by Aldrea Alien
At least there were no bodies here. No blood. Not even a hint of a fight. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve thought nothing untoward had happened. A small part of him hoped the lack meant some of the children had escaped. But where would they go? Were they still out there being hunted?
The soft creak of the door, followed by the almost nonexistent tread of another’s footsteps, drew him back from his thoughts. Someone had joined him. One of the women? They’d probably come to ensure he didn’t do something foolish.
He ran his fingers across his face, surprised when they came away damp. When had he started crying? “There’s no need to check up on me.”
The footsteps continued and his unwanted companion halted before him. Judging by the black leather boots, it was Tracker. They were well made, the stitching the finest he’d ever seen, and looked far more comfortable than his own battered pair. The man’s choice or part of the uniform the king chose for his hounds?
“I’m perfectly fine,” he insisted before Tracker could utter a word. He wasn’t about to do anything crazy.
“That you are,” the man murmured.
His head jerked up, uncertain he’d heard correctly.
Tracker smirked down at him and, with the shake of his head, clicked his tongue. “At least, that is the lie we choose to tell ourselves, yes?” Slowly, he began to unbuckle his sword belt. “I never considered asking you earlier, but what are your thoughts on striking out for the capital?”
“I have to go.” He was one of the last spellsters in the kingdom, if not the last one. “The army will need me.” And he was prepared to do anything they required of him, especially if it got him closer to avenging the lives taken here.
The man’s sword belt was tossed aside, as were a couple of sheathed daggers. “I thought as much. I have an associate at Whitemeadow. If Treasure’s information is correct, then the armed company would have passed through there.” Another dagger joined the rest of his weaponry.
“Associate,” Dylan mumbled, his gaze drawn to the purple gleam of that last hilt. He’d never paid much attention to the hound’s arsenal, but it looked suspiciously like the same metal the alchemists used to craft the collars and their daggers. If that was true, then how had Tracker wound up with it? “Is this person like Treasure? We’re not going to find ourselves in another brothel, are we?”
“Reji?” Tracker chuckled. “Granted there would be a great deal of people interested in such a man, but no. He is a blacksmith, a well-respected and highly sought-after one at that. If some word has passed through the town of what transpired here, then he would know.” Another belt, filled with what Dylan suspected were an array of poisons, was lowered to the floor. “Or of anything else strange in the area.”
Dylan nodded, his gaze returning to the dagger. Its curve was definitely akin to the alchemist types. “Have the others decided if they’re joining us?” He drew his head up to find the elf removing his vambraces, tossing them atop his weapons.
The elf scoffed. “The women are still bickering.” He unbuckled the front of his jerkin, sliding it over his shoulders at a strangely leisurely pace. “Mostly on whether it would be safer for us to travel as a group or part ways here. I am rather in favour of the former.” The jerkin slithered to the floor, stiff in the places where the leather armour was covertly reinforced. “Regardless, Authril is likely to leave without the others if they are still undecided by morning.”
Given the woman’s eagerness to inform her superiors of what’d transpired here, he didn’t doubt it. “Maybe your fellow hounds will have answers.” Whatever had attacked the tower had to be large and powerful enough to contend not just with the spellsters, but also the guardians. A force like that couldn’t just up and vanish.
Tracker’s lips flattened. “Perhaps.” The word was muffled as the quilted shirt came over his head to swiftly join the jerkin, leaving his top half clothed in only a light shirt. “Only way we will know for certain is in reaching Wintervale.”
Dylan shuffled back, his insides knotting at the spectre of the man undressing right in front of him. If he reached out, he was certain his fingers would connect with the elf’s barely clothed torso. That thought only tightened the knots.
There was a decidedly predatory edge in the way those honey-coloured eyes ran over him, the soft gleam of the torchlight only aiding the comparison. “Until then…” He leant forward, pressing obscenely close.
Before Dylan could react, their mouths were sealed together.
