by Alanna Lynd
Furious, Alard bid back the intrusive thoughts—but it was already too late. A flush had risen to his cheeks, and his prick was stirring in his trousers. Thus distracted, he never saw the shadow that had appeared behind him until it was too late.
A sudden pair of hands firmly clenched around his throat with the strength of an iron vise. With a groan, Alard immediately turned, trying with all his strength to twist out of the sudden attack.
It was impossible to escape; the hands gripped him too firmly. It was also impossible to breathe, and a dull anger roared in Alard's head. How could he have allowed himself to get so distracted?
His chest ached. The thumbs dug in deeper.
Once more, he twisted. Then, with all his remaining strength, he clenched his hand into a fist and boxed forward and upward, straight into the center of the man's unprotected stomach.
A groan was his reward, and the hands loosened their grip. It was not enough to fell the man who had attacked him—but it was enough for Alard to finish turning, and then he ducked, twisting once more, and the man's hands slipped from his throat.
Alard's other hand shot out, this time hitting ribs. His fingers ached, but the man grunted and stumbled a step back.
Then, before Alard had straightened, his attacker came forward with a blow to Alard's head.
It knocked him back against the crumbling wall of the house behind him. Alard barely felt the pain, although there was a moment of dizziness, and he tasted blood trickling from his mouth.
Once more the man's shadow loomed over him. Alard could see now the glint of a knife in his hand. But Alard had prepared. This time, he knew what to expect.
His own hands shot out to grab the man's wrist even as Alard twisted away from him, ducking below his arm as he used the man's momentum to force him to run head-first into the wall.
A muffled cry, then the man collapsed like a shot animal.
Alard stood over him with the knife in his hand, still panting. The old triumph rose inside him as he looked down upon his fallen enemy.
He might have rolled to his belly for his alpha, but he was still Alard, feared by scum like this who preyed on the weak. That had not changed, nor would it!
Alard pulled the irons he carried from his pocket. Before the man had recovered enough to attempt to flee, Alard had his wrists shackled together.
The altercation had drawn a small crowd, he now realized. An old woman was staring from a window with broken shutters further down the alley, a gaggle of street brats were pointing at him from the corner—and there, in the shadow beneath a tree, four rough-looking men were squinting at him.
Excitement rushed through Alard's veins once more. Were these men the fence's customers? Or even better—had these men come to sell stolen goods? Four against one, and in this part of the town, were not promising odds, but his blood was still boiling with excitement. He wouldn't mind a fight.
He licked at the cut at the corner of his mouth, tasting the iron of his blood. He stared at them. For a long moment, there was silence—and then the first man rose.
Alard grinned, reckless all of a sudden. He'd prove himself. He'd prove himself—not to the town, or even to Louvel. But he would prove to himself that he was still Alard: that he might beg for his alpha's cock if he had to, but out here, he was still the same feared man of the law. In this, nothing had changed.
Now all four men had risen. Slowly, they moved towards him. Alard tightened his grip on the knife. He knew what would happen. The anticipation of it was heavy in the air, a tension that could only find one outlet—
And then, there was the sound of running feet.
Around the corner, two men came racing—men he knew well; men in the uniform of the police. Vasseur and Lemoine, two lieutenants who at this time of day might have patrolled the market to make certain that no quarrels would break out, and no pick-pockets could ply their trade.
A corner of Alard's mouth lifted in wry triumph as he stared brazenly at the four men who had advanced towards him. The odds had just shifted—and they knew that as well as he did, for they had halted immediately at the arrival of his reinforcements.
Then another figure made its way around the corner.
Alard felt it like a shock. A tug on his heart—no, a tug at the collar, as if an invisible leash had tightened to remind him of who he belonged to.
It was the formidable figure of Louvel: broad shoulders and strong arms and thighs that could wrestle an oxen, if he had to. Strength enough to deal with these villains.
Strength enough to force Alard to his belly and pull down his pants to teach him his lesson...
Alard fought down the shiver of arousal that sprung up at the thought. This was not the time. These things were for the privacy of bedrooms—perhaps even his alpha's office, if Louvel were so inclined. Which, as today had proven, he was not.
His prick ached once more, throbbing with every step that brought Louvel closer. Alard's throat was dry; his body was tense. He could not stop thinking of how Louvel's cock had been erect as well, huge and swollen beneath the cloth of his trousers.
Alard had done that to him. He'd been sent away... but Louvel had been hard. And now that he knew what it felt like to have that cock make use of him, he couldn't stop thinking of it. The memories assaulted him, reminding him of how he'd arch his back and moan as Louvel made him take all of it, using him in all the ways it was his right after he'd fought and defeated Alard...
Alard exhaled shakily, forcing himself to focus on the shackled man who was still dizzily resting against the wall.
