In Pain and Blood (Spellster Series Book 1)

by Aldrea Alien

  Keeping one of the man’s legs hooked over his arm, Dylan trailed a trembling hand down the smooth chest, marking how Tracker’s body flexed, rising off the bed to meet his touch. His fingertips danced down the man’s abdomen, toying with the sparse hair to be found there.

  Tracker propped himself on his elbows, his gaze focused on their waists. He sucked on his bottom lip, the occasional soft groan slipping out as Dylan kept the pace slow and deep.

  At last, Dylan wrapped his fingers around the man’s length and squeezed, eliciting a soft whimper from the elf. With his grip firm, he pumped his hand up and down the twitching flesh, chuckling at the rich moan it eked from the man.

  In his other hand, he coaxed a spark of lightning to life, holding it just far enough away from the hound to get Tracker’s attention. After his last blunder, he didn’t want to startle the man. “May I?” he asked, the very question he should’ve started with the first time.

  Those honey-coloured eyes, the pupils blown wide with raw need, stared at the flickering light like a mouser tracking its prey. His tongue snaked out and he bit his bottom lip, but gave no indication either way.

  Then, just as Dylan considered letting the spark die, the man nodded.

  He switched the flow to the other hand and the flesh in his grip twitched. Tracker’s head fell back, a deep groan escaping his lips. Tendrils of lightning buzzed across Dylan’s lower torso, raising the hairs along his stomach. Although he suspected it was more than the effects of his own magic that made his body tingle.

  Their skin quickly grew slick with sweat, forcing him to abandon the lightning in favour of more mundane methods. Tracker, seemingly unaware of the change, continued to thrust into the hand that worked him. Dylan leant forward, bracing himself with his free hand, the leg that’d been hooked around his arm having long since fallen to mirror its twin. He matched the pace the elf had set, driving himself deep with every jerk.

  Tracker stiffened, his whole body arching beneath him in one glorious shout. Once again, the elf emptied into Dylan’s hand.

  Dylan kept going, massaging every last drop from the man, his hips never losing momentum. Tipping his head, he closed his eyes and let himself become lost to the slick sound of their movements and the frenzied, and loud, puff of the elf’s breath. The world shrunk to the small, pulsating knot in his gut. He was close to the edge, felt it hovering just beyond his reach.

  The world exploded.

  He re-entered reality, screaming all the way. He grasped the elf’s waist, holding Tracker fast as each jerking movement had him spilling into the man.

  Dylan collapsed onto the bedding next to the elf, gasping and thoroughly spent. Well… that most definitely happened. Even as he’d encouraged Tracker, there’d been the idle thought that some piece of him would stop things from going this far. He silently chuckled to himself. How wrong he was there.

  Beside him, Tracker gave a low whistle. “Seeing how you have not attempted to scurry off, muttering how wrong this was, shall I assume that tonight has met with your approval?”

  Wrong? It’d felt no different than it had with past partners. “So far.” Dylan replied unthinkingly, groaning to himself as he became conscious of his words. By the gods, he sounded like some sex-crazed monster. If the elf didn’t laugh in his face, it’d be a miracle.

  The man did laugh. A rich, and slightly intrigued, sound. He shuffled about the mattress until he once again lay lengthwise along it. One russet brow twitched up. “Are you always this insatiable?”

  Dylan grunted, the warmth in his cheeks a mixture of residual pleasure and embarrassment. He joined the man in lying properly on the bed, propping himself up on one arm. “Can I ask you about something?”

  Tracker’s hand lifted from the bed to play with the mess that was Dylan’s hair, which had crept over his shoulders at some point. “Certainly.”

  “Your dagger, the purple one, how’d you get it?” It was an alchemist’s dagger, he was certain of it. They were unique, an alchemist’s masterpiece, crafted to prove they could safely work infitialis and never easily relinquished.

  The hand fell. “Not quite the question I was expecting.” He rolled his head to one side, sighing into the darkness. “And I think you already know the answer.”

