In Pain and Blood (Spellster Series Book 1)

by Aldrea Alien

  His husband chuckled. “If it is, I think I can live with it.”

  Tracker couldn’t help the soft laughter that gusted out his mouth. “Or rather not, as the case may be.” His gaze slid over Dylan. The urge to do more than sleep had fled. It seemed it wasn’t just the spellster who needed rest. “My apologies, I…” He sighed and scratched the side of his neck, searching the walls in the off chance they had the right words. “If you still wish to—”

  His husband’s barely audible shush drew his head back around. Dylan propped himself on an elbow, the other arm slowly snaking up Tracker’s side. “It’s all right. Just lie down.”

  He grunted his assent and, after a little mutual fumbling across the bed, lay on his back. He’d barely settled before his husband lay on top of him. Their lips met, soft and brief. Repeatedly languid.

  “What is this?” Tracker teased amongst kisses. “You have me roll over just to kiss?” He flashed a grin between a few more pecks. “Not that this is unpleasant, but I was under the impression you wanted a little more.”

  “I do,” Dylan murmured. His husband’s kisses roamed across his jaw to nibble on his earlobe.

  Sparks of pleasure danced down Tracker’s spine, collecting in his groin. He tipped his head back, a soft groan rumbling through his throat. Such an unfair advantage that, one he never used to be so free with allowing.

  Dylan’s lips slowly descended, from his neck to his collarbone. His chest. His abdomen…

  Tracker gasped as his husband’s tongue meandered up his length. It wasn’t often that he felt such a touch. Not that he didn’t enjoy such times. It was almost sinful watching Dylan, a man who’d first sworn a complete lack of interest in other men, hungrily devour him. But he was hesitant to ask for more than what was offered. “Darling,” he breathed, propping himself up on his elbows. “Are you sure you want to?

  His husband’s gaze lifted, along with his head. His tongue dragged along the tip of Tracker’s length. The sight and feel of it forced Tracker to bite his lip to contain a moan.

  Dylan smirked and, opening his mouth wide, engulfed him to the hilt.

  A startled cry tore itself from Tracker’s lips. “H-hello,” he rasped, the word thick on his tongue. “How long has this been part of your repertoire?” And how exactly had his husband managed the feat in such a short time? Tracker couldn’t begin to comprehend it.

  Dylan released him with an altogether wickedly wet pop. “Not long.” He grinned, utterly pleased with himself. “Looks like all that practice paid off.”

  “You practiced?” Tracker mumbled, trying to figure out precisely how and on what. “For me? There was no need to—” He moaned as Dylan’s mouth enveloped him once more.

  His husband’s shoulders shook and the heat of the muffled laughter bathed Tracker’s length.

  Tracker lay back as his legs were manipulated into a more upright position. Before he could register his husband’s intentions, an oiled finger slipped inside him, hitting that spot just right. He dug his fingers into the bedding, his grip tightening at every down stroke. Tracker groaned at the flexing of Dylan’s throat around him and sighed alongside the subtle inhalation before his husband started the motion all over again.

  His husband set such a slow pace, but it was maddening all the same. Whenever he thought he’d the breath to suggest they do something more mutually satisfying, Dylan would wriggle that finger and Tracker forgot just what he’d planned on saying. The man didn’t drive him to the edge so much as he coaxed him there breath by torturous breath.

  “Dylan,” Tracker finally managed to mumble, trying to find the words to keep his husband from tipping him over the edge. At this rate, he’d perhaps a few minutes left. Less if the man opted for one of his wickeder tricks. “Darling, please…” A soft whine tightened his throat. More words tumbled from his lips, an uncontrollable flow of gibberish interspersed with his husband’s name. The edge glittered within range. An easy downward slide into bliss.

  Tracker fought it. He didn’t want to end this just yet.

  Dylan clearly had other ideas. A spark of the spellster’s wicked magic flared to life inside Tracker. Just the smallest of tingles, but was enough. Tracker bucked, thrusting his hips against the man’s face, a wordless cry escaping his mouth.

  That was apparently not good enough, as Dylan increased the intensity.

  Everything exploded into bliss. Tracker’s back arched as he dropped off the edge, clinging to Dylan, seeking all the contact he could manage. His throat became raw, a coarse yell parting his lips. Somewhere in the foggy distance of reality, he felt his husband moan, the buzz of Dylan’s throat adding to the pleasure already swimming his veins.

