“But I never touched her. I discovered how to kill the vine.”
“The vine adapts. The governor will be the first to argue the vine will develop an immunity. Like secreting a substance to poison the goats.”
Yeah, he’d considered this too. Quiggs clenched his eyes in frustration. “Then I might as well walk into the vines and disappear for real because Rosamunde can’t afford to let me live. She’ll send her assassins after me, and anyone guarding me will die.”
Including Max.
Max’s tone brooked no argument. “After you’re granted an official exile and before you reveal you’re alive, I’ll pay a visit to Rosamunde to persuade her to alter her story from rape to consensual sex. In return, you will accept paternity and pay her part of the bounty awarded you for killing the vine. If that’s not enough, give her the design to your combustion engine.”
“You can’t trust Rosamunde to adhere to the agreement.”
“I’ll warn her should harm befall you, a full disclosure will go to the heralds, the Herders Guild, the Assembly, her mother.”
Quiggs spoke through his teeth. “Which is exactly what I want to do now!”
“My way is a peaceful resolution. Exile won’t save you from Rosamunde’s assassins. You’re a threat as long as you’re alive unless you accept paternity. Give her your written acceptance. Offer her part of the bounty and the combustion engine.”
“The fuck I will!”
“A disclosure now gets you killed in a rebellion at a time when the Triangle hovers between extinction or greatness. By accepting paternity, you’ll live to sit in the Assembly. You’ll be the first man who can argue for changes without being arrested for treason.” Max paused. “Go ahead. You decide. Accuse Rosamunde of incest and start a bloody rebellion? Or accept paternity and live. Don’t you want live and return to the bunker for Beau? To learn what’s behind the wall?”
Manipulative bastard. As if Quiggs had a choice. “Tell Rosamunde I’ll accept paternity. Offer her part of the bounty. If I’m still alive in a year, I’ll share the combustion engine.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Thousands traveled to Milepost Three to watch the vines fall. Barges of awed sightseers congested the canal. The Academy dismissed classes for a day and marched the active cadets three miles along the inbank to witness history. People needed to see the truth for themselves before they dared believe it. With every stalk felled, loyalty for Quiggs strengthened among the soldiers.
Max used his authority to ban civilians from his outland until the Assembly capitulated to his request. Only selected herders involved in spraying the vines crossed the canal. They delivered filled spray canisters and carried away the empties to be refilled for the next day. The focus was on clearing the area at Milepost Three, but areas where the fringe endangered the canal were also sprayed.
Heralds paddled as closed as they dared to the outbank, their robust voices begging for updates. Was it true a farm a day was being cleared? Yes. Was the new soil fertile? Very much so. Were the vines showing resistance? None at all.
Ridiculous rumors sprouted. The latest rumor gripping the cities was a screaming soldier carried inside the hut, his skin hideously blistered after falling into a tunnel of venomous worms.
They were slugs, not worms, harmless to humans, deadly to crops.
Quiggs had plucked the pests from his experimental turnip trough. These slugs possessed unusually long feelers. Intrigued by registering a new species, he had held them in his palms, the feelers tickling his sweaty skin. The feelers had retracted from the sweat, the slugs had coiled, and mucous had shot out of their backs like strings of boiling syrup. He had shaken his hands to fling them off, but the slugs had stuck fast to his skin. His guards had whisked him to the nearest water barrel by the hut and plunged his hands in up to his armpits. Unfortunately, it was a cider barrel misplaced among the fresh water barrels delivered that morning. Quiggs’s shrieks as the cider doused his blistered palms sent spectators fleeing from an imagined raid.
On the plus side, the cider had dissolved the slugs.
Fortunately, none of the spectators had recognized him. Quiggs always disguised himself as a border patrolman with a weapons belt and helmet before he went outside the hut. Cutty had padded the shoulders, chest, and thighs of the uniform, and Quiggs strutted back and forth like a bona fide badass with his face shield lowered. His thrill at wearing the coveted uniform complete with weapons belt partially offset his dismay at the crude living conditions. Except for his time in the breeding den, Quiggs had never experienced a lack of plumbing.
Come to think of it, the den had a spectacular bath facility.