  So he was right. Hot anger flared in his chest. When an alchemist died in the tower, their daggers were destroyed. A sign of respect. He thought that was true of those slain beyond the tower walls. Clearly not. “Why kill them.”

  “You must understand that a hound’s duty is to send spellsters to the tower. Death is only a recourse when all else fails.”

  “And yet you chose death.” There was no need to take an alchemist’s life. They were barely spellsters. People like Sulin could only work one or two simple spells beyond their specialised magic. Few alchemists tried leaving the tower, but some hadn’t returned. “Why?” Had the one the hound killed been someone Dylan once knew?

  Tracker sighed again. “Simply put, he went to stab me and I retaliated.” He shrugged. “Unlike him, I did not miss.”

  A piece of his anger drained away at the admittance. He could hardly fault the elf for defending himself. “You were fortunate that he did.” He’d handled one such dagger in his lifetime, back when Sulin mastered the art of crafting the infitialis metal. They were as deadly as they were beautiful. Nothing healed a wound made by their edge. The smallest cut was all it took to bleed a man to death.

  “Yes,” Tracker grunted. “Well, I learnt not long after that he had a wife and two small children.”

  The alchemist had been an older man, then. Possibly came into his magic late in life. Probably never gave much thought to what small miracles happened in the years before the hounds came. That’s how Sulin had described his life beyond the tower; tiny coincidences building up until the right people took note. “So why keep the dagger?”

  “In truth? I thought it was pretty. Plus, it is rare to see a spellster use a weapon, your kind is fond of using magic as a primary defence.”

  The way he spoke… “Killed many of my kind, then, have you?”

  Tracker rolled to one side, soft comprehension moulding his brow. “If this is upsetting you, we do not have to speak of it any further.”

  Fresh heat bloomed across Dylan’s face, fuelled entirely by anger. “No, you will answer me.”

  “A few, yes. But do not envision them as innocent beings and I sent a great many more to the tower.”

  “Did you sleep with them, too?” Was that the only reason he still lived? Because the man saw him as… useful? And why did that notion sting? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been used for sex before.

  “If they were willing, certainly.”

  “Was this before or after they knew what you were?” The bitterness in his words made him want to retch. His anger was all for himself. He knew what Tracker was, knew what he must have done and he’d chosen to lay with him, still found himself considering going further.

  Tracker sat up, his back slightly more rigid than it should’ve been. “I get the feeling this is not about the sex.” He laid a hand on Dylan’s chest. “You have been here your whole life, yes? Hemmed in by walls? Told you are safe as long as you remain? Well, many of those who run are considered dangerous.”

  “I am dangerous.”

  Tracker smiled and nodded. “That you are. An utter terror to behold to any who threaten you and yours. But to innocents?” He shook his head. “Even with a dagger held to your throat, you tried using words before magic. Yet, had I not chosen to believe you and your companions, I have no doubt that one of us would not be here now.”

  Dylan frowned. Considering the man’s skills and the presence of the alchemist’s dagger, he very much doubted that person would’ve been him. “When we met, you said you were searching for someone.”

  “I was, yes.” The hand on his chest slowly trailed down, tickling, and Dylan struggled to focus on the man’s words. “Some young women had disappeared. The townsfolk blamed spellsters and
I, being the closest hound, was sent to investigate.” His hand crept back up, sliding into the curls of Dylan’s chest hair, the press of his fingers a little firmer.

  Dylan bit his lip at the touch, a small whimper dying in his throat.

  The hound continued his gentle assault on Dylan’s senses, seemingly unaware as to how his actions were affecting Dylan. “When I saw you slinking about at night, I thought I had found my culprit.”

  “Some women go missing and they blame a spellster? Is it so common for them to kidnap people?”

  “Common? No. Memorable, perhaps. The desperate do many things. Sometimes, even reaching for certain sticky myths.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “You mean sacrifices.” His guardian had taught him of such folly. Before the creation of the tower, spellsters used to do such rites. With animals. “They don’t work.”

  “I somehow doubt that is much comfort to those who are used for it.”

  No, probably not. “So who was responsible for the kidnapping?”

