Bonds: A Cursed Six novel (The Cursed Six Book 1)

by Clarrisa R. Smithe

  Rhenan watched as his brother casually tucked his semi-flaccid manhood into his pants and began tying them.

  "I said leave."

  "But have you not heard? Father wishes me to be here. And our sisters are well past due for one of my suffocating embraces." The messenger had informed him his dear sister, Jocelyn, had managed to escape that drab husband of hers for once, and Rhenan had every intention to smother her until she tired of seeing his face.

  Down here on the floor, he held open his arms, reminding him of the days he would lie in the garden, introspective and gazing up painfully into the sun. Regretful how he could not discern the difference when looking up at his brother. "I've a hug stored away for you as well—if you would have it."

  A kick to the ribs. "Get up."

  Rhenan did.

  "Now get out."

  He stayed put. "But I mean to talk to you. It's been three months. Perhaps a warmer greeting for your most favouritest company?" He looked to the maiden. "Second most."

  Barefooted, his brother shared his height and stature—an incredible accomplishment, for Tristian was always so averse to sharing. His thoughts, his women, his wardrobe, and even the space he breathed.

  "Speak then."

  Rhenan went pole-straight, fists locking at his side as he demonstrated a bow. "Yes, Your Grace. Your Eminence. Your Highest of Highnesses.'

  From the bed, the maiden suppressed a giggle and Rhenan smiled, standing upright.

  It was enough for Tristian to shoot the woman a glare that drained the colour from her colour-filled cheeks. He snapped. Pointed to the door. The woman practically sprang from the bed, grappling and stumbling to find her clothing before scrambling into the hall half-dressed and frantic.

  Rhenan watched the doors close and blew an incredulous wind. "You're no fun."

  "Speak."

  "I was."

  "Is that why you've come? To criticise my private affairs?"

  "Oh, of course not. Such is the duty for our god and mother, both substantially indiscernible. Besides, I've far more important matters to occupy my thoughts than what form of therapeutic coping my brother chooses to wallow in now. For instance, I hear the town of Ustan has gathered coin to hire a musician to create a ballet of praise for Prince Tristian."

  His brother narrowed his eyes then crossed his arms. "And why would they do that?"

  He shrugged. "Rumour has it Prince Tristian visited the eastern lands, with their rain-drenched crops and sickbed children, brought them three month's supply of bread and clean water, grains to reharvest their lost fields. "

  A terrible thing, those eastern lands, so close to the Pyracean borders, where it rained and rained and rained. So much so that the corn, peas, tomatoes, berries and apples grew tired and blanched, where they eventually shriveled and drowned.

  How good of Prince Tristian to lend a hand.

  Understanding eclipsed the succinct molten gold and his brother sank into a familiar rage. "You've been impersonating me again?!"

  Rhenan hopped back and swung away from Tristian's flying fist, hands up to his chest in surrender. "Why now, you should be thanking me. They adore Prince Tristian. For good reason. I hear he even visited the sick house and promised to return within a month's time to spoon feed them hot porridge with his own two hands. Unfortunately, brother, I will be away tending separate matters, so you may have to fulfill the promise yourself."

  He doubted the people would know the difference between them. They'd just assume the prince had finally taken heed on his image and cleaned himself up a bit.

  Tristian relinquished his attempts on subduing him, for no one was ever able to catch Rhenan unless he himself allowed it. Instead, Tristian stood stewing in his anger, that unstable ravine of violence and self-loathing.

  Rhenan tilted his head to the side. "Well now, do not sober on my account! Rejoice. Laugh."

  Tight-jawed, unlaughing, the male's thumb created dastardly patterns on the back of his knuckles. He wondered briefly if his brother would turn away like he always did. If he would stride in that confident, dark way of his and drop into that irksome chair at his grand desk and begin drafting drafts of whatever it was he drafted. Anything to shut the world around him into a carefully carved box, whose lid could only be opened by his hands. Rhenan once asked what it was he was writing, who it was he was writing to.

  "Nothing. No one."

