The Red King

  Rory nodded, knowing full well the desire to treat, to gift the world to Andrew.

  “Things changed after the Inquisitor came.”

  “Inquisitor?” Rory felt cold.

  “Salvatore. He had visited before, more than once, to conduct business with Maarten. It was revealed to Andrew that Salvatore was the instigator of all his woes—from the attack of the ship taking them to Spain to the raid on the village, seeking you. Andrew threatened him, cut him with a blade, and told him to go to Hell,” Laurent said, lips twisting in repressed amusement. The humor was gone in the blink of an eye. “Maarten was incensed; no, more than that. He was greatly aroused by Andrew’s defiance of the council. He had Salvatore and his Guard taken hostage. His treatment of Andrew was quite…following the confrontation he…”

  “That I can guess, Laurent,” Rory said, darkly.

  Laurent swallowed. “It was the first time I had to tend to Andrew. He thanked me. No one had ever thanked me before.”

  “The Inquisitor, what happened to him?”

  “He was put in a dungeon cell. Maarten took Andrew and,” Laurent’s voice cracked, “while Andrew was still muddled by the potion, he took Andrew to the cell. He convinced Andrew to…somehow he made Andrew…”

  “Andrew killed the man,” Rory finished.

  “Tortured first, then killed. Maarten was beside himself with joy. He came up from the dungeon with Andrew in his arms, singing,” Laurent said, shuddering. “They were covered in blood, both of them, and Andrew was unconscious and Maarten presented him as…as his bride.”

  “Tortured,” Rory whispered. The horror of it, of Andrew so lost that he would willfully commit such an atrocity, was too much to bear. He closed his eyes and pressed his face into Andrew’s hair.

  “The rest you know.”

  Rory saw the weariness in Laurent, the lines around his eyes and mouth. “How many, Laurent? How many did you see?”

  Laurent shook his head. “I stopped counting.”

  There was nothing Rory could say.

  “You should rest. Keep him up, like that, it will help,” Laurent said, rising.

  Rory fell asleep again, holding Andrew against him. When he woke they were lying together on their sides, fit as close as nesting spoons. It was night and the cabin was dark with no lantern lit. For a moment he stayed there, drifting, half dreaming, and relishing the warmth and weight against him. His hand, previously resting open and loose on Andrew’s stomach, flattened out across flesh. Pressing closer, he nosed at the curls at Andrew’s nape, tasted the salt of skin and sweat with his lips. His body awakened, senses filled with the scent and taste, the touch of his … his mate, and it craved consummation.

  “Andrew,” Rory murmured, his voice low and rough. Desire thrummed through him, stirring his hips to rock gently against the firm, smooth roundness cradled against him. His hand moved slowly down, caressing hip, thigh, and grazed the prickly edge of Andrew’s groin. He slid his hand back up and caught on the bandages wrapping Andrew’s chest. He woke and remembered. Shame subdued his passion and with a whispered curse, he hid his face against Andrew’s neck as guilty tears stung his eyes.

  There was a twitch, then a sharp inhale, and Andrew came awake. Rory felt the tension in his back, his shoulders, and kept still. It was only when a drop fell onto Andrew’s throat, a tear that could not be held back, did the silence end.

  Andrew was up and away with one push, on hands and knees above him. There might have been a word, or a shout, but all that could be heard was a wild rush of air as Andrew shoved himself to the end of the bed.

  “Wait! Andrew!” Rory cried, sitting up against the bulwark. He kept his hands down, made no move to follow, merely repeated his name. “Andrew, Andrew, wake now! It’s Rory! Only Rory!”

  The sound of Andrew’s panting, noisy and trembling, met his ears. He could barely make out the edges of Andrew’s form, but he could feel in the ticking how the man shook.

  “It’s me,” he said again, keeping his voice clear but gentle and slowly reached out one hand.

  There was a huff, followed by a deep, shuddering inhale, and then, a timid touch of fingers.

  His hand was clasped and he was pulled forward. “Yes, Andrew, yes, I’m here,” he said, slowly moving closer. He let Andrew guide him, crawled forth upon the bedding and sat on his knees to wait. Would they have to repeat this ritual every time Andrew woke? The thought was frightening and all too possible.