  Tracker shrugged. “I never found out. Once it is determined that a spellster cannot possibly be involved, we are meant to give all related information to the local authority and be on our way.”

  “But that’s so… cold.”

  “Those are our orders. To disobey them would be…” The hand slid off Dylan’s chest to pluck at the bedding. “…unwise.”

  Dylan sat up a little ways, trying to decipher the man’s expression. Surely Tracker didn’t expect him to believe he’d be punished for bringing a criminal to justice. “Why not?”

  The elf’s nose wrinkled, further warping the unflattering vexed expression already plastered across his face. “Our mistress prides conformity. Bad dogs must be put down, as she would say. She believes a disobedient hound is just as dangerous as an unleashed spellster.”

  Dylan couldn’t see how. They hadn’t the power to decimate an entire village in a fit of rage. Mistress? He thought the hounds belonged to the king. “So, if a spellster had been responsible, would you have killed them?”

  “That would depend. If the women were dead, then certainly. A crime has been committed, justice must be served. If not… then things would have gotten a little more complicated.”

  “Would you have killed me, if you didn’t believe me?”

  Tracker shook his head vehemently. “Bringing you back here was always my preferred solution. Besides…” His gaze lifted. The hot gleam in his eyes had returned and, surprisingly enough, it fanned the glowing ember of need in Dylan’s gut. “I can think of far better things to do with you than take your life.”

  “I’m sure you can.”

  A soft, slightly trembling, chuckle shook the man’s shoulders. “Well, you have given no order to stop, so I assumed…” He shrugged. “If our talk has not soured you to the notion of lying with a hound, we could go again. Only if you wish to, of course.”

  “I—” He rubbed at the back of his neck, his face heating like some maiden from those accursed books Sulin used to read aloud as a joke. But then, did he not have a fair bit in common with them right now? “I do,” he admitted. He held Tracker in place as the man tried to shuffle closer. “But I want you to… take me.”

  Tracker jerked back, his lips curving in the smallest of smiles. “Now that is one proposal I was not quite expecting to hear tonight. Or at all, really.” The elf propped his head on the heel of his hand. “I hope you do not think we must do such a thing right away. It is a great many weeks to Wintervale, there will be other times and I am more than happy to pleasure you in another way now should you truly desire more.”

  Dylan wasn’t wholly certain about ever repeating tonight’s act. He might’ve lost his nerve—or regained full control over his senses, whichever one it was that allowed him to be this reckless—before this happened again. Besides, all this talk of spellsters and death had brought back the very memories he wanted to bury. “I want this.”

  The elf crept along the bed, each movement lithe and graceful. And deadly. The once indolent mouser now intent on its prey. The man hovered over Dylan, the bronze arms on either side of his body holding him in place without touching him. The sight had Dylan’s heart pounding all the harder.

  “And if I said it will be uncomfortable?” the hound purred. “Maybe even a little painful?”

  He grinned manically, recalling the elf’s earlier words. “I’d say, I don’t mind a little pain.”

  Shock took Tracker’s face. It was small, the slight hitch in his breath, the subtle widening of those honey-coloured eyes. He stared at Dylan for a long time, utterly speechless, before a slow grin took his lips. “One moment, then.” The mattress bounced slightly as the man clambered off the bed.

  Dylan lay still, not certain he could move if he tried. Was he really going to go through with this? Yes? No? Maybe? The thought of actually doing this thrummed through his body at both a nerve-racking and exhilarating pace. Definitely maybe. He stared at the rafters, trying very hard to rein in everything he felt before his chest exploded. Yes. He could scarcely believe this was happening, but he’d chosen this and…

  It was going to happen.

  He caught the hushed pad of bare feet upon the stone and the rustle of cloth. On the edge of his vision, he spied the elf rifling through something on the floor. The man’s clothing? What did he need there?

  Just as he shifted to see what the hound was up to, Tracker returned clutching a small vial filled with an amber-coloured liquid. “This will be easier if you roll over.”

  Dylan obeyed, rolling onto his stomach. The straw within the mattress rustled as Tracker settled behind him. Dylan moved further, barely registering he followed the elf’s subtle, unspoken directions. Slender fingers guided his legs, manoeuvring him into place until he was on his knees in the middle of the bed.