He pushed the man away, spluttering. “What are you doing?” He had told Tracker he’d no interest in men and the hound had attempted little more than a few teasing remarks since then. “We are surrounded by the dead.” Surely the hound wasn’t attempting to flirt with him after everything they’d seen.
“Technically, we are not. This level has one room of bodies.”
As if that made it better. “That’s not the point.” Dylan wiped the back of his hand across his lips. They tingled. “How can you think kissing me is a good idea?”
Tracker grinned, his shoulders bouncing in a silent chuckle. “I thought of going a little further than that. Think of it this way. We are alone.” One of the man’s legs knelt on the bedding beside Dylan. “Completely. There is really no need for you to continue with this game of being coy.” The other leg joined the first on the bed, on the opposite side of Dylan’s thighs. “And do not try to pretend you have no interest. Or think I have not noticed you watching me for some time now. You do not have to admire from a distance. You will find me very willing for whatever you desire.”
“I…” It was hard—difficult, absolutely nothing was hard—to think with the man straddling his lap. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I think you’ve gotten the wrong impression here.” And it was partly his fault for not putting a halt to the man’s flirting sooner. He would just have to explain like he’d done in the past and that was that. Sure, it’d be a little awkward, what with them travelling together, but what alternative did he have? “I’m flattered you find me desirable, but—”
Their chests pressed together. “I do,” Tracker whispered, his breath heating Dylan’s ear. He smelt of warm skin, oiled leather and the slight hint of smoke. “Very much so. And I suspect that, for all your protests, the feeling is mutual.”
Dylan shivered, every muscle in his body tightening at the hoarse note in the man’s voice. A small groan crept through his teeth. “N-no,” he stammered. “I—” He swallowed in some vain effort to moisten his suddenly dry throat and, in a rush, said, “I’m definitely not—”
The elf’s tongue slipped into his mouth. He closed his eyes, melting into the kiss. Warm, soft, and hardly unfamiliar considering they’d already done this back in The Gilded Lily. Accidently on his part, granted, but still… No denying Tracker was damn good at it.
A hand slunk down his chest, steadily sliding lower. The palm massaged his length through his robes and, much to Dylan’s surprise, his body responded. Those clever fingers grasped the fabric, loosening the material to inch it higher. Cool air slunk beneath his undertunic, drawing his mind back into itself.
Dylan tipped the hound back. “Tracker, I…” He bit his lip. Clearly, the usual talk wasn’t going to work here. Bluntness would have to suffice. “It’s not just the fact of where we are. I simply don’t want to have sex with you.” He winced, the words seeming a little harsh in his ears. “Not that I’m at all against the idea of two men enjoying each other’s company, believe me. If that’s what you like, then who am I to say otherwise? But I am most definitely not one—” His rambling was cut off as the elf clapped a hand over his mouth.
Tracker’s lips slowly twisted into a smirk. “I would believe you more if you were not currently at attention.” He rolled his hips, rubbing the pair of them together, entirely aware as to the nature of what he was moving against.
Dylan bit the inside of his bottom lip, using the pain to keep himself from making a sound. That wasn’t as easy a feat
as he’d hoped. “It lies,” he mumbled, the words slipping out before he realised what he’d said.
The elf’s laughter shook the both of them. “I very much doubt that. See, I thought I was mistaken about you.” The man’s smirk took on a hungry edge. “But that is not so, yes?”
You’re wrong. He stared at the elf, his heart thudding uncontrollably as he willed his tongue to speak the words. It wouldn’t move. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t speak the lie.
“All these little flirting games and coquettish looks have been pleasant enough and I have not minded playing, but this?” The hound shook his head, a perplexed smile tweaking his lips. “You are not beholden to anyone, nor are you untried in these matters. Why deny yourself what you want?” He tipped Dylan’s head back with a gentle press of his fingertips against Dylan’s chin. “I can see the desire in your eyes, yet you still persist on being so stubbornly hard to get.”