  Until Rhenan once discarded his mature notions of boundaries and snatched up the paper to find he was speaking truth. Oh, the paper was marked in ink, for sure. But it was the scribbles of a child. Aimless, jagged lines. Nothing. Written to no one.

  He'd looked down at his older brother then, and his older brother had looked up at him.

  Tristian used to say he heard music. Here, in the plastered walls of the castle crests and gentle cream designs. And Rhenan used to ask if perhaps he was mistaking the noise for the servants romping in the pantry where sound traveled so enthusiastically, and his brother would frown, but then he would laugh and say, "No, I hear music in the silence. When I write, the song plays."

  It was the one sure way for his brother to get Rhenan to leave him be. For Rhenan always felt out of sorts when he talked like that. The words and actions of a beginning mad man. It made him physically ill, for if his brother ever did lose his mind, Rhenan would have lost a brother.

  But this evening, Tristian did not retreat to his desk, rather he took in a hard drag of breath and said, "I do not have time for your games. I'm to meet with Father Conwell soon. He has been preparing me for my union, as I too have been preparing myself."

  Rhenan snorted. "By cozying between the legs of a nameless pleasure maiden? My, my, my, when did redemption and cleansing of the soul induct adultery into its ranks?"

  Cannons went off in his brother's eyes. "I am an honest man!"

  "Yes, yes. And Constance is an honest woman. And I only drink on holy days and Father will cease his frivolous excessive festivities."

  "You accuse my wife of blasphemy?" he seethed.

  "I said she is an honest woman—"

  "You meant the opposite."

  "—And please, Tristian, do not be ashamed of your sin. For she is not your wife just yet, and it's understandable: you're lonely."

  Tristian bared his teeth, bristled like a true bear.

  Rhenan clamped a hand on his shoulder. "If you're feeling lonely, you're welcome to sleep beside me at night."

  Tristian set his mouth. "I'd sooner sleep in an iron maiden."

  "I have just the one!" But contrary, as much as he would love to place his brother in such a contraption, this was not the reason for his being here. He clutched the hilt of his blade holster out of habit and pinned Tristian with sobriety. "Beth has told me you hardly join the family for meals. You neglect Father's requests to immerse yourself in matters of the kingdom. Your tongue has loosened around our dearest mother. And is it true you've ordered your servants to wear bright yellow collars so you might remember which you've conquered?"

  When his brother denied none of the allegations, Rhenan wagged his finger and chided with a tsk of the tongue. "You're a horrible male. A horrible prince. And clearly I am needed here."

  "You are never needed here."

  "Careful, not all of us have hearts of stone. Mine is actually quite fragile."

  "Consider disposing of it, as should have been done long ago."

  "Why go the length when I've a brother who does such a fine job of hardening it with his brutal tongue? I pray for your wife and the long days she must endure you."

  Once upon a time, Rhenan would compare himself in a mirror to his older brother to the degree of obsession, wondering when his own features would slide into that smooth, corrupt glade of hard masculinity with subtle edges of something unmistakably...male. There was a recipe for princeliness inside all Hanson boys, Aunt Charleé used to swear. A refined, elegant but regal concoction that made them fit into their clothing just right. She said their faces were very Thornston-like, a mi
xture of dark allure and promises of power.

  Yes, for a while, when Rhenan looked in the mirror, he hadn't the slightest idea what the crazy bat was on about.

  But when he looked at his brother, he understood the baser side of things. He understood how a woman could take one glance at Tristian and unwittingly dab their tongue on their pretty little pink lips as they had their fantasies of such a man undoing their virtue, cramming it full of sin and wickedness until their throats closed from all the panting and moaning.

  What he didn't understand, was why the women were drawn to that disruptive presence beneath his surface. Tristian was a stern man. A bore. No fun at all. The only place he seemed most alive was when intoxicated on lust and debauchery. In bed, his brother was an animal, all muscle and dominance. Outside of it, he was grey and hard.

  "It's concerning you think of me like this," Tristian said.

  Rhenan blinked. He always did wonder how it was his brother played around in his mind, drawing from it his exact thoughts.

  Rhenan now shrugged. "Remember, I keep the company of horses, not the likes of you. So fear not."

  "Get out of my bedchamber."

  "Make me."

