by Owens J. C.
Table of Contents
Cover
Table of Contents
Acclaim for J. C. Owens
Look for these titles from J. C. Owens
Title Page
Copyright Warning
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by J. C. Owens
More M/M Romance from Etopia Press
~ Acclaim for J. C. Owens ~
Praise for Taken
“Taken was my surprise hit of the year. ...[A] rollercoaster ride of awesome. Landon and Kirith are like molten hot lava thrown on your skin. Yes people, it burns so good.”
—Darien Moya for Pants Off Reviews
Look for these titles from J. C. Owens
Now Available
Taken
Wings 2: Dominion of the Eth
Wishes
Out of the Darkness
The Ice Prince
Betrayal
Tarsus
The Falling
Soulseeker
Also as J. C. McGuire (M/F)
The Ascension (Book One)
The Gloaming (Book Two)
The Conquered (Book Three)
The Triumph (Book Four)
In Print
Taken
Wings 2: Dominion of the Eth
Wishes
Out of the Darkness
Soulseeker
J. C. Owens
Etopia Press
Copyright Warning
EBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Published By
Etopia Press
1643 Warwick Ave., #124
Warwick, RI 02889
http://www.etopiapress.com
Soulseeker
Copyright © 2016 by J. C. Owens
ISBN: 978-1-944138-54-7
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Etopia Press electronic publication: August 2016
CHAPTER ONE
The swift hoofbeats faltered.
Rian’s breath caught, his legs tightening, gathering the horse beneath him with encouraging words and gentle hands upon the reins.
The mare was almost done, her noble spirit spent with exhaustion.
Rian murmured to her, eyes fixed upon the goal ahead.
The river. Once over that, they would be free, in another country. Safe.
He would not have to endure his brother’s plans, would not have to sire another son to ensure their bloodline continued.
He could only pray that Carain had managed to smuggle the children out…
Just a few strides more.
The whistle of the arrow sounded like a death knell in Rian’s thoughts. It could only be Arran’s doing, no one else could possibly believe that a shot from that far would find its target.
The mare screamed and threw her head up, eyes wild and white. Her forelegs crumpled beneath her and they somersaulted, Rian flung hard, the mare’s haunches brushing by him in flight. He landed awkwardly, his usual grace undone by weariness. The unforgiving desert did nothing to cushion him. The sensation of his shoulder dislocating made him cry out in swift agony, before he gritted his teeth, hugging the injured limb to his chest as he fought to his knees.
Damned if he would lie there like a beaten dog.
A sea of horses and riders surrounded him now, the hooves trampling perilously close to Rian’s crumpled figure. The mare thrashed on the sands, pitiful sounds of pain rising in the hot air, until a rider dismounted, a swift blade to the throat ending her agony.
Rian blinked back the grief that wanted to overwhelm him and whispered a fervent prayer under his breath, wishing her soul swift and safe journey. She was free.
Unlike him.
He stared at the sand before him, watching a small eddy of wind swirl it round, grain over grain. So beautiful…
The desert was his home, if never his sanctuary.
He watched blearily as someone dismounted right in front of him, the finely tooled boots banishing all doubt as to identity.
The end of a whip eased beneath Rian’s chin, and he did not resist its silent command.
He looked up into cold, gray eyes the mirror of his own. He searched for a hint of softness in their depths, the slightest tinge of mercy, but as so often, there was none. Thin lips curved into a false smile belying the cold rage that made those eyes resemble ice itself.
“Rian—did you truly believe this would work? That you would escape? You disappoint me in your foolishness. I give you everything and this is how you repay me.”
Rian did not reply. He only stared into the other man’s eyes, his heart pounding hard beneath the heavy weight of his failure to escape.
The man’s false smile widened. “I am almost tempted to remove you from your position as general, but it would disturb the army too much. A royal second son must lead the troops. As it is, your disappearance has been smoothed over. They will know nothing of your actions. But I will see to it that you are never alone again, never without guards surrounding you.” The whip traced down his neck and stroked across his torn shirt, following the line of his collarbone with exquisite tenderness.
“Rise.”
Rian tried to make it to his feet but staggered, realizing he must have struck his head as a blinding headache began to take his senses.
Hard arms caught him and swept him up. A gentle kiss was laid upon his temple, and he accepted it with resignation, his eyes closing as he let darkness begin to take his bruised and exhausted body and mind.
“Don’t worry. I have you, my beautiful brother, my Rian.”
