All this was with a simple goal in mind: to have enough energy to survive his heat.
He knew now that what the doctor said was true—his only way out was breaking the bond. Not even the staff were on his side, for they must have noticed the lack of touch between Lord Ledford and himself, and only a fool would not connect this to his diminished state. Although Milan was perhaps being too harsh. What could the staff do, after all, against a lord?
Despite how little Milan saw of Lord Raphael, his presence was everywhere. It was inside Milan, a heavy cloud blocking all sunlight, leaving the earth barren below. At dinner, Raphael would look at him intensely, and would even mock him by suggesting they ask for Dr. Fitch to look at him again, forcing the doctor’s remedies on Milan, even supervising them. On days on which Milan could hardly eat, Lord Raphael would admonish him. If Milan had enough energy, he would have lashed back. As it was, Milan knew it was not worth the trouble.
It was haunting, to live with the man that was killing you slowly. At times, Milan thought that he must be bonded to two different people—the one ruthless enough to torture Milan, and the one everyone else saw. The ‘good man’.
Even Milan, sometimes, could see that man. One afternoon, on his walk around the grounds, he found himself pausing as he saw his husband crouching in front of a plant, which one of the gardeners had told Milan was having difficulty growing. Lord Raphael was gloveless, touching the plant gently, a careful stroke of his fingertips across a leaf.
It was an otherworldly horror, to see someone who was making him suffer so completely handle the bud of a plant with such care. Adding salt to the wound, Raphael flinched the moment he spotted Milan, hurriedly putting his gloves on as he stood up.
Milan simply walked away. He hadn’t known that hopelessness could make your heart race.
The best part of Milan’s day was his bath. He had given in and let Melissa help him wash, and he would lean back in the tub, telling her stories about his land. The colourful bunting that hung in the centres of towns all year round, as if they were always celebrating something. The way windows were left wide open to let in the breeze, fragments of song and conversation drifting out. How the bars and eateries spilt outside under the sun or the clear night sky. How there were markets not only for fresh food but prepared dishes too, held at night, lights strung between stands like stars.
He told her about his family. About how loving they were, how fierce. Every day he missed them more. It was at these times that his hope dwindled, for his greatest fear, more than dying, was never seeing them again.
CHAPTER TEN
It was during dinner that Lord Raphael finally broke the news.
“I will be leaving the day after tomorrow. The trip will take no less than two weeks. Your…I believe your heat…”
“Is next week,” Milan said dully.
“Yes. Well…”
“I understand what you’re saying.” Milan moved the food around with his fork. He had of course been expecting some excuse for Lord Raphael not to help him through his heat, but finally hearing it sent a chill through his spine.
Milan took the opportunity to simply watch Lord Raphael. He had some scruff on his square chin, his dark hair a little dishevelled. His eyes, as beautiful as they were, were glaring at his own plate, shoulders unnaturally stiff. He seemed uncomfortable even eating near Milan.
What a burden it must be to sit beside the person you are killing. Milan set down his fork abruptly, standing up from his chair, barely swaying.
“I think I shall retire,” he declared.
Raphael frowned up at him. “You’ve barely eaten.”
Milan snarled, finally letting the anger through. “And what do you care if I eat or not?”
He didn’t wait for a response, striding out with the little dignity he had intact.
**********
Milan was used to expecting his heat with a mixture of dread and excitement, but the fear that took over him when the first symptoms crawled up his spine was unnatural. They called it ‘heat’ for a reason—Milan could feel his body shake as if with some internal friction, even as his skin began to sweat. No matter how much he drank—and he managed little, with his roiling stomach—his mouth remained parched. The slick that dripped between his legs made a strange shame wash over him.
He had never felt that way about his physiology before.
It was terrifyingly clear from almost the start that Milan’s body was not prepared for the exertion of what was about to happen. Arousal was pain, and completion brought with it far more exhaustion than relief. Even as his body became chaos, his mind splintered into madness. He did not know what was around him, what he was saying, what his hands were doing.
There was delirium, and sorrow, and begging, and in between all that there was one single moment of clarity.
I’m not going to win.
*****
Milan woke, and woke, and woke. There were voices, people, smells. They were burning him alive. They were killing him. Every thought he had was to wish for it to end—he begged for it, moaned for it. Nothing could ever feel worse than this. It was not just his body that was on fire, but his soul. Milan could feel himself writhe in the fire, screaming for something—for death, for respite. He hoped for darkness that didn’t bring with it a blinding light.
And then, even in dreams, it stopped. His body, his mind, they fluttered to the ground like leaves. A final resting place, perhaps—but not even that was to be.
Milan opened his eyes. The crust at their edges made it hard to blink. He tried to focus on the ceiling above him.
A bed. Sheets, cooled sweat, a familiar smell.
He was alive.
A sob escaped him even as his thoughts struggled to comprehend. How? How, after all that suffering, could there be peace?
He looked around and there, an omen of death—Lord Raphael. He sat, looking bedraggled and exhausted, by Milan’s bed. A phantom, surely, but when Milan deciphered one burning from another, he realised that Raphael’s hand—his bare hand—rested on top his own.