  "Are you a child?"

  "What is adulthood without youth?"

  He could see the exact moment Tristian teetered on the brink of full-on rage. Before the point of no return could be accomplished, Rhenan launched into the nature of his advent—half of it, anyway. "There is unrest in the western capitals. Those who would defy our father just as they are defying orders from their lords."

  Squeeze description in here somewhere of Redthorn.

  Tristian notched his upper lip as though a rotten scent had wafted by. "These are reports better suited for Father's ears."

  It was now Rhenan who smelled the putrid scent. "Our father, who has ears but no mouth save for moments of declaring feasts and balls and that of gluttony." They both knew it was their mother who was the true voice of Redthorn, her sway over their father almost demoniacally mysterious.

  "Our father who is the king."

  "Brother, I come to you first with this critical news and you reject it?"

  "What would you have me do, assemble a small army and march on all those who disobey?"

  Rhenan waved a hand. "Tried that. No grounds gained. They always reappear. Any more force asserted into those small patches of villages and towns could lead to a western rebellion, and you know how easily disheveled, volatile towns adopt new faiths. We can't have them turning from the Sirista."

  It seemed, for one hopeful, promising moment, his brother might truly indulge the topic. But as if sensing Rhenan's uplifted anticipation, Tristian dug his fingers into the cuffs of his shirt and wandered toward the window to gaze. "Then take up the matter with Mother or the church."

  "Mmm, no. I'm taking it up with you."

  "I'm telling you I do not desire it."

  "No, all you desire is a warm bed to kiss away your insecurities."

  Tristian whirled around, but remained on the other side of the room, black hair shining where the thin blades of sunlight placed him in angelic illumination. "I've no insecurities. I've priorities. Foolish peasants in the west do not concern me."

  "They should," he said on a laugh.

  "They do not," his brother laughed back, though it was harsher. Derisive.

  And so Rhenan began a slow applaud as he crossed the room to where his brother stood. As he drew in closer, the claps grew louder, quicker. Until the sharp echoes were smacked right in the crown prince's face.

  Tristian stared, bemused.

  "Bravo, brother!" Rhenan congratulated, one last powerful clap clasping his hands together. "You've successfully proven to me you are an idiot. Bravo, bravo, bravo! 'They do not'. Bravo! Cheers, cheers to my big idiot of a brother. No, wait, perhaps I should locate a hanky and wipe my eyes, for soon I will be in mourning of the death of Redthorn."

  Rhenan pretended to open a scroll, beginning in a clear, rambunctious voice, "Here ye, here ye, the lament of what was once the richest kingdom of the three kingdoms, now nothing more than the consequence of a king who assumed a western rebellion was not worthy of his concern. O', the sorrows, the despair! If only it could have been prevented. If only the prince had a brother who formerly warned him of such brewing treachery—"

  Tristian grabbed him by the hair and Rhenan forgot what day it was, where he was, and why he was there. All that mattered was the sudden explosive jolt of punishment.

  Tristian threw his head into his. Then came the blinding crunch of a fist cracking into Rhenan's jaw with a force that reminded him his brother did not merely sit in a room and look impeccably princely all day. No, the punch reeked of equal combative training. Rage. Fury.

  Rhenan trembled, shuddered. The pain slithered through his body, loosening his muscles. Massaging sensation into his groin.

  Again. He waited patiently.

  His brother delivered. A blow, this time the opposite cheek.

  More.

  His brother's knee shot up into his abdomen and Rhenan bent over on a gag, shuddering violently now.

  Ahhh.. fuck. His loins, flaming. His cock, stiffening. He dropped to the ground, arms curled over his midsection. But now that he was down, Tristian kicked at him without withholding force.

  "What is it you want from me?!" he spat.

  Blood gurgled. He swallowed the metallic swill. Quivered in ecstasy. "For you to not be so blind." He coughed. "I want you to recognise who I am and what I tell you."

  "Is that so?!" Tristian leered toward him, but Rhenan remained, doubled over and thirsting for more. "You want me to saturate the role of brother you so yearn to see me fulfill?"

  "I want you to care. About this family. About this kingdom. About the future."