Quiggs communicated with Max through Sergeant Miller, who visited twice daily. Max stayed away, behaving like an owner mourning his lost concubine.
Convincing the Ruling Mothers to sentence Quiggs to exile stretched into a second week. Max’s request outraged Governor Lyre. Quiggs was a criminal. She argued if the vines developed an immunity, the discovery was moot. Before they heaped praise on a criminal, they should observe the vines for a year. The Assembly conceded the governor’s point valid.
Quiggs suspected the First Family had dipped into the bounty.
Deliberately omitting the rooms were under a lockdown, Max tantalized the Assembly with the resources awaiting them in the bunker when he led an expedition back. He described his escape as impossible without Quiggs communicating with the sensors.
What a tragedy Concubine Quiggs had vanished. Only he could decipher the technology. Only he could design a combustion engine. Inevitably, another band of advanced ferals would find the canal, and only he could build the explosive traps to defend the canal.
Heh. Max understood how to bait and trap heated females.
After an irrigation tap was found on the third day of spraying, support built for Max’s request. Quiggs had twisted the tap, and the water flowed clear and lukewarm, probably passing through a filtering system. He sampled a mouthful. Delicious. It tasted like the water in the showers of the breeding den. With a plentiful water supply, the farms would thrive. He notified Max they could locate the breeding den by following the pipeline to its source. An expedition was possible within a few months.
Yet the debates continued with the governor bitterly opposed to exile and with Max calmly deflecting her barbs without throwing a vicious punch.
Max’s refusal to fight back and be done with it frustrated Quiggs. If there was ever a time to stand up to the Assembly and demand changes, it was now, with the military and the Herders Guild supporting him. Max stubbornly insisted changes must occur slowly, like silken ripples barely felt. He refused to incite a second rebellion.
Exile was forthcoming. Then Rosamunde would confess consensual sex. Then the Assembly would fine and forgive them. Then Quiggs would win the bounty and a seat in the Assembly. He would complete his service as Max’s concubine.
A safe, peaceful resolution.
On an amusing note, Miller reported herders had spied Sweetheart casually grazing the fringe near Port Memphis. They took her to a dairy barn in Port Memphis where her collar identified her as Quiggs’s doe. She reigned as the city’s main attraction, displayed in a special pen while she fattened up for breeding. When Governor Lyre attempted to milk Sweetheart for the publicity, the irritated doe bit off the back of her skirt. Max had removed his formal jacket to cover her backside.
Quiggs laughed himself to tears.
Quiggs had recovered from his concussion, exhaustion, and shock and was finally ready to sneak into the vines like a true badass and jerk off when the slugs burned his palms. That was three miserable days ago. The soldiers sharing the cramped hut with him weren’t shy. They partnered up on their pallets a few minutes at night or took it outside against the wall of the hut. Knowing he was helpless without his owner’s assistance, they exaggerated the moans, behaving like pranking cadets instead of Max’s toughest soldiers.
His guards were outside now, taking turns washing off
beneath the gravity-fed shower Quiggs had rigged behind the hut. The crowds had left before the evening fog rolled in, and the men shamelessly called out for Quiggs to join them under the open shower. They promised to soap his creases and rinse him thoroughly since his hands were wrapped.
Inside the hut, Quiggs soaked in a tub of cold water with his teeth chattering. He wore waterproofed mittens to protect his bandages. Max had sent the tub on the second day to protect Quiggs’s identity when he stripped. His guards snickered that their commander sent the tub to shield his naked concubine from their lustful eyes.
The voices suddenly quieted. What had disturbed the men?
The door latch rattled without the agreed-upon knocks, name, and permission to enter. He hadn’t dropped the heavy bar across the door because of his hands. The guards outside should have stopped the intruder... unless assassins had taken them out with paralytic arrows.
With no place to hide, Quiggs snatched his helmet from atop the uniform he’d shed. He fumbled it over his head, lowering the face shield as the door swung open.
To minimize exposure to a hurled weapon, Quiggs crouched as low as he could. The silence inside the door unnerved him. Who had betrayed him? Quiggs felt a heavy gaze sweep over him, assessing a shot. The sturdy helmet, all that showed above the rim of the tub, would deflect an arrow. He gathered his muscles for a whopping headbutt when the assassin stepped up to the tub for a clear shot.
