafael gasped harshly at the invasion. He was stretched, taken and dominated, and he reveled in the rare and delightful sensation.
Feysal wrapped his hands in Rafael’s hair and jerked his head back sharply, using his locks like reins as he rode his ass. Pain harmonized with pleasure inside him, and Rafael groaned with the need to come. “Please…”
“Only when I say.”
Rafael nodded and swallowed against the urge to scream. He tried to focus more on the pain, but it was so synonymous with comfort in his mind that rather than relieving his desires, it increased them. He bit his lip savagely and managed to hold out until he felt Feysal swell even further inside him, until his smooth thrusts became jerky with impending orgasm and that deep, throaty voice growled, “Now,” in his ear. He came ecstatically, riding the wave of his release and finding more than physical peace with it. His cum ran in rivulets down the cross as he let go and Rafael felt, for a moment, a nearly divine sense of rightness. It was almost like being with him again. His master, his personal god. Xian.
He shied away from that memory. It was too confusing, too hurtful. Rafael buried his memories in the physical sensation and let Feysal care for him. He was taken down and gently carried into the next room, where a steaming, scented bath had been prepared for both of them. He hissed briefly as the water stung his fresh cuts, then slowly began coming back into himself. His back rested against Feysal’s chest and his relaxation verged on languor. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure, as always,” Feysal replied as he ran a soft washcloth down Rafael’s arm. “You cl
early needed it. You should come by more often, my friend, rather than let it build.”
“I was doing fine,” Rafael protested. “I was doing fine until him. You know me.”
“I do,” Feysal agreed. “That’s why I was worried.” He paused for a moment then went on. “It’s been five years since I found you propped up in that alley. Blood fell like rain from your fingertips, and I was amazed you had survived as long as you had, given those wounds. You don’t hurt yourself by halves, Rafael.”
“That was almost a week after I had been forsaken,” Rafael mused. “It wasn’t the first time I’d tried to kill myself. Honestly, I don’t know how I survived that long.”
“The will of the gods.”
“Then the gods must hate me.” He laughed, softly but bitterly. “Or perhaps I just don’t understand their sense of humor.”
“Are you still sorry to be alive, then?” Feysal moved the cloth across his shoulders, soothing and cleansing him.
He considered it for a moment, genuinely wondering. “No. Not anymore. I was for the first year or so, though.”
“Fortunately you found something to give you purpose.”
“Purpose in killing.” Rafael sighed. “My life’s purpose is to end the lives of others. How is that a just exchange?”
“I find it generally less irritating when I don’t try to make sense of the senseless,” Feysal said, and Rafael could hear the smile in his voice. “You live. Others die. But you’re not an excessive or cruel man, and that gives you more right to claim your actions are guided by justice than many others.”
“Damning me with faint praise, I think.”
“Calling you a saint would be lying. Perhaps an angel of death.”
“Feysal, you know I despise obtuse analogy.”
“Poetry is the food of love,” Feysal blithely informed him before dunking his head beneath the warm water. Rafael came up spluttering and rounded on his friend, who looked at him with an unrepentant grin. “You should consider eating at that table sometime,” he suggested. “It might win you some admirers.”
Rafael snorted. “Not my poetry.”
“Poetry is more than words. Poetry is grace in movement, speed and purpose in action. Poetry is implacable will burning in the soul. You are living poetry, Rafael.” Feysal grinned again. “A short sonnet, perhaps.”
“Not an epic?”
“You’re not old enough to merit quite that much ink. Live for another thirty years and ask me again.”
“That’s asking a lot,” Rafael suggested with a devilish gleam in his eyes as he shifted his weight forward onto Feysal’s thighs, bringing their torsos into close contact again. “Thirty years is a long time to put up with you. What will you do to make it worth my while?” He ground his resurging hardness against his friend’s, comfortably past needing the pain to bring him release now.
Feysal closed his eyes and groaned, fingers playing gently across Rafael’s back and waist. “You suggest I haven’t done enough for you yet, voracious boy?”
“You made a good start,” Rafael encouraged.
“Mmm, then we should see to it that there is a good finish as well, shouldn’t we?” Feysal shifted Rafael forward and eased him back onto his cock, a more comfortable fit now after their first round. Rafael settled into a rhythm with a contented sigh, lifting himself up and down on Feysal. He brought him deep into his body and moved slowly, taking the time to enjoy the feeling of pure, simple pleasure. He slipped his arms around Feysal’s shoulders and pressed their bodies together, trapping his cock in between them and teasing it with faint, delicious friction as he moved.
Feysal kissed his collarbone and up the length of his neck, hands roaming across slick, oiled flesh that was already nearly healed from the stings of the whip. The faint trace of the High One’s blood that still rested in his veins after the assassination gave Rafael’s body a delightful resiliency, and he had been more than willing to make use of it to bring both of them release, but he was also glad it meant that he could continue the day without needing to rest after his session with Feysal.
Feysal slipped his hand between them to his length, and Rafael moaned with the sudden, rushing sense of his impending orgasm. Maybe he would need to rest, if Feysal kept manipulating him like this. “Not yet,” he whispered futilely.