He withdrew Tracker’s hand from his mouth. Playing at anything, especially being hard to get, was perhaps the furthest thought he had. Nor had he been denying anything. As for the other part… “I…”
The puzzled quirk of the elf’s brows smoothed as he gave a hushed puff of comprehension. Those long fingers brushed under Dylan’s jaw, tilting his head further. “This,” Tracker whispered. “It is all new to you, yes? You have never—?”
“No,” he blurted. Warmth bathed his face. By the gods, he hadn’t blushed at the topic of sex and the like since he was sixteen. “Not with a man.” He knew the mechanics, and had stumbled upon several such scenes in the past, but actually going so far as to do it? He’d never dared that.
Tracker slid off Dylan’s lap to kneel on the floor. “Then how about this.” One hand caressed his thigh. The hem of Dylan’s robes lifted slightly, allowing another gust of cool air to slink across his skin. “We try taking this to its ultimate conclusion and, should you wish to stop anywhere along the way, you just say the word.”
“And you’ll stop? Just like that?” Could he trust the hound to keep his word? There wasn’t really any way he could force the man to end it if Tracker chose to be rough with him. “What if I just want to kiss?”
Tracker shrugged. “If that is the extent of your wish, then that is all we shall do tonight. Although, I think your desires are rather more advanced than that.”
Dylan licked his parched lips, his stomach bubbling. “I don’t—” Tracker was right, curse him. He wanted more than the elf’s mouth on his, but… Am I really considering having sex with a man? Sure, he had toyed with the idle thought from time to time—everybody did, didn’t they?—but he’d never given it any decent contemplation. I am. Yet the only thing that worried him was whether he trusted Tracker?
I do. That chilling certainty gripped his gut and wouldn’t let go. “All right,” he heard himself saying, the words leaving in a breathless rush. So much for not doing anything crazy. “Until I say stop.”
One of the man’s russet brows twitched upwards. “Until? My dear spellster, I have no intention of doing anything that would make you want to.” Tracker grasped the hem of Dylan’s robe and undertunic, both only secured to his body by a belt, and inched them ever higher.
Eventually, Dylan’s bare legs were exposed. This was greeted with a muffled, but pleased, gasp from the man. “I forgot you have a dislike of wearing trousers.”
Not knowing quite what to say to that, Dylan shrugged.
With the majority of the fabric out of the way, the elf’s warm fingers curled around the waistband of Dylan’s smallclothes. Unbidden, he assisted Tracker, lifting off the bed as the elf tugged. He was released in one rough pull and the chamber’s chill air welcomed him into its grip.
Dylan went to move and was halted by Tracker’s hand wrapping around his length, moving up and down in an unhurried fashion. Dylan swallowed a moan that threatened to take flight. His grip on the bedding tightened, balling the coarsely-knitted blanket in his fingers.
“Relax.” The elf’s hot breath bathed Dylan’s skin as he spoke. “I know you have played this part before.” Tracker’s free hand gently coaxed Dylan’s legs further apart, giving the elf more room between them. “And I assure you, there is no difference.” The man’s lips brushed his inner thigh, working ever higher. Then a tongue, warm and wet, meandered across his skin to take over from his fingers.
By the gods… He tipped his head back, his mouth silently moving. Yes, he’d experienced this plenty of times, but—
A low whine reached his ears. It took a moment for Dylan to realise he had been the source. He’d never made such a sound in all his life.
Dylan swallowed, gasping for air, his legs trembling. He clutched the edge of the bed and squeezed his eyes shut, uncertain whether he wanted to discover if this was real or not. Never mind sorting out which was the more terrifying thought.
All right, so this probably wouldn’t feel any different. And, judging by the noises Treasure made, he gathered the hound must’ve had some skill, but he hadn’t expected this. The man’s abilities were on par with the prostitute’s. Almost identical.
His hips gently rocked to the rhythm the man set, deepening each movement. A soft moan slid up his throat at each sweep of the elf’s tongue, his body content to settle on action whilst his mind was frozen by conflicting emotions. He had agreed to this, so how could he be stunned that he’d let it go even this far and also not care within the same moment?