“Need help soaping your crack?”
“M-Max?” Of course the soldiers would have let their commander through the door. They would have stood at attention with jutting cocks, miserably aware he’d heard them shouting for his untouchable concubine to come join the fun.
“Some badass you are.” Max shut the door with his hip. He wore his old border patrol uniform to blend in. He surveyed the dirty clothes and pallets littering the room. The small hut was a sty, the floor sticky with spilled cider and lube. He sauntered to the tub. “Oh, my baby cadet, until this moment, seeing you lapping custard was my favorite memory. But bathing with your helmet on? Were you expecting the ceiling to crash down?”
“You fucking scared me,” Quiggs squeaked. “I had no time to hide, and I can’t grip a weapon.”
Hands on his hips, Max deadpanned, “Did you plan to escape by running naked into the vines while your assassin rolled on the floor laughing himself sick?” He let out a mild oomph of surprise from a vicious headbutt to the stomach.
Quiggs rebounded from the impact and fell back into the tub, dazed.
“Are you hurt?” Max closed a forearm around his waist and lifted him out, dripping.
He gathered Quiggs tight against an incredibly wide and hard-muscled chest with contours so defined they’d probably dented the helmet. “Fuck. Forgot how hard you’re built.”
“You would have knocked down another man.” Max set him on his feet and removed the helmet and mittens before toweling him dry. “Miller told me about the slugs. Said your palms aren’t healing.”
“So raw I can’t get off from a two-finger rub.” He tilted a look at Max. “You, however, wear the look of a man frequently consoled by his palm.”
Max grinned widely. “Not denying it. I still prefer your company.” His hand swept down to rest above the curve of Quiggs’s ass. “I’ve missed you.”
Quiggs shivered. Oh, fuck yes. “The guards… bar the door.”
“Not here. Get dressed. You’re spending the night in the comfort of my cabin.”
“You’re supposed to be grief-stricken. What if someone reports you entertaining a soldier in your cabin?”
Max’s eyes glinted with triumph. “The Assembly has concluded its review. My sources assure me the majority will vote yes for exile tomorrow morning. By tomorrow afternoon, I will have negotiated a confession from Rosamunde. Miller will tell you when it’s safe to stagger out of the vines. Dr. Keith will examine you and declare your memory has gaps.”
They waited until the fog rolled in before boarding the barge.
Quiggs followed Max down the cabin’s narrow stairs. He removed his helmet and looked around the cabin. The ceiling was repaired with thick planks. The dark wooden beams holding polished lanterns were gone. Plain globes attached to a single metal beam shone softly.
Stefan had paid a visit. The bed was reinstalled and covered with mounds of colorful pillows sprinkled with rose petals. A stack of folded towels sat on the floor beside a tray holding oils. Best of all was the table set for two with shrum, cider, a platter of sliced meats, and cartons from the Canal Alley Bakery. He inhaled wonderful yeasty smells layered with tangy spices.
Where to begin? Food, talk, sex? He smelled sausage muffins. He looked up at Max and smiled, but whatever he meant to say was lost as Max fell all over him. In seconds Quiggs was bent over the side of the bed with his pants wrenched off and Max splashing cold oil in his crack.
Quiggs raised himself to his forearms, thinking if he didn’t have feelings, he’d protest Max’s crude impatience.
But Quiggs did have feelings. Deep, helpless, hopeful feelings with strings from mind to heart to groin. He whined at the rough one-two-three prep, then froze at the slicked slow push filling him. Max’s ragged groan when he sank balls-deep sounded like a drowning man catching a rope from shore. A far, far shore with Max stroking as if he intended to swim the distance before he climaxed.
Unable to use his hands, Quiggs angled his cock to hump the mattress. The frantic pounding prevented him from finding a pleasurable friction. He turned his head to ask for a little more grinding room to come, but the words stuck in his throat at the sight of Max with his head bowed, enraptured, watching his cock work in and out. Heavy balls slapped Quiggs’s ass with every upstroke. Wet sucking sounds accompanied the drag of his cock, pulling out to the tip before slamming back in.