  Andrew made a noise, grating and painful to hear, and then coughed.

  “Don’t try to speak. Your throat is bruised, don’t you remember? You woke once before,” Rory clutched the hand in his and reached out with the other. He gently placed his palm on Andrew’s cheek, felt the wet heat of tears.

  Shaking his head, Andrew pressed his lips into Rory’s hand. A dream, not real.

  “No dream,” Rory reassured him, tugging Andrew closer to press palm to chest. He held Andrew’s hand there and let the beating of his heart prove true. He heard Andrew sob, just a whisper in the dark, and lifted Andrew’s fingers to his lips. “I am real, love.”

  A thumb traced over his mouth, brushing the whiskers let grown too long. Fingers gingerly slid up his cheek, to his hair to tangle into the short, messy curls. He heard a gasp as Andrew searched for the remnants of his lengthy tresses. “They were shorn away, to keep the wound from festering,” he whispered, guiding those fingers to the now hard and scabrous wound behind his left ear.

  Andrew’s hand withdrew a bit but Rory pressed it back. The strip measured as wide as a dudgeon dagger and as long as Andrew’s little finger. It was still tender to the touch, but Rory ignored the pain and spoke. “The skin was ripped away by the rocks, but I was neither cut nor crushed beneath them. It seemed, according to Malik, that I was held in God’s hand, and that there was not enough room for all of my hair.”

  He smiled as he said it, but felt Andrew sob against his palm once more. Alive…left you…you were alive…

  At the rush of new tears, Rory cast aside his caution and swiftly took Andrew into his arms. “Shhh…you could not have known. They expected to find a corpse, Andrew, not to find me breathing and bleeding still.”

  Shuddering, Andrew fell weakly against him, pressing his face to Rory’s neck.

  “I’m real, Andrew, blood and bone and flesh and I am yours.” His lips chased tears from Andrew’s eyes, tracing the curve of one cheek until their mouths met. He drank Andrew’s sobs and bore the bruising grasp on his shoulders, only breaking the kiss when Andrew climbed onto his thighs.

  “Andrew, you can’t…” he gasped, his hands holding Andrew’s face.

  Shaking his head, Andrew pushed Rory back, resting atop his chest and straddling over him. He ground his hips down, his erection pressing hotly against Rory’s stomach. Rory’s ardor returned with such swiftness that his whole body ached. His cock was hard and thrumming against the velvet of his caftan, straining to meet Andrew’s thrusts. Andrew rose enough to allow the offending garment to be pulled up and off and tossed aside. When they came back together, bare flesh to bare flesh, both of them shuddered.

  They rutted without caution or concern for their injuries, dislodging bandages, knocking all bedclothes to the floor, leaving new bruises with gasps and moans. Rory rolled, taking Andrew with him so that they lay on their sides as each sought the other’s release. When climax came it took them together, their mouths locked and their fingers clasped around their cocks. Then, as they clung to each other, Rory rolled them again, pulling Andrew back to rest on his chest.

  You’re real, Andrew mouthed into another kiss.

  “Aye,” Rory answered, then grinned beneath Andrew’s lips. “Unless you require more proof. I would gladly play the specter if it would grant me another chance to confirm it.”

  He nearly wept when he felt Andrew smile against his lips.

  ***

  “Rory.”

  Taking a deep breath, Rory pressed his nose deeper into warmth and softness.


  “Rory.”

  “Hellfire,” he muttered and had to turn his head to free his mouth of hair. He cracked one eye.

  Etienne stood beside the bed, incredulity, displeasure, and amusement warring for a place in his expression.

  Rory closed his eye again.

  There was a sigh. “Rory, I would recommend you rise and find your garments, then arrange Andrew in a less…provocative pose. Ortega would like a word and I don’t think I can keep the man from his own cabin much longer.”

  At this, Rory opened both eyes. He looked down his front, finding Andrew laying over him, face pressed into Rory’s neck. The line of Andrew’s back was broken with loose bandages, the exposed scoring of the whip, and one of Rory’s arms. Below that, Rory could see Andrew’s ass, curved and pale and propped up on Rory’s thigh. For a moment he simply considered the sight, tightening his hold and shifting his leg to improve the view, but Etienne’s words sharpened in his mind.