With the only drop of energy he had in his body, Milan yanked himself away. Instantaneously, roiling nausea made his stomach clench, his chest heave, which only abated when the foreign hand grasped his again. The touch was like warmth after too much cold—the chewing of a hundred ants from the inside out, doing good even as it tortured.
“You must let him touch you, Lord Milan.”
Milan whipped his head around to stare at the strange woman standing on the other side of the bed. Portly, with round cheeks and a plain dress, she was looking down at him kindly.
“Who are you?” Milan rasped.
“I am Dr. Kensington. Here, let me prop you up for a second. Drink this.”
Milan did as he was told, accepting the offered cup of water as he ignored the hand still clasped in his. He collapsed back onto the bed when he had finished, his whole body aching at the movement.
Milan blinked at the doctor. “What…am I…?”
“You’re going to be fine, Lord Milan. You gave us all a little bit of a scare, but you’re lucky that Lord Ledford got here in time after his staff alerted him about your condition.”
With absolutely no control over himself, Milan suddenly began crying. Great, gulping sobs that made his body scream out in pain.
He understood perfectly what was happening. The bond was not broken. He was not free. Instead, Lord Raphael had waited until Milan was at the brink of death only to swoop in, the saviour, to pull him back. Milan could foresee his plan—Lord Raphael would do it again, and again, and again, until either Milan’s body or his mind gave in.
“Please,” Milan choked out. “Please, he’s killing me. He’s killing me.”
Milan tried to pull his hand away again, and again found resistance. He turned to look at Lord Raphael, knowing what he would find: disdain, contempt, or perhaps anger that Milan was attempting to reveal his plans.
The reality, however, was quite different. Inst
ead of the coldness Milan expected, Lord Raphael’s face was cracked open with grief. He looked stricken, as if Milan’s words had truly struck him somewhere that hurt.
Milan shook uncontrollably at how good an actor his husband could be.
“Lord Milan, I know this is very difficult, but please try to take some breaths. Your body has gone through quite the ordeal. I know you must think that Lord Ledford was the culprit of this, but in fact, it was the bond between you. When neglected—”
“I know what this is,” Milan hissed through his tears. “A neglected bond, as I told the useless Dr. Fitch.”
Dr. Kensington looked shocked, but it was Lord Raphael that spoke first.
“You knew what was happening? Why…why did you not say something? It was killing you!”
Milan looked at him with hateful incredulity. “Do not pretend now, dear husband, that you did not know! The gloves—I begged you to let me touch you! I begged—just once a day, just once. How dare you sit there and pretend—how dare you?”
Milan started struggling again. He did not care about the pain or suffering. All he wanted was his skin never to touch Lord Raphael’s again.
But, of course, it only took Milan wanting this for Lord Raphael to refuse him, holding on tight.
“Lord Milan! Please, you are hurting yourself!”
Milan did not care. Even his fatigue couldn’t stop his thrashing, and it took both Lord Raphael and Dr. Kensington quite a few minutes to calm him down. In the end, it was a hopeless collapsing of his spirit that made Milan lay limp on the bed, tears blinding his vision.
“Lord Milan, please listen to us. What you are saying, about the neglected bond is completely correct. The problem is, Lord Raphael wasn’t aware of the consequences.”
Milan shook his head, breath hitching. He lay the arm not held prisoner by Lord Raphael over his eyes.
“Go away,” Milan begged.
“Lord Milan. Please—I have been to the South, and I understand your confusion—your beliefs. Your homeland is much more open about these matters, but in this part of the continent, matters of Omega physiology are…well, I know it will sound absurd, but they are not talked about. The effects of a neglected bond are simply not common knowledge. In fact, I was treating a pregnant teenage Omega who hadn’t even known that they could get pregnant outside of a heat.”
Milan lowered his arm, turning his head to look at Dr. Kensington, who was kneeling beside his bed. It was the rather undignified position, more than anything, that stopped him from simply protesting the veracity of her words.
“That makes no sense,” Milan whispered wetly. “The gloves…why not touch me, even once a day, if he didn’t know? He was neglecting the bond on purpose, even if he did not know the effects. Why?”
“That, I cannot tell you. What I do know is that Lord Ledford did not know about the effects of a neglected bond. His panic over your well-being and how distraught he was when he learnt the cause of your illness cannot be faked. Even if it could—I went to school with your husband. I’ve seen him in plays and, let me tell you, he has no talent for the theatre.”
Milan closed his eyes, shaking his head again. None of what she was saying made sense. It just didn’t.
“How about this?” Dr. Kensington said. “The only thing I can prescribe to improve your condition is regular, physical contact between Lord Ledford and you.”
Milan felt another sob rip through him. “I don’t want to touch him. I don’t want to touch him.…”
“I understand. Truly, Lord Milan, I do. But this is only for your well-being. Once the bond is stabilised, little further touch will be needed. I know you are afraid this will repeat, but to ensure your health and safety, I will come to visit you—or you can visit me if you do not feel comfortable here—at least every month to ensure you are well. I will leave my address with you, and you can contact me any time, night or day. I will also contact the police and tell them that any messages sent to them by you should be taken urgently, and that they should arrive at once, and call me too. How does that sound, Lord Milan?”