His ass wouldn’t recover to enjoy a leisurely second fuck at this pace. He squeezed down on Max’s cock, using his channel like a firm handhold to milk a goat’s teat.
Max lost it with an obscenely vocal roar heard by every hand on deck. His fingers dug deeper in Quiggs’s hips while his feral ring pulsed against Quiggs’s tight channel, flooding him with seed. He collapsed atop him gasping after the pulsing ceased.
Max nuzzled at his neck before flipping Quiggs over. His broad hands framed his face. He gazed down concerned at Quiggs’s flat expression. “Are you all right? Too sore? Can’t believe I treated you like—”
“—One of your soldiers volunteering his ass? A boarder in a pleasure house? An alley hook-up? A submissive concubine?”
Max’s voice softened. “Like I had to get inside you or die. I’ve missed you.”
“Oh.” Quiggs smiled up at him. “I’ve missed you too.”
“Why is it so good with you? Intense. Like soaring toward the sky, then floating down in a whiteout of clouds. Nothing compares to it.”
Quiggs heaved a sigh. Having feelings explained why. Not that Max would admit to them. The Academy trained cadets to reserve feelings for their wives. Sex with men was sweaty and uncomplicated. Skills attracted partners. Tenderness was ridiculed as weak.
Max traced Quiggs’s lips with his thumbs. Back and forth, back and forth, before tugging gently on his plump lower lip. His moist breath fanned Quiggs’s flushed face. He lowered his head.
Quiggs blocked the kiss with a bandaged hand. “My turn to come.”
Max lifted his head, scowling. “You clenched on purpose.”
“Best lesson Stefan taught me.”
“If I suck you off, will you forgive me?”
Quiggs nodded eagerly, surprised Max offered a blow job instead of his hand.
Max slid down until he knelt on the floor, eye level with the ruby crown of Quiggs’s leaking cock. He gripped the base and wet his lips. “Warn me.” He worked up a glob of spit, then opened wide.
Wet velvet heat engulfed Quiggs. He had soared toward the sky in his flying balloon, but having his dick sucked felt a thousand times more exciting. Max planted a hand over
Quiggs’s belly to stop from being face-fucked. He needn’t have bothered. Six slurps broke Quiggs’s flimsy control. Blissed out, he didn’t care he’d forgotten to warn Max. He stretched his limbs like a sunning sucker-toe on a window sill.
“Goddammit. That load could fill a canister.” Max wrinkled his nose. He rolled his tongue around the inside of his cheeks as if sweeping away a bad taste.
“Heh. You swallowed.” Quiggs wiped his dribbling ass with a towel. He sniffed the cloth. “You’ve been drinking Stefan’s potion.”
“Stefan supplies me with potions and gossip. The lottery committee is interviewing concubines complaining of ill-treatment from owners. They’re letting me pick one as your replacement.”
The bliss melted away. He narrowed his eyes at Max. “Have you found one you like?”
“Messy blonde hair, dark eyes, wide mouth, lean and muscled with an ass on springs.”
Max described Cadet Wyler. If there was a plaque for Amorous Champion, Wyler would have won it five years in a row.
Max laughed as Quiggs’s face fell. “Heh. You swallowed.”
Quiggs pushed his tongue out.
Later, after food, a drunken bath with sex, and a nap in bed followed by a round of shockingly tender sex, Quiggs curled against Max, and they finally talked. Of a world without Ruling Mothers and their fanatical laws. No isolation as inactives. No rite of passage for actives. No humiliating physical exams for husbands. A world where a man’s happiness mattered.
They talked about what was behind the wall—and the excitement of an expedition to find Beau.
Before dawn burned away the fog, Quiggs sneaked back to the hut, convinced of a peaceful transition into a future where new laws sanctioned wedlock without reciprocation.
Chapter Thirty-Two
A swarm of underground wasps, angry at having their nest disturbed, herded the soldiers like goats into the far left corner of the site. The men huddled in a circle, faces lumpy from stings. Any movement from them spurred a dive at their heads.
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