The criminal had regained consciousness, but seemed to have given up, now that Alard's reinforcements had arrived. Across the narrow alley, in the dirty courtyard where the four men had watched him from beneath their tree, Vasseur and Lemoine had taken position, keeping the men from escaping.
Good. A search would certainly yield material enough for further arrests. Men like that would carry stolen goods on their bodies, Alard did not doubt it.
Which left only Louvel, who was walking towards him. His expression was calm, although there was something in his eyes Alard did not quite know how to interpret.
They looked like the sky with a storm approaching, Alard realized when Louvel finally stopped in front of him. He was so close that Louvel's scent enveloped him, making him shiver with instinctive need. Alard's fingers twitched; he could barely keep from touching the collar that marked him as Louvel's.
“Your report?” Louvel demanded, his face stern, the words dark with a hint of growl in them.
Alard had to swallow again. He had never heard that tone before—no, that was wrong. He'd heard it in Louvel's voice, back when the man had fled from prison and marked him for the first time. He'd heard it again a few nights ago, when Louvel had claimed him, body and soul.
But he had not heard it from Saverelle, his superior, who had in truth been Louvel all along.
Alard needed a moment to fight down his instinctive response. Between his legs, his cock throbbed hungrily.
“This man attacked me,” Alard said, nodding at the shackled man at their feet. “He drew a blade on me too. As you can see, he was not successful. I expect that here we have the fence who escaped us before; and there, across the street, his good customers.”
With a loud clank, the window further down the street was shut. A moment later, the old woman appeared on the street. The ragged street brats had crept closer as well, and behind them, a water carrier had appeared together with a cluster of gossips.
Alard flushed. He still felt as though his body was on fire. Being so close to Louvel was torture, especially now that he knew what it felt like to be claimed by him. When would Louvel release him from this misery?
Or perhaps that was his punishment. Perhaps Louvel too was as astonished and dismayed to see Alard's focus fray so easily, when for so many years, Alard's work had been unimpeachable. Did Louvel think that Alard desired to make use of his new position to shirk his duties?
Ala
rd concentrated on breathing calmly, defying the arousal that held him captive. He wouldn't give in. Not here, not like this. Louvel owned him, and he would not deny it—but not out here. Here, his body would be obedient to his mind, as it had always been.
Louvel gave the shackled man a distracted glance. When his eyes returned to Alard, they narrowed, and then his hands shot out and he took a step forward.
Alard gasped in surprise when Louvel's hand grasped his chin firmly. He froze, his heart racing in his chest.
Louvel turned his face into the light, leaning forward until Alard could feel his breath hot against his skin. Louvel's fingers slowly slid downward as Alard swallowed, just barely skirting the cut at the corner of his mouth that throbbed dully at the touch.
The fingers moved further down. Alard's breath stuck in his throat as they pushed the cravat out of the way. He felt cool air against the bared skin of his throat and shivered—and then Louvel's fingers tightened instinctively, not enough to hurt, but enough to make Alard gasp as a new flush of heat rushed through his veins.
“You were hurt,” Louvel said, his voice low and dark.
Almost it was a growl, and Alard felt his prick give a little jerk even as his mouth parted to release a voiceless gasp.
“Here. And here.” Louvel's fingertips found the bruises. They pressed in.
Alard shivered as little sparks of heat ignited beneath the skin, the dull ache of the bruises set aflame by the pressure until he could feel it pulsing beneath his skin in time to his heartbeat.
He was hard. He could not control the arousal that swept through him at the firm touch that allowed no disobedience.
Helplessly, he gazed into Louvel's eyes. His lips were parted but he could not speak. He remembered that they were still standing in the small alley, that there was a criminal at their feet, that a few of the town's gossips had already gathered... And yet, he could not fight the fire that Louvel's touch had summoned.
Where his alpha's fingers dug in, pain sprung up only to bloom into red-hot pleasure that lanced the core of his being until he was taut as a bowstring, held upright only by Louvel's grip. The pulse of his heartbeat was as loud as thunder in his chest. He trembled, held captive by Louvel's dark eyes and the firm pressure of his fingers that mapped out Alard's bruises, as though to wipe away whatever claim another might have laid on him.
Then Louvel's fingers slid lower, tracing along the collar that encircled his throat. Alard's heartbeat was almost panicked, so fast that he thought his chest would burst. He was so hard and painfully swollen that a single touch would push him over the edge... And then Louvel's nail scraped against one of the bruises. Still helplessly holding Louvel's gaze, Alard convulsed.
His climax overwhelmed him with a force he had never known before. Untouched, his cock jerked in his trousers, spilling wet heat with pulse after pulse while he trembled, Louvel's eyes still on him.
It could not have taken more than a few heartbeats, but when it was done, Alard felt dazed. His trousers were soaked with his seed. His face was flushed, and his knees so weak that for a moment he was not certain whether he would be able to walk.
“You will take better care of yourself in the future,” Louvel murmured.