  “He comes here? Now?” Rory asked, fully awake in an instant.

  “Not just yet, but I’ll wager soon,” Etienne answered. He looked down at his feet, huffed, and bent to retrieve something from the floor. “I’ll not lend the use of my clothes again, if this is how you treat them.”

  The caftan was dropped beside Rory, within arm’s reach. “I would say you were lucky it was not torn,” Rory quipped, his humor much improved this day.

  “Really, Rory, neither one of you is in any shape to be indulging in carnalities,” Etienne scolded, his amusement fading as he eyed Andrew’s back. “You could have done more damage, to both your persons.”

  Rory couldn’t stop his smile. “He insisted.”

  Etienne raised an eyebrow.

  “We were not so rough, I promise you. His bandages need to be changed, anyway,” Rory said, still grinning. He carefully slid Andrew off of him, giving him a cushion to hold in his place. As he pulled the caftan over his head, he asked, “What does Ortega want?”

  “I would not chance a guess. Perhaps he just wishes to see to your well-being.”

  Their eyes met, and together they burst into laughter. Etienne lowered himself to the bed, pushing Rory’s leg out of his way.

  “Rory, please concede that you both need rest. You are still healing, too.”

  Looking down at Andrew’s sleeping face, Rory rested gentle fingers on his cheek. “I know, but it seemed more necessary to prove to him that I was not a dream.”

  “Surely there are less strenuous ways to do that,” Etienne stated, pointedly.

  “He’s been through Hell, Etienne. He faced the horrors that Maarten would deal him, all the while believing me dead and that he had left all hope of friend and love behind,” Rory whispered, still watching Andrew. “A moment’s pleasure after so much pain cannot be regretted.”

  “I will not argue with you there,” Etienne agreed. He bent, reaching for something else at his feet. “Here, cover him. I would not have his, ah, attributes exposed for any and all to see.”

  Tucking the heavy blankets around Andrew’s form, Rory leaned in to press a kiss to his temple.

  Andrew opened his eyes.

  Rory pulled away, smiling softly at him. “You did not sleep so long this time.”

  Andrew looked at him, eyes queerly blank.

  “Andrew?” Rory called, a chill misting his warm spirits.

  Etienne leaned closer. “Andrew, would you smile for us and ease our souls?” he asked, the lilt of a tease in his voice.

  Pushing himself up, still bearing a vacant, unsettling expression, Andrew sat back on his heels. He looked at Rory first, then Etienne, his eyes wide.

  “Andrew?” Rory could name this emptiness, had seen it before, but his heart shrank from the knowledge.

  Slowly shaking his head, Andrew opened his mouth. No sound came, but Rory could read the words as Andrew’s lips formed them.

  Who are you?

  Andrew grimaced, reaching up to touch his throat. His brow furrowed, grazing his fingers across a raised welt on his shoulder, still greasy from Laurent’s ointment. His breath hitched, his head lowered, and he looked upon his nakedness. The messy remains of his and Rory’s seed still clung to his skin. His neck flushed pink as he pulled the blanket up to his chest. When he looked back to Rory his eyes were filled with tears, his face the same hectic color as his neck and fraught with fear.

  All of Rory’s strength fled. He sagged back onto the bed, unable to speak without screaming.

  “Don’t be afraid, Andrew,” Etienne said, softly. His manner changed from incorrigible to fatherly for an instant. “We won’t harm you.”

  When he reached out it was a slow, careful movement that carried no threat, but Andrew retreated all the same. He flung himself back, falling against the bulwark and opening his mouth to cry out even though no sound would come. His face twisted with pain and the standing tears fell down his cheeks. Curling over his knees, he hugged himself, tightly, keeping the blankets close.

  “You’ve been injured, Andrew. We only want to help,” Etienne soothed. He gripped Rory’s knee, jerking his head towards the far corner when Rory turned to face him.

  “I can’t leave him,” Rory whispered. He felt sick; his heart hurt so much he thought it would spill from his lips as a pulpy mass.

  Etienne leaned closer to him to speak as softly as could be heard. “It will frighten him less if only one of us is near. Go, I’ll try to calm him.”