Milan took a shaky breath. He felt his brain, a wet, dripping sponge, could take no more. He knew, however, that what Dr. Kensington was saying was the only way to ensure his safety. Even if Lord Ledford tried to kill him by other means, he would be the prime suspect.
“Fine.”
“All right. I will stay for a while longer, but you need to rest, and not pull away from Lord Ledford, or your recuperation will only take longer.”
“I understand.”
“All right. Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“That’s all right, it’s normal for an Omega to not eat a lot during their heat. However, I will send up a hot broth soon—you need to recover your energy.”
“Fine.”
“Right. Well. Is there anything else I can do for you, Lord Milan?”
“No. Thank you, Dr. Kensington,” Milan responded dully.
“That’s quite all right. Remember—you can contact me at any time. I will be back in a few days, and then we can have our monthly appointments.”
“Thank you.”
“Lord Ledford. I do believe we understand each other.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Rest, both of you. I will see you soon.”
With that, it was just Milan and Lord Raphael, alone again. Milan curled away from him, one arm twisted awkwardly back as it was gripped by Lord Raphael. Milan didn’t care. Not even his fear that Lord Raphael would get into the bed with him could keep him awake for a second longer.
**********
Fortunately, awareness mostly eluded Milan in the following two days. All he knew was eating and drinking and relieving himself. And, of course, Lord Raphael and his unwanted touch. Without even meaning to, Milan would find himself trying to pull away from his husband’s hand, but it rarely worked. Even when it did, Lord Raphael slumped and sleeping in his chair, Milan would have to seek his skin again—another betrayal of his body.
There was a point where he was awake but deaf and dumb, worrying those around him. Finally, Lord Raphael deemed to speak to him, demanding, “Say something. Please.”
Milan looked at him through bleary eyes. “I never knew I could be as unhappy as I am with you.”
Milan saw Lord Raphael’s face, stunned as if he had been shot right through the chest, before sleep dragged him down again.
Finally, the world around him solidified. Light streamed through the open curtains. The sky was blue outside, an irony.
Lord Raphael remained in the chair, a rough beard on his jaw, looking unwashed and exhausted even in sleep. Milan could smell him from the bed, although a similar scent was probably coming from him, too.
Milan watched him for a while, numb. He did not know what to make of Dr. Kensington’s assurances. In a strange way, it made sense. Lord Raphael’s inconsistent behaviour, the reputation he seemed to hold, so at odds with how he treated Milan. But mere ignorance did not explain everything.
If Lord Raphael had not been trying to kill him, or at least make Milan malleable by wasting him away, then why the gloves? Why the insistence in never touching?
Milan was lost in thought when Lord Raphael stirred awake. Milan twitched, fear jolting through him, but he made sure not to let it show. All was unsure now, and he couldn’t give Lord Raphael any more power.
As soon as Lord Raphael saw Milan looking back, he jolted upright. “You’re awake,” he said, sounding surprised. “Do you want some water?”
Milan nodded, propping himself up to accept the glass with a shaking hand. He felt awful, but still much better than the day after his heat.
“I…I think I have much explaining to do,” Lord Raphael said softly once Milan had handed the glass back.
Milan ignored him. “May I wash?”
“Yes! Yes, of course. Let me ring the bell. They’ll prepare a bath for you.”
“For you, too. I’m sure we can stay apart for a few minutes.”<
br />
“All right.”
As much of a relief as cleaning away the sweat of sickness and remnants of slick was, the activity was excruciating. Milan felt nothing but bitterness at how good it felt to have Lord Raphael’s hand in his again. His skin was soft and warm from the bath, his hold tight and sure.
It was enraging.
“Here—they have changed your sheets. We’ll go back to—”
“No. I cannot stay in that bed anymore. Let’s go to the library. Please.”
“Are you sure? The walk—”
“It’ll be fine.”
Lord Raphael didn’t look happy about it, but he acquiesced. The walk to the library was slow but manageable with Lord Raphael by Milan’s side. It was still a reprieve to finally collapse onto one of the couches, Lord Raphael sitting much more carefully beside him.
It dawned on Milan that, apart from journeys in the crawler, his husband and he had never sat side-by-side before. He would have laughed at the thought if it hadn’t been so depressing.
Milan turned his head to look at him. “What is your plot, then? To extend my suffering? To play with your food? You can speak frankly now that the doctor isn’t here.” Milan did not know why Lord Raphael looked so devastated at his words. Milan felt nothing at all.
“Milan. I cannot tell you how sorry I am that…I do not know how you could ever believe me, but I did not know that your sickness was due to the bond. That it was due to me.”
“Tell me your side of the story, then, if you have one, because I cannot fathom why you would so object to a simple touch of hands each night if it wasn’t to harm me. Whatever you say, you knew the bond was suffering. You wanted it that way.”
“Yes. I wanted it that way,” Lord Raphael confessed. Milan sat up. He hadn’t expected that.
Honeythorn: Alpha/Omega Page 10