Taste the Dark

by Tibby Armstrong

  Lyandros turned away. “It was less painful that way.”

  Akito supposed he could imagine that it might have been. If he’d had the means, he might have already been spying on Nyx and Benjamin, if only to feel close to them. He’d always been the observer, and being separated from his friends emotionally and then physically after his time with the Morgan had been hell. He longed to be part of their world again, even if they didn’t know it. Walking to the partially opened wardrobe, Akito viewed ruined shirts and a pile of leather pants. He reached out to touch the clothing, but though his hand rested on the water-stained fabric he couldn’t feel its luxurious weave. His slight, concentrated push set the garments swaying minutely. Enough so he knew with time he might be able to affect corporeal objects. How strange and eerily beautiful, these trappings of a life abruptly ended.

  He tore his gaze from the wardrobe to find the vampire regarding him. “How did you die?”

  Arms crossed over his chest, back leaned against the closest bedpost, Lyandros scowled back at him. “That is a tad personal.”

  “Not really. You know what happened to me.”

  Lyandros pushed away from the bedpost. “I only know you jumped, not why.”

  Avoiding, for the moment, the subject of either of their demises, Akito wandered into an adjoining room. Leather-padded floors and a large punching bag told a story of a man who enjoyed exercise. Other, more exotic furniture, said he’d also engaged in more sensual physical pursuits.

  Running his hands above a padded bench, Akito imagined himself strapped to it, belly down, receiving pleasure or punishment at the Justice Giver’s whim. He shook his head, clearing it of the vision. He dug for the disgust he knew he should feel, but where memories of the Morgan made his insides twist with fear and loathing, the idea of Lyandros trailing his hands and implements over Akito’s body made him thrum with a different kind of tension.

  “Fuck.” A strangled inhale followed the muttered curse.

  Had the Morgan somehow twisted his mind? Was kink now hardwired into his sexual makeup? He should not be interested, physically or mentally in this shit and, yet, the evidence was right there. In his trousers. Licking his lips, he turned to find the vampire regarding him, posture indolent as he leaned one shoulder casually against the door jamb.

  “You’re into this stuff, a lot, huh?” Akito dared.

  Lyandros glanced downward. “Apparently, so are you.”

  “N-no. Not really.” Akito attempted to step around the vampire, but an arm blocked his way.

  “Do not lie to me, Akito. Ever.” The admonishment was both a threat and a promise.

  “I’m not,” Akito whispered, aware of every hair at his nape.

  Tension crackled, promising a storm of epic proportions. Rather than unleashing its fury, however, the Justice Giver let it linger, heavy and thick as he dipped his head to nuzzle Akito’s ear. Akito whimpered.

  Lyandros breathed deep. “You smell of lies and deceit. Do you know what that does to me?”

  Akito shook his head, the movement minute.

  “It sets up a need in me—a need to pull the truth from you. Inch by inch.” Lyandros’s lips were so close now, each word shaping itself against the shell of Akito’s ear. “Exposing the marrow of your being until naked honesty is all you have left to give.”

  Without thought, Akito brought up one hand, curling it against Lyandros’s nape. A little tug bent the vampire closer, and Akito’s hip notched against the hard ridge of Lyandros’s arousal.

  “You wondered how I used intimacy as Justice Giver?” A hand trailed down Akito’s chest, searching for buttons. “I find sex leaves a man unable to lie. It’s a useful tool. Nearly always the most direct path to the truth. Punishment—” The p puffed against Akito’s throat, hitting his carotid. “Well, that’s for dessert.”

  Akito arched, unable to find the line dividing fear from desire. Lyandros, taking up the implicit invitation, slid one hand from Akito’s chest to his hip before sliding around to his groin. He cupped Akito with an insistence that took Akito’s breath away.

  “Don’t hurt me,” Akito whispered, wanting and needing the vampire’s touch, but unable to believe that it might bring anything but some new horror of which he’d until now been blissfully unaware.

  “I do not require pain to unburden you of the truth,” Lyandros murmured.