* * *
He woke fitfully during the journey back, vaguely aware of liquid sliding down his throat, of the blessed darkness it brought. He did not fight, did not protest the drugs that took his senses. It was a blessing.
He did not wish to know, did not want to be conscious to witness his own humiliation as Arran brought him back like a misbehaving child. Arran’s people knew what Rian was, had witnessed too much to ever respect him.
When at last he woke fully, he was back in his bed at the palace, familiar and horrifying. He had hoped that Arran would deliver him back to the army encampment, but it seemed his transgression was not going to be overlooked to that degree.
His shoulder twinged sharply and he sucked in a breath, realizing his arm was bound to his chest. Obviously the dislocation had been tended to. Arran’s own personal physician no doubt, the one that saw to all Rian’s “i
njuries.”
He shuddered, the fingers of his left hand clenching upon the pristinely white sheets. Arran would make sure he paid for the insult to his honor.
Weak tears rose to the surface for a fleeting moment, before he blinked them away, irritated at his own foolishness. Since when had tears availed him anything at all? He rolled to his good side and stared out the window, fighting to control the surging emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.
The sound of the door opening took his attention, and his whole body went rigid as he fought the fear that always arose at the sound of those familiar footsteps.
He felt the thick, soft mattress give under the weight of another, and it took all of his control not to flinch as fingertips gently traced his injured shoulder.
“The physician said you can rise, as long as you keep the arm in the sling. Come, I have ordered breakfast and you must eat.”
Rian obeyed, not fighting the strong arm that helped him to sit up against the ornate headboard.
Long fingers gently caressed his jaw, then curled under his chin to raise his face.
Soft lips met his and he did not jerk away. There was no point, no way to escape all that was and would be.
For the first time, there was no hope at all.
Arran drew back, those icy eyes searched his, and a small smile curved his brother’s lips at something he saw.
“At last,” he murmured, one hand rising to brush back Rian’s long, black hair, toying with the lock of silver that proclaimed his royal bloodline. “You have brought us much grief, brother, with your inability to accept. Perhaps now you will settle, see what was always meant to happen. The children are safe, with me. They have never known you are their father, Rian. You know that. They are mine, as you are mine.”
Rian could not answer, dread descending upon him, horrific memories of Captain Perosh’s long-ago death suddenly foremost in his thoughts. That kind man had died for him, trying to save him. He could not bear another death on his conscience.
“What did you do to Carain? Please, don’t hurt him. He was doing it for me…” Rian hated the tremor in his tone.
Arran tilted his head, a smile curving his lips.
“Hurt him? I did nothing of the sort. I rewarded him, brother, because he was the one to give me the warning of what you planned. As he should. He is one of my men, after all.”
Rian stared, speechless with the shock and betrayal he felt.
Carain had been Rian’s guard, had begged to help him, begged to be the one to free him from Arran’s iron grip and cruelties. Now, it seemed so obvious that the plan he proposed had been nothing but a trap, but at the time, it had brought much needed hope. He had fallen into it so easily.
Instead, that so-called friend had merely been one of Arran’s many spies.
Rian just met that triumphant gaze with blank resignation, unable to raise even the smallest amount of his former fire.
Arran kissed him again, long and lingering, humming under his breath as he drew back at last, licking at his lips as though to savor Rian’s taste. He drew back at the knock on the door, rising to his feet as he bid the servants to enter.
Rian’s eyes dropped to the sheets that he held close against him, trying to shield his naked body from the curious stares of those in the room.
The soft closing of the door as the servants finished and left made him jerk ever so slightly, but he stilled as Arran took his hand and tugged at the sheet.
Rian’s fingers refused to let go for long moments, until Arran’s faint growl warned him. Shivering, he released the fragile barrier, reluctantly letting his brother pull him to his feet. He swayed unsteadily for a moment, acutely feeling the eyes that hungrily assessed his naked form.
A warm arm braced him, led him slowly and carefully to the small round table. Once there, the smell of food rose to tease his nostrils, and he sat abruptly in the chair his brother drew out for him.
Arran pushed it back close to the table with careful concern, seating himself across from Rian when he had fussed to his satisfaction.
Rian stared blindly at the food before him, wishing that he felt the compulsion to eat. For too long he had found it difficult to find an appetite and it showed. His muscle had deteriorated, his strength sometimes failed him.
He picked at the delicately prepared meats, finally bringing a small sliver to his lips. It was hard to choke it down, but he managed, before reaching for a second.