With his breath quickening at the exquisite delight the hound so readily offered, Dylan found himself unable to remain indecisive for long. He needed to see, to confirm this was real.
He leant back, resting his weight on one arm, and struggled to focus on the scene unfolding at his waist. The leisurely bobbing of the elf’s head, the tip of the man’s tongue snaking from those sensual lips and up Dylan’s length.
His other hand slipped from the edge of the bed. His fingertips brushed the man’s shoulder, then the back of his neck, before gliding over Tracker’s ear and into the elf’s hair.
Those honey-coloured eyes lifted, holding Dylan’s gaze. It only served to make the growing fire in his gut burn hotter. Tracker smirked, then opened his mouth wide and, in a blast of moist heat, enveloped him.
Dylan groaned through clenched teeth. The room blurred, his eyelids fluttering in their effort to keep watching the glorious being at his waist.
Unperturbed, the man continued to swallow as much of him as he could. Inch by inch he went, his fingers stroking the little that remained. Then, with his lips tightening around Dylan’s girth, Tracker began to suck.
Despite himself, Dylan bucked, thrusting against the elf’s face.
Giving a soft grunt, the elf pinned him with barely a pause to his rhythmic glide. The man’s actions seemed fuelled by a hungering need, each movement precise as if rehearsed and damn those who tried to stop him from completing whatever little ritual played in his mind.
Never had Dylan come across such fervour. His gut tightened. He was near the edge. Could see it rushing ever closer. He grabbed another fistful of blanket. His head tipped back. He bit his lip, trying to muffle the rather lewd sounds that constricted his throat in an attempt to speak.
“Tr-ack…” he managed.
He slid deeper into the elf’s mouth. The pressure of the man’s tongue along the underside of his length increased.
That was all he needed to tumble off the edge. The heat coiling in his gut unravelled and a coarse yell threaded through his throat. Too loud! He flopped back, struggling to muffle the sound with both hands.
Dylan laid there, his heart racing and his chest heaving. His body so gloriously satisfied. By the gods. He stared up at the rafters, watching the torchlight flicker over the exposed beams as his personal world slowly returned to normal.
On the edge his vision, he spied Tracker getting to his feet. “That was not as bad as you imagined, yes?”
He grinned. Bad was definitely not the word he’d use. “You don’t think—?” he rasped. Dylan
swallowed and tried again. “They… they wouldn’t have heard that, right?” The last thing he wanted was to have the women rushing in here thinking something was wrong.
The man hummed, pausing in removing his thin undershirt. “I suppose it is altogether possible. It is not as if they all could have grown deaf in the last hour since I saw them.”
Dylan propped himself up on shaking arms to glare at the man. How dare he be so utterly… smug after just having another man empty themselves down his throat only moments before. It was his fifteenth nameday all over again.
The undershirt slid over Tracker’s shoulders to reveal that gorgeous canvas of tattooed skin. “Truly,” the man continued, his hands falling to the belt of his trousers. “I doubt much sound can actually pass through these walls. They look rather solid.”
Dylan took in the chasm of gloom surrounding them. He’d never known the lower levels to be this quiet. Even at night, there was always some small group making a little noise. It’d been oddly peaceful hearing those signs of life. This silence was anything but.
“So…” Tracker leant over him. Stripped to the waist, the elf cut quite the intimidating figure, the torchlight giving his bronze skin a warm glow.
Dylan had tried not to look the last times they were naked together—he’d failed spectacularly, but he felt that trying had to count for something. And, even though Tracker wasn’t yet in such an extreme state of undress, Dylan still couldn’t stop his gaze from running over the man, or admiring every inch of the elf’s bare torso. A part of him longed to reach out, to touch that warm skin, to follow the curving lines of the tattoos down to what still lay hidden beneath linen and leather.
He dug his fingers into the blankets. His heart fluttered into his mouth. It stuck in his throat, forcing him to swallow or choke on his own doubts.
“About taking this further…” Tracker purred.