  The deft tug at Akito’s zipper, a sharp susurration, freed him from his trousers, and his knees went weak. Only the band of Lyandros’s opposite arm around his middle held him up when he sagged. The other hand, the vampire used to stroke him from tip to root, thumbing the button of flesh under the head of Akito’s cock with maddening slowness. A kiss to his throat and murmured words of approval when Akito thrust forward into Lyandros’s hand undid him.

  “That’s right, warrior. Give yourself to me.”

  The stroking continued. Soft, caring, and without an ounce of malice. Akito forgot every dark moment in the Morgan’s attic. Behind his closed lids, pain and fear, anger and hopelessness, spiraled away and were replaced with Lyandros’s rhythmic strokes. “Please…”

  “Tell me what you want.”

  Akito shook his head, attempting to rattle the Morgan free from his thoughts when the memories threatened to claw back to the surface. “Make me forget.”

  “Forget what?”

  A steady slap of flesh against flesh hypnotized him with its cadence. He jerked forward, on the edge of orgasm. Lyandros slowed, denying him release. Akito keened his frustration. “The Morgan. My fuckups.”

  “What about the Morgan? Tell me, and I will let you come.”

  “He can’t hurt Nyx…or Ben,” Akito panted, his head lolling back to expose his throat. “If I’m with you—if I’m dead—they’re safe.”

  “Good.” A kiss brushed against his temple, and fingers tightened around his shaft with an almost imperceptible increase in pressure. “Now, tell me how you know this man Benjamin.”

  At the mention of Benjamin, Akito went from ragdoll to raging bull, twisting out of Lyandros’s grasp. “What the fuck?”

  A flush stained Lyandros’s cheeks, brightening his eyes. Fangs lengthened, he appeared anything but the detached inquisitor he’d claimed to be. “Have I satisfied your curiosity about my methods?”

  The interrogation struck Akito as more diabolical than anything the Morgan had ever done. At least the coven leader hadn’t pretended to care about him. He’d been quite deliberate in his tortures, using pleasure only in so far as it might lead to greater pain.

  “You’re a sick fuck, you know that?” Akito spat, hurriedly tucking himself away.

  Lyandros drew himself upward. His eyes sparked blue fury, a hot flame that grew white around the edges. “Careful, warrior.”

  Akito rummaged through his emotions and came up only with a whole lot of fury. He got in Lyandros’s face. “You don’t like hearing the truth when it applies to you?”

  A growl built from somewhere in Lyandros’s chest, seeming to rumble the ground under Akito’s feet. White fangs flashed, feral with promise of retribution. Lyandros’s lip curled.

  Akito found he preferred this barely leashed control to the Justice Giver’s cold deliberation. “You want the truth, vampire? Well, screw you.”

  The fact that Akito found his face pressed into the wall didn’t come as a huge surprise. What did, was the speed with which the deed had been accomplished.

  “Don’t hurt you, you said?” Lyandros whispered into Akito’s ear, jerking his arm upward at a painful angle.

  Akito whimpered, whether from the sickly-sweet surge of pleasure in his middle or the pain in his arm, he wasn’t sure. Breaths sawed from him to form a ragged symphony that mimicked life.

  “Brace yourself, warrior, because you have no clemency coming. No pity, and no mercy. Not from me. I will have your truth, and it will be no gentle unraveling.” Lyandros nuzzled him, nipping sharp fangs at tender points along Akito’s neck. “You will start by telling me who this Benjami
n is and why you jumped from the bridge. Then we will see if I care to let you beg for your release.”

  Akito closed his eyes, almost welcoming the familiarity of the anger directed at him. This he understood. Pain and hatred were old friends. The Morgan had introduced him to self-loathing and forced him to shake hands with despair. The two emotions bowed to each other now, a prelude to the minuet they would dance during his torture. He only hoped, when Lyandros was finished, that there would be enough pieces of himself to put back together again.

  Chapter 9

  Anger coursed through Lyandros, melting the pathway to common sense. He leaned into the line of Akito’s back, his hand encircling the warrior’s wrist. One swift kick to the inside of his adversary’s right ankle slid Akito’s legs wide. Lyandros settled the bulk of his erection along the cleft of Akito’s ass and pressed.