He could feel the heated eyes, the preparation for his disobedience, his curses and desire to fight, but there was none of that now, not the faintest desire to combat his fate.
That brief thought danced along the edges of his consciousness and some part of him mourned, the rest could not care.
He was tamed at last to his brother’s will.
It was almost a relief. There was nothing he needed to do but obey. There was no need for plans or struggle. There was no more battle of wills. His only role was to do as his king, his brother, wished.
The silence lengthened, stretched taut, but he ignored it, lost in himself. He knew exactly how much food he would have to eat in order to please Arran and worked at it with a patience foreign to his very nature.
His old nature. This new being knew its limits, knew what to do to avoid further punishments.
The fruit went down with more ease, and he listened to the sounds behind him that echoed through the open window leading to the balcony. His room was on the highest level, his right as a prince of the blood, but he knew it was much more than that. It meant that escape was harder and that his brother had full access to him at all hours. Their suites of rooms were beside each other and allowed Arran to come and go as he pleased without witnesses.
Rian closed his eyes tightly for a long moment, pushing away old fears and memories. He could hear voices outside, below. Guards and those with business within the ornate palace went about their daily regime with such ease, such freedom as he would never know.
He envied them their simple lives, free of royal blood, free of madness.
The long, filmy curtains brushed over the mosaic floor, a soft sighing sound that seemed loud in the silence holding the room in thrall.
There was life beyond them, people, and yet here there was a cloying scent to the room, a hint of darkness and pain that lingered like a miasma about the two of them. Rian often felt it was physical, plain for anyone to see, to feel, but perhaps that was his own madness at work, fooling his senses.
His bloodline seemed rife with madmen and now, sunk within his tortured mind, he was one of them.
The last grape passed his lips and he pushed the plate away, just wanting this to be over. The food had given him a little more strength, he could admit that. It was best to let Arran release his fury rather than let it grow to the point that it would embroil others, spread the darkness beyond this room.
He rose to his feet and met his brother’s eyes with insular calm before turning and unsteadily making his way across the room to where an ornate lattice decorated the wall.
Here he knelt, spreading his left arm to touch the post where a cuff lay dangling in wait.
The wood before him, white and pure from a distance, held stains and marks this close, and he fixed his attention upon the blemishes, trying not to remember each occurrence, each horror that had marked them so.
He took a deep breath and prepared himself for what was to come.
Arran took his time, the wait a punishment of its own, before Rian heard the rustle of clothing as he began to undress. He was able to pick out the soft tread of bare feet across the ornate carpet, the snick of the doors of the large cabinet.
Rian’s breathing picked up a small degree and he began to sweat. It would be more difficult this time without the balance of both arms being restrained. He would have to brace himself against the wood itself. The small distraction of novelty made him lose track of Arran’s movements and he flinched violently as long fingers traced down over his back, sliding in the sweat.
He closed his eyes, drew strength into himself, closing out everything else, all thought, all emotion. He had had years to develop the technique.
The touch disappeared, then his left wrist was taken, metal closing with a metallic rasp that scraped his nerves. He fought back the despair that sound always induced in him and let his body move forward so that his injured shoulder braced against the lattice in preparation.
The leather braid of the whip smoothed over his good shoulder and down across his back, tracing ever downward until it slipped between his buttocks, rubbing over his entrance in promise.
He did not struggle nor speak, simply waited.
The intimate touch was withdrawn and the whisper of leather uncoiling was his cue.
The first strike was almost gentle, the sting it left in its wake bearable. It grounded him, and he squared his body.
There was a pause. This was where he usually began to hopelessly fight, but today there was nothing of that.
It began.
He twisted against the lattice as the blows rained down, the agony of the kiss of the whip making his senses swim dangerously. He was not strong enough for this in either body or mind.
His thoughts fled his body, trying to escape the relentless pain, the knowledge that he had given in at last, a torment as great as the burning, bleeding stripes that crisscrossed his back, overlaying old scars with new wounds.
Rian’s senses swam, but he held onto consciousness grimly. If he passed out, the torture would only be postponed, not avoided. He had been taught that all too well. The protection that lay beyond the bounds of reality would be denied him. Arran knew full well what could emerge from the other side, given half a chance. Therefore, his brother had become skilled at taking him to the edge but never past.
The pain of his shoulder as he pressed desperately against the wood was almost welcome. It at least was pure and simple. He was silent, as he always was, and he cursed his inability to scream. It would have appeased his tormenter.