  He crossed his arms, feet apart. Immovable. "If you can answer me this one thing."

  Rhenan chuffed, smiled. "Anything."

  "Where's Rhenan?"

  Rhenan drew back and blew a dismissive breath. "Honestly, brother, you still carry that old habit? I don't know what it means and my answer will never change if you fail to explain it to me."

  His words seemed to pluck away the last pillar of armistice between them, and he watched as the shutters to his brother's hot, fiery gaze drew closed once more. "Precisely. Now leave me."

  Play session over so soon?

  "No."

  Tristian swung his fist again.

  Rhenan caught it and yanked the male down to the floor with him so they might be eye level again. "You're on a horrible path, Tristian. I'm trying to lead you back to the beginning before it becomes too twisted for even you."

  After shaking off the shock of his brother's abrupt fluidity, he scowled deeply. "What do you know of twisted?"

  "I know it is what my brother is. Up here." He tapped his skull.

  "Of course, like knows like. My brother, he who still cries out in the middle of the night, hm?" Tristian grabbed him by the collar, his eyes flaring before settling down into a foul copper glint. No sooner, he shoved him away, then smirked, sensing he had won. The prince reached out and dusted Rhenan's shoulder with arrogant, triumphant fingers. "Tell me," he continued, smooth as suffocating chars of smoke. "Do you still hear her screams then?"

  For but the smallest moment, Rhenan knew fear, felt its crimson, needled lips trail down his spine. Taking him back to the past, the guttural wails as blood leaked where blood should never flow...

  "Do not speak further, brother," he said woodenly.

  "Do you still wake to those cold sweats, yelling, rousing the company you keep, brother?" Tristian's smile was that which made women swoon—and him want to vomit. "Oh, forgive me, you no longer keep company in the night when you sleep, do you? Can you? Lest they end up like poor, innocent, sweet Abo—"

  "Must you always take things too far?!" Rhenan growled, angry that he was kneeling here on the floor with the one man in the kingdom whom he should have got on the easiest with, not that which he fought the
most.

  "Yes."

  "Why? Does my pain sooth your own?"

  "Yes."

  Rhenan narrowed his eyes, aware his teeth were chattering. He did not get angry. He was not the angry brother. He was Prince Rhenan.

  "Will you cry?" Tristian whispered, and he was looking at him strangely. Something unnerving and demented in his eyes.

  "What is the matter with you?"

  But Rhenan suspected he knew. Suspected he'd always known.

  From the day his mother had brought him into this life, his brother had retreated into a dark place no man or woman could ever reach. And whenever he surfaced, it was not a princely brother Rhenan saw, but something more twisted than the path the male walked.

  "You are the matter with me," Tristian said levelly, coolly. "It is a wonder why Father would have you return, when I do hope you know he sends you on these quests to keep you away from court, to prevent embarrassment."

  The anger congealed within Rhenan. The quests his father sent him on were of necessity to this kingdom. He was this kingdom's sword and always would be. And his father had called him back because the king wished to have his younger son attend the festival. Nothing more.

  But Tristian ceded, "Ah, I suppose all masters miss their bitches sooner or later."

  The anger fled from Rhenan then, and he sat back, knees drawn up, arms resting atop them.

  The brothers watched one another like this. Daring the other to drive the pike deeper into their battered, unrecognisable relation.

  But when the silence became too dense, when Rhenan suspected he began to hear the sound of music playing in the walls, he reached into his breast pocket without taking his eyes from Tristian's.

  He threw the purple sack between them.

  It took Tristian a moment before he dared to glance down. "What is this?"

  "I do not mention your headaches because I know it ails you deeply, brother," Rhenan began softly. "I've kept my word and have yet to tell another soul about them. I bed the physician's daughter to provide cover for the true nature of our meetings. She goes great lengths to get that medicine for me and here I have lied to her. Told her it was I who received the headaches. Told her it was I who suffered these chronic mood swings and curdling chest spasms. I lied to her for you. As I have lied to others. As I will continue to do." Rhenan wiped the blood from his mouth. "You may have been born first, but brother, it is I who do the most, and it is tiring caring for two."