  “Toying with me is not wise.” A voice he didn’t recognize—his voice—coated in darkness, walked a chill up his spine.

  Though Akito shuddered too, he didn’t capitulate. “Let me go.”

  Needing to see the warrior’s face—to read the derisive expression that no doubt lingered there, Lyandros slid his free hand under Akito’s smooth jaw and forced his head back. “Look at me.”

  Wide eyes, their whites a desolate landscape, stared back at him. Pooled tears reflected a shimmering and otherworldly light. Akito inhaled deep, nostrils flaring, and feigned a strength of will he obviously didn’t feel. No matter what the man said, he was nearly frozen with terror.

  “Do you yield?” Lyandros asked, attempting and failing at a renewal of his flinty resolve.

  Akito’s jaw clenched, its bunched muscles leaping under Lyandros’s palm. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  Searching for the warrior, Lyandros found instead the countenance of a young man, alone and afraid, the lingering echo of some deep trauma just below the surface. The interlude that had begun as a playful interrogation and a display of sensual prowess on Lyandros’s part, ended on the bitter edge of regret. Since when had he become a monster?

  Lyandros stepped back, releasing Akito. The warrior stumbled and righted himself. Removing himself several paces, Lyandros rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. What was wrong with him? He had never behaved so reprehensibly. Even with a tribute who had deserved rough handling, he’d stayed within the bounds of sanity, his actions perfunctory and controlled—ensuring that he did not punish a man beyond what was reasonable and reparable. Never, ever, had he resorted to vicious threats.

  His tributes were pleasured when they deserved it. They submitted, as part of their sentence, to a regimen that included many kinds of service. The sex, however, only came when all parties were agreeable. If a man submitted to him in that way, it was always and only of his own free will. Other methods of chastisement were available to Lyandros, and he had made use of them often enough. It was customary and right—expected even. What he’d nearly done to Akito—no, what he had done—this shamed him to his core.

  “I apologize.” The words rasped past the almost-palpable dryness in Lyandros’s throat. “It has been a long time. Finding the mora this way, it…” He shook his head, emphatic. “No, there is no excuse to be made.”

  When Akito turned, there was no sign of terror’s telltale rictus in his expression. “I goaded you.”

  “Do not dare apologize to me for this.” Lyandros waved, as if to dismiss his own brittle tone. “It has been an upsetting day, and decades since I’ve had the pleasure of…of touch. That is my only excuse, and a poor one at that. Please forgive me.”

  Akito licked his lips, dropped his gaze, and looked up through dark lashes. “I didn’t mind all of it.”

  The whispered admission acted as a punch to Lyandros’s flagging arousal, and he nearly groaned. “If you seek to distract me from the story of your friends and your past, you are doing a very good job.”

  A smile played about Akito’s lips, drawing the corners into half-moons that Lyandros desperately wanted to lick and kiss into submission. “I’m not doing it on purpose.”

  Somehow, Lyandros doubted that but, for the moment, he found he didn’t mind. The questions about his brother’s consort—gods how he wished he could have been there, both to rib Tzadkiel and to be his second—could wait. As could the reason Akito had jumped from the bridge. While the fact these answers were denied him rankled, and even made him suspicious, they weren’t important enough to get in the way of something else. Something he hadn’t examined in a long, long time: his need for the affections of another man.

  Taking a step closer to Akito, Lyandros gave a tentative half smile. “Aren’t you now?”

  Glancing to the bed, Akito appeared to consider his options. Lyandros waited, letting him decide. They could while away a few hours in sensual play, or they could move on to the next chamber and the next, speaking of what had become of the mora. Though Lyandros needed to know the story, he found he welcomed the idea of delaying the sadness and anger these dark revelations would bring.

  “We can just…” Akito wobbled one shoulder—a little shrug that spoke simultaneously of interest and embarrassment—before his attention drifted back to Lyandros. “No questions for as long as we’re in bed?”

  “No prying questions,” Lyandros clarified.

  “All right,” Akito answered, lifting his chin. “No prying questions.”