  Tracker lay still, panting. With his limbs feeling jellified, there was little else he could do. He was well aware that his release had been singular. It left a bitter aftertaste in the back of his mouth and the ghost of a twinge around his balls where the proprietors of The Gilded Lily had once bound him. At least the guilt was starting to lessen.

  Dylan crawled back up the bed, hovering over him like a dark-haired angel. He licked his lips and that was all it took for Tracker to find the strength to wrap his arms around his husband and bring that mouth close enough to claim. A familiar taste lingered on the man’s tongue.

  They parted to breathe and Tracker caressed his husband’s cheek. “Such a cruel thing to do. You know you have started something, yes?”

  Dylan grinned, so terribly smug. “Is that so?” he rasped. It was a special sort of sound, one that could only be gotten by stretching the throat. To hear it coming from his husband set off something very primal buzzing through his body. “Well, I don’t mind.”

  “But I do. It is very one-sided.” He rolled them over. His hand slid down Dylan’s chest. His husband gasped as his fingertips brushed the eagerly waiting flesh of the Dylan’s length. “Look at you, poor man. Let us do something about this.”

  He kissed along his husband’s neck, leaving small wine-coloured blooms upon the man’s ivory skin. Reaching the base of Dylan’s neck, he backtracked up the row of love bites with his tongue, sensing the gentle tingle of the man’s magic healing each little bruise vibrating just beneath the skin.

  Tracker continued his kisses, travelling down his husband’s chest, his ears catching the increasing shudder of Dylan’s breath. The pale skin rose beneath his mouth, maintaining contact for as long as physically possible. Tracker switched to skimming his tongue along the surface, tasting the natural saltiness.

  He breathed deeply of his husband’s scent, subtle over the stronger aromas of parchment and ink. Quite the improvement over the brimstone and ash of last month. Whatever the hedgewitches had him doing now, it seemed to be far safer than blowing up stumps and rocks with black powder.

  Finally, he reached his goal. At any other time, he would tease Dylan, ask him precisely what he wanted, make him all but spell out his desires. Not tonight. He barely had it in him to be gentle as he swallowed his husband’s length, sucking as if Dylan’s life depended on it.

  A hand grasped his hair. His name came brokenly through the moans.

  Tracker became lost in that sound, in the rhythm. He moaned along with his husband. He knew he was good at this—those he’d serviced during his time in The Gilded Lily couldn’t get enough of him—but hearing Dylan slinking his way to the edge was as good as any wine, any herb he’d ever taken, and vastly more addictive. Now they’d an entire building to themselves, it was something he’d been able to indulge in on a regular basis.

  Tracker groaned as Dylan tumbled over the edge and the cries of pleasure turned into ragged pants. But there was a greater treasure to be found at this moment. He slunk up his husband’s body, following the trail he’d taken on the way down until he’d reached the man’s chest. Pressing his lips against Dylan’s skin was enough to tell him how heavily his husband’s heart still pounded.

  The candle was snuffed at the click of Dylan’s fingers, throwing them into darkness. His husband
’s hand snaked around him to press against his back, coaxing him closer. “Come on,” Dylan said. “I know you want to.”

  Tracker complied with the request and, caught off balance by the pressure at his back, wound up collapsing onto Dylan’s chest with a grunt. The heavy beat of his husband’s heart greeted his ear with just the faintest puff of his breath breaking the silence in between. He didn’t get to do this very often, generally too consumed with having his own heart pounding like a bird amongst seed, but listening to that steady rhythm helped him sleep far easier than any medicinal or alcoholic aide.

  “You still awake?” Although Dylan spoke softly, the words rumbled through his chest and clanged terribly in Tracker’s ears.

  He hummed a slurred affirmation. Sleep was temptingly close, but it had yet to claim him. Just a little longer…

  There was a tentative brush of fingertips along his back. Small, soft circles. “I saw Katarina today. Or rather she saw me.”

  “Oh?” Tracker fought to drag his mind back out of the lulling fog of sleep. “And what has our dear hedgewitch been up to?”

  “She’s organising an expedition to Cezhory. Apparently, the locals unearthed a ruin. A large one that’s mostly underground.”

  Tracker grunted. His husband was leading to something, of that he was most certain. “That should keep our dear hedgewitch quite busy.” Off wandering the world without a care as to what she may happen upon. At least she could be sure of nothing as exciting as their previous travels.