  Tracker’s hands, the palms cool and slightly damp, caressed the small of Dylan’s back and made his breath hitch. The man massaged the muscles up either side of his spine before gliding downwards in a similar motion.

  “Relax,” Tracker purred. “We will go slowly. Just… try not to be so tense or it will hurt.”

  Tense? He was beyond tense. Already, his heart thumped so hard that he wouldn’t be surprised if it burst through his chest. He could feel each pulse thudding through his brain like a dwarven war drum.

  The squeak of a cork against glass seemed awfully loud in the silence. Cool liquid dribbled along his skin. He took a deep breath, his limbs trembling. Every muscle in his body tightened as uncertainty took hold along with the man’s hands upon his backside.

  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea…

  Fingers, cool and slick, brushed his buttocks. Slowly, they slid between his cheeks, seeming to be testing his limits. He squeezed his eyes shut. A fingertip pressed harder against him. That was actually familiar. Although, for the life of him, he couldn’t recall where from.

  Dylan leant into the touch, encouraging the man further, a soundless complaint droning through his chest when Tracker opted instead to run lazy circles around the area. Teasing him further.

  Desire, savage and raw, buzzed through his skin. He kept his eyes closed, trying with all his might to maintain some control. Despite himself, a whimper constricted his throat. Never had he wanted anything as badly as he craved this.

  The very tip of Tracker’s finger slipped in.

  He grasped the bedding and buried his face in the sheets, waiting for the pain. None came. Quite the opposite, in fact. He groaned against the blankets. Why hadn’t anyone told him this simple thing felt good?

  “Dylan?”

  The call pulled him back into himself. He lifted his head, sharply realising that Tracker had stopped.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes!” The admittance burst forth far louder than he’d intended. Warmth flooded his cheeks. “I’m fine,” he heard himself babbling uncontrollably. The heat finished engulfing his face and began making its way down his neck. “Really. Just please, keep going.” Gasp
ing and eager for more, he rocked against the man’s hand, letting the finger slide deeper.

  Softly chuckling, Tracker gave a few cautious strokes, still testing Dylan’s limit, before a second finger joined the other in pumping in and out of him. Slow at first, then harder and faster, each inward thrust of his long fingers hitting just the right spot.

  Dylan clutched the sheets, his breath escaping in pants and moans. The fire in his gut burned hotter. Its cry for more never quite satisfied. This… this was torture, the sweet, unforgiving kind that threatened and promised to go on forever.

  Slowly, after what seemed like an age, the man’s fingers withdrew. A hand slid up Dylan’s back. He caught the murmur of words, too quiet to make out yet oddly reassuring. The mattress moved beneath them. There was another pop of the cork.

  Dylan shifted his weight from knee to knee. Restless. Unashamedly needy.

  The man’s hands fell upon Dylan’s hip, stilling him. “Ready?” The word came out thick and heavy, full of desire. He was shaking. Or Dylan was. Perhaps both of them were.

  He grunted his assent, no longer certain whether he was capable of speaking, much less the words that would give him it. He wasn’t entirely sure what words were.

  There was pressure. More than before. He held his breath, bracing himself, and waited.

  All at once, the press of the hound faded away. The mattress shifted and Dylan slowly came to the realisation that the elf had stopped.

  Soft laughter came from somewhere over his back. “I cannot believe I almost forgot you have never done this. For gods’ sake, my dear man, breathe.”

  The air left his lungs in a rush. He drew another breath, small and shallow. Then another. Little tremors ran across back. He willed them to still to no avail. He’d asked for this. The knot in his stomach shouldn’t be there.

  Tracker bent over him. The elf’s length, slick and twitching, slid to nestle between his buttocks. “Dylan,” the man purred, sending a fresh shiver down his back. “Try to calm down. I will not go any further unless you truly want it, I swear.” His hands wandered up Dylan’s side. “If you need me to, I can make you relax. Although, I would much prefer you did it yourself. Unless…”