  Lyandros closed the distance between them. His lips met with Akito’s in a teasing press—a tentative brush that he deliberately refrained from deepening. Akito touched him, hands creeping up Lyandros’s chest. The contact of ghostly form against ghostly form cascaded into a flash-fire awakening of long-dormant senses. Lyandros felt whole, real, and alive. Unable to think, needing to keep his wits, he threaded his fingers through Akito’s and carefully drew them behind Akito’s back.

  Lyandros lifted his head. “This all right?”

  He needed to be sure it hadn’t been the sensual dominance that had sent Akito spiraling, but rather the questions Lyandros had thrown at him.

  Eyes glazed, Akito nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Good,” Lyandros whispered against Akito’s mouth.

  Slick heat, insistent pressure, and the clash of teeth and lips grew as the hunger in him increased. Ponderous arousal weighted his groin and made his limbs soporific with pleasure. An entire coven army could have marched through his chamber door, and he would not have noticed.

  Akito moaned something into Lyandros’s mouth, and Lyandros barely lifted his head with his mumbled, “What is it?”

  “Your fangs are sharp,” Akito muttered.

  As if summoned by the observation, the taste of anise and dew drops invaded his awareness, along with a bright burst of electricity across his tongue. Though Akito could not bleed, he could emit something of his essence. Contact with Lyandros could stimulate or wound his etheric body, and his life force could be consumed.

  Lyandros’s legs shook as he fixated on the plump vein running from the base of Akito’s throat and behind his ear. Lyandros intended to sample its delights thoroughly and unabashedly before they were through. Maneuvering Akito to the bed, Lyandros nudged his thigh along Akito’s apex. Akito groaned and rocked forward, rather than back.

  “Do not dare come,” Lyandros admonished.

  “Spoil sport,” Akito growled, but allowed Lyandros to guide him onto the bed.

  Phantom buttons and zippers released in a flurry of fumbling hands. Akito’s shirt dropped from him in an inelegant rush. Finally, the warrior stood naked before him, his pale flesh marked by black tattoos. A swooping flock of sparrows winged its way across his right pectoral, and a circle of thorns clutched his upper right arm. Names had been carved into his right forearm, the self-inflicted wheals speaking of a loss from which the warrior had likely never recovered. Lyandros traced light fingertips over each mark, ending with those on Akito’s forearm.

  Their eyes met, Akito’s gaze wary. “Don’t pity me.”

  “Never.” Lyandros claimed hungry l
ips again.

  This time the kisses held the urgency of mutual need—the desire to forget and to forge something that could not be eroded by time or circumstance. A memory and a bond that would see them each through lonelier times.

  A sharp nip at Lyandros’s lip made him jerk up his head.

  Akito glared, accusing. “I said don’t pity me.”

  “Very well.”

  Lyandros used the band of his arm and the heel of his opposite hand to spin Akito and push him over the bed. The long line of Akito’s spine led to trim hips and the luscious globes of a backside accustomed to much exercise and little leisure. Lyandros palmed each cheek, his touch deliberately rough. Running the flat of his palm along Akito’s back, he smoothed his fingertips over bunched muscles and the curve of a sleek hip and took himself in hand.

  Akito buried his face in the covers. Lyandros rocked forward, nudging at Akito’s entrance until sweet friction claimed him. The heat and pressure were a homecoming he’d never realized he’d desired. Shifting backward, he slid his palm to Akito’s root and seated himself fully. Groaning, Akito opened to him in a beautiful display, sleekly muscled arms spreading wing-like to his sides. Everything about the warrior spoke of grace and power, offered up to Lyandros’s mastery—the perfect picture of submission.

  Lyandros thumbed the head of Akito’s cock, stroking faster.

  “Going to—”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yes!” Akito’s back rippled, muscles tightening and releasing as he thrust and spilled over Lyandros’s hand.

  Claiming the warrior in long, slow strokes, Lyandros continued to pleasure him. Akito’s moans took on the keening edge of dismay. Another day, Lyandros vowed, he’d milk that cry, discovering ways to tune it so that the music went on long after the orgasm ended.

  Lyandros rocked back on his heels and gripped Akito’s slim hips. Toes curling and calves tensing, he pulled Akito backward and thrust forward. The simultaneous motions increased the power of each stroke.