  “She…” Dylan cleared his throat. “Well, she wants me as part of her entourage. You’re welcome to come with us. She’s already convinced Marin to join the expedition.”

  “Naturally,” he murmured. He wasn’t entirely certain whether anything more than a strong friendship was happening between the two women, but he’d hazard a guess that the Coven wouldn’t look kindly upon their closeness.

  “In fact, she’d prefer if you did come.”

  “Of course she would. The Coven will want me for my sword.” He never would’ve guessed there was such a dark underbelly in the dwarven lands. The hedgewitches always displayed a front of serene acceptance. To find some disagreed with their leaders enough to attempt stealing artefacts that were supposedly free for all to view was an almost welcome sight. Although the Coven did not approve of Tracker’s corruption of their new apprentice, they did enjoy using his skill with a blade.

  “What do you think?”

  He fell silent, considering. Although Dylan issued no complaints on the dreary tasks the Coven gave him, there was a marked lack of enthusiasm in his work. Not like that time so many months back, when he assisted Katarina in cataloguing the pristine dwarven forge. And, whilst Tracker enjoyed their little play at domesticity, a part of him grew restless. Surely a similar call gnawed at his husband or Dylan would’ve outright refused the woman’s offer.

  But there was one concern that trumped all… “How do Cezhorians treat their spellsters?” If Dylan would not step into Udynea for fear of Tracker being enslaved by the locals, then he was hardly going to let his husband march into a land that punished those with magic.

  “From what I can remember. Magic is rare and those who have it generally live as hermits that the people use as seers from time to time.”

  That didn’t sound too bad. And he’d be at Dylan’s side. “Then we should tell our dear woman that a little journey through a new land would be a welcome one.” A few months out of Dvärghem might be enough to throw off any whispers of their presence. If the hounds were searching for them, they may even decide that their targets were dead or elsewhere. “When would we leave?”

  “In a few weeks, maybe a month. Katarina wants to make sure the mountain roads are dry enough for carts to traverse easily.”

  Tracker hummed. So they would be travelling in midsummer. Much better than the winter trek they originally made through Demarn to the dwarven capital.

  The arms that’d entwined themselves around Tracker’s shoulders grew tighter. “Promise me you’ll be here in the morning?” Dylan murmured. “I hate waking up without you nearby.”

  His lips twisted wryly. It was hard breaking the habit of wandering, of never being certain what the future would actually bring. “Of course,” he purred. He wriggled along the bed, blindly feeling his way, unwilling to lift his head from the lullaby his husband’s chest played, until much of his body lay atop the man’s. “I will stay for as long as you like.”

  Dylan’s grip loosened and the warm, wet press of the spellster’s lips adorned Tracker’s head. “Forever,” his husband breathed into his hair, heating his scalp.

  His chest tightened further and he swore his heart beat a little faster. Tracker snuggled into the warm body beneath him, pressing as close as flesh would allow. Forever. Once, he never would’ve dared to think such a cosy concept could possibly exist for the likes of him. But now, with the beat of his husband’s heart lulling him, he believed.

  No matter whether they spent the rest of their lives here, or wandering the lands—or even on the run, if it ever came to that—he would always have Dylan at his side. His future. His home.

  “Always.”

  THE END

  About the Author

  Mother. Animal Lover. Vampire. Fangirl.

  Aldrea Alien is a New Zealand author of romantic speculative fiction of varying heat levels.

  She grew up on a small farm out the back blocks of a place known as Wainuiomata alongside a menagerie of animals, who are all convinced they're just as human as the next person (especially the cats). She spent a great deal of her childhood riding horses, whilst the rest of her time was consumed with reading every fantasy book she could get her hands on and concocting ideas about a little planet known as Thardrandia. This would prove to be the start of The Rogue King Saga as, come her twelfth year, she discovered there was a book inside her.

  Aldrea now lives in Upper Hutt, on yet another small farm with a less hectic, but still egotistical, group of animals (cats will be cats). She self-published the first of The Rogue King Saga in 2014. One thing she hasn't yet found is an off switch to give her an ounce of peace from the characters plaguing her mind, a list that grows bigger every year with all of them clamouring for her to tell their story first. It's a lot of people for one head.

  Read more at Aldrea Alien’s site.