  Rory rose slowly, unbalanced and trembling. He lurched towards the table, leaning on the back of Ortega’s elaborately carved chair. He did not watch but he heard Etienne murmuring softly, the catches of Andrew’s breath. Placing both hands flat on the table before him, Rory took a deep breath, sat, and waited.

  A torrent of questions, of curses and oaths against fate and luck and the abominable unfairness of it all, raged in his mind. How is it, he thought, that he can know me twice and then forget me? How can he see me with the fullness of love one minute and not the next? Would Fate truly be so cruel as to return him to me and then remove the part of him I value most, right before my eyes? Leave him as a ghost to remind me of what I once had?

  He had stared at his hands for what seemed an eternity, when he felt a gentle grip on his shoulder.

  “He is composed, for now,” Etienne said, leaning over him. “I’ll bring Laurent to change his dressing and ask that Ortega not come, at least not now. Would you help him? He needs water, to drink and to clean himself, and I do not think he wants to be left alone.”

  Rory nodded, not trusting his own voice. He watched Etienne don his cloak and make his way to the door.

  Before leaving, the man spoke over his shoulder. “It will be all right. Just…move slowly, Rory.”

  Heeding his warning, Rory pushed away from the table, careful to keep his movements easy. He stood without looking towards the bed and fetched the silver pitcher of water left for them in the night. There was a cloth, as well, and he used it to wipe at his sticky eyes before draping it over his arm. Holding the pitcher before him, as if it were an offering, Rory made his way to where Andrew waited. He was pale and small, his knees drawn to his chest and the indigo bedclothes pulled to his chin as he huddled beneath them. The bright eyes that had glittered with love and passion now watched Rory with uncertainty. Lips that had been hungry and eager were now curved into a frown.

  Struggling to maintain a steady face and hand, Rory perched on the side of the bed and presented the pitcher. Andrew looked at it, then back up at him. “I don’t have a cup, just now. I’m sorry,” Rory told him, softly.

  Andrew tucked the blankets in around his knees; keeping covered from his shoulders down, and extended his hands. Their fingers brushed as the pitcher was passed and Andrew flinched, but did not tremble or withdraw. He mouthed Thank you, gave a small nod, and tipped the ewer to his lips.

  “Take small sips, your throat is still…” Rory stopped, the words awakening the memory of a boy, wounded and shy, nibbling on a slice of apple. He closed his eyes,
squeezed them tight and took a deep breath.

  There was a gentle touch to his wrist. His eyes opened to see fingers lying upon his flesh, then rose to find Andrew watching him with great sadness. Andrew tilted his head and smiled, just a little, before passing the pitcher back.

  Rory swallowed, clenching his teeth against the tears that threatened. He took the vessel and poured a little of the water onto the cloth he held. “Here…to wipe away the…ah…I’ll turn away,” he offered as the blush returned to Andrew’s cheeks.

  He returned the pitcher to its place, resting his hands on the washstand and bowing his head. There was a rustle of cloth, a small gasp, and then a timid knock. Inhaling deeply, Rory turned to face Andrew again. He was sitting at the edge of the bed, blankets bundled at his waist. The bandages were gone, unwound and circling his hands. His face was a jumble of emotions; pain, fear, uncertainty…but also trust. Rory blinked, clearing the moisture that clung to his lashes, fogging the edges of his vision.

  What happened to me? Andrew mouthed, eyes imploring, begging for truth.

  Not knowing what to say, how to explain the matter without unduly upsetting the man, Rory hesitated. He stared, frozen with indecision, turning over in his mind the why’s and how’s of Andrew’s injuries and finding no gentle way to disclose their source. He returned to the chair and dragged it closer, but not within reach. When he was seated, he opened his hands on his thighs, straightened his back, and spoke.

  “You were at the mercy of an evil man, a violent man. He hurt you for his pleasure.”

  Andrew shuddered, but he did not look away. How did I get there?

  “Is it important to you? That you know this?” Rory asked him, wishing only to spare them both the retelling of the story.

  Andrew nodded, slow and stiff.

  Huffing out a breath, Rory scrubbed his face with his hands. He replaced them, leaving them loose in his lap. “You surrendered yourself to him. You did this…for me. Because you believed I was dead and you wished to uphold a vow that you made to me. You did it to rid the world of the sickness that this man spread, and you succeeded.”