“Together,” Feysal murmured, and joined their lips in a kiss even as his grip tightened and his hips bucked. Rafael clenched and groaned as he came fast, spilling over his friend’s hand and into the warm, sweet-scented water. He felt Feysal’s breath hitch as he came as well, filling him again. They stilled and held each other for a long moment, catching their breath, before Rafael sat back and grinned.
“More worth your while, then?” Feysal asked dryly as he leaned his head back against the edge of the tub, his eyelids drifting closed.
“Perhaps worth another few years of my time,” Rafael replied offhandedly. “No doubt we’ll get to the full thirty eventually.”
Feysal’s eyes opened again. “That sounds suspiciously like a challenge.”
“Would that it were.” Rafael sighed and separated himself from Feysal, missing the contact as soon as it was gone. He grabbed the soap and began to scrub himself briskly. “Unfortunately, now I have to go and deal with Daeva, who won’t be happy that I didn’t bring any pieces of the kill home to him.”
“That man is a vulture,” Feysal said flatly, distaste evident in his face. “He preys on people’s fears and takes advantage of their ignorance to set himself up as a savior, then behind their backs uses the very things he purports to abhor for his own personal gain. I still don’t understand why you have to collaborate with him, Rafael.”
“His spies in the Upper Half give me an edge when it comes to targets. I don’t care for him myself,” Rafael admitted, “but he has his uses. I make a convenient symbol for him to exploit and he helps me get my job done.”
“I would recommend finding another way to get your job done, and soon.” Feysal looked troubled. “Enough of my people associate with his organization that I have a fairly good feel for what he’s doing, and I have to say it seems as though Daeva is escalating, Rafael. He won’t be content to use you as a mere symbol for long. He’ll be setting assassinations up for you, targets of his choosing, and I doubt he’ll take kindly to you refusing to follow his directives. Not to mention any of his personally unsavory characteristics, like his predilection for cannibalism. Not just blood, but flesh.”
“How did you even find out about that?” Rafael asked. “I only know because he wants me to bring him souvenirs from the High Ones I kill—not that I ever do.”
“It’s amazing what people say in their sleep,” Feysal replied blandly. “My people pass on anything that might be of interest to me, and when one of my girls brought that to my attention, I knew it merited concern.”
“It does.” Rafael’s brow furrowed for a moment, then cleared as he brushed the worry aside. “I’ll stay vigilant. Daeva won’t be getting a single drop of blood through me, and any power he wields as a result of my work is of secondary concern to me. If he starts to get desperate, I’ll just switch my target to him.”
Feysal shook his head. “I doubt he hasn’t considered that, Rafael. Whatever else he may be, Daeva is clever, and he took to his lessons as well as you did to yours while he was in the care of a High One. Don’t underestimate him.”
“Not if I can help it.” Rafael got out of the bath and rinsed himself with a carafe of fresh water, then looked around for his clothes. They were clean, folded and sitting on a nearby chair. The sabers and their leather sheaths had been cleaned as well. Only the athame was as it was before, crusted with blood that no hand but his could cleanse without pain. “Thank you.”
“My daughter was very careful with them,” Feysal assured him.
“Mina is a gem.”
“True. Very true.”
“This is for her.” Rafael took a gold coin out of his money bag and laid it on the chair. “What can
I give you?”
“Nothing but your assurance that you’ll take care of yourself. I mean it, Rafael.” Feysal’s expression was genuinely concerned. “You’re walking a fine line. See to it that you don’t fall to either side.”
“Fortunately I have you to pull me back if I do,” Rafael replied. “I’ll be careful.” He dressed quickly, reattached his weapons and gave Feysal a last, brief kiss. “Am I more trouble than I’m worth to you, my friend?”
“I don’t know,” Feysal confessed. “Ask me in thirty years, when I finish your sonnet.”
“My short sonnet.” Rafael grinned.
“Exceedingly short.”
Rafael let himself out the back and set off down the street, in a much more cheerful frame of mind. Feysal was an invaluable friend, he reflected as he walked along, unimpeded despite the noontime traffic. Nothing about Rafael screamed his purpose yet everyone in his path moved aside, most probably not even realizing they were doing it.
Five years ago, when his life had seemingly come to an end, it had been Feysal who helped him realize that he still lived. That breathing was possible without his master, that existence was his no matter how wrong it felt that he still existed. Everything should have stopped when he was forsaken. Feysal had helped him realize that life could go on. It was a different life, a stunted life, without the hopes he had cherished and the consuming, obsessive love he had held for fifteen years, but it was still a life.
He really had tried to end it. Tried to kill himself, not once but repeatedly that first week. It must have been the residual magic in his system that had let him heal, although he’d never been given enough blood to make more than a mild difference in his stamina and ability. Rafael had sliced his wrists to ribbons repeatedly, clumsy with incredulous despair but still determined. Blood had flowed, pain had seared him and he’d fallen unconscious. Each time he’d woken up again, skin knotted with scar tissue and heart still resolutely beating, refusing to obey his brain’s desperate commands to stop and let him leave the worthless world behind. The final time he had awoken not in a gutter surrounded by filth but in a bed with clean cotton sheets, and had found a small dark-haired girl watching over him. She had fetched her father immediately upon seeing the stranger wake, and Feysal had entered Rafael’s life.