His thumb slid to where the skin of Alard's lip had split, touching the small wound and brushing away some of the blood that had seeped from it.
Alard exhaled a small sigh. He ached to lean forward and lick his blood from Louvel's finger, kiss his hand and swear his loyalty and devotion all over—but they were outside, and they were not alone.
“It is nothing,” he said softly, swallowing against the roughness of his throat.
Louvel's eyes narrowed. He released Alard's face and took a step back.
Had Alard said the wrong thing?
With trembling hands, he drew his coat around himself, blessing the heavy fabric that had hopefully hidden his shame from the eyes of the onlookers.
“If Monsieur sees fault in my performance of my duties, I will gladly bear a reprimand,” Alard then said.
It sounded cold and offended, but now he could not take back his words. He did not quite know why he was acting as he did. No more games—had he not asked Louvel for that himself?
But Alard was not playing a game. It could not be a game, not out here. He was still overwhelmed and dizzy from the release he had found at such a light touch—but he was also furious, and mostly at himself.
How had his focus slipped so much? Had he truly lost all control over himself?
He'd thought he'd be able to serve his alpha with pride. But it seemed that in the end, his surrender turned him into a weak-willed creature that could no longer do his duty to the same standards he had held himself up to for all of his life.
“You will see me in my office later today,” Louvel said, his voice hard. “We will see about that reprimand then. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Monsieur,” Alard replied, hating himself for the way his prick ached again at Louvel's effortless dominance over him.
Had it really come to this? Had he, Alard, who had served so well and so long, now been reduced to this caricature of his former self who could not control his own body, who earned reprimands after decades of flawless service?
“Vasseur and Lemoine will take care of the man. Dismissed.”
Alard bowed stiffly, awkwardly, his cock soft against the wet cloth. He would have to return to his small apartment on his way back, to wash and change clothes—and he would have to pray that no one had noticed how he had spilled himself at Louvel's merest touch.
Chapter 3
He was not called into Louvel's office until dusk had come and they had lighted the lamps. The two lieutenants had already left. Alard had spent the past hour sitting at his desk, trying to busy himself with reports, but he could not quite focus on the observations and charges he was noting down.
Shame was still churning in his stomach. Out in the alley, it had seemed like little more than a game. He had surrendered himself to his alpha, after all; Louvel could have of him whatever he wanted. There was no need for a formal reprimand when Louvel could just grab his neck and bend him over his table to fuck him raw.
But here, in the familiar surroundings and the work Alard had devoted his entire life to, the sense of having failed for the first time brought a new dread with it. Had he disappointed Louvel?
For it was true: the criminal had harmed him because Alard had been distracted. And then, as if to prove his lack of willpower, Alard had spilled himself in his trousers in front of his alpha at the merest hint of a touch.
No, Louvel would have reason to reprimand him.
The more Alard was forced to wait, the more he hoped for it, for he certainly deserved it. It would be fair—and perhaps the shame of it would make it easier to do his duty in the future.
When he was called inside at last, he kept his head lowered in remorse, standing before Louvel's desk with his hands behind his back, prepared for whatever criticism would come his way.
He could feel Louvel's gaze on him. It brought a new heat to his blood, and he flushed with shame at his body's reaction that could neither be denied nor hidden. And yet, perhaps this should be part of his punishment as well. Let Louvel see how little Alard could control himself. Whatever reprimand his superior had prepared would be well deserved.
After a long moment had passed, Louvel stood. Alard did not move, did not even look up when Louvel walked around him. When Louvel stopped behind him at last, he was so close that Alard shivered when hot breath ghosted across his nape.
“Do you know why you are here?” Louvel asked quietly.
Alard swallowed. “To be reprimanded, monsieur.”
Louvel exhaled. Again there was a long moment of silence. Alard felt the tension within him grow. He had to force himself to remain motionless, clenching his fingers to keep from moving.
Finally, there was a touch. Louvel touched his shoulder, and beneath the coat and shirt, Alard felt the bite mark spring to lif
e, flaring up as though Louvel had fanned embers in a furnace. Then Louvel murmured, “Turn around.”
When Alard followed, Louvel began to open his coat until he could strip it off. Alard did not speak or protest, listening to the roar of his blood in his ears.
Would it happen? The thing he had dreaded and wanted—would Louvel have him here in his office, his alpha teaching him his place? Sickened and aroused, Alard could not even say what he would do if Louvel stopped now. Would he beg for it?
He would. He would beg to be punished. That was how far he had fallen. That was how low his surrender to his alpha had brought him.
Louvel's fingers moved to his cravat, working silently, as relentless as everything else about the man. Alard concentrated on his breathing, not quite daring to meet Louvel's eyes. Instead, he shivered as his throat was bared to the room. Then, when the cravat had been put away, Louvel's fingers opened the first few buttons of his shirt, and Alard let it happen as well.
“There,” Louvel murmured when the collar that enclosed Alard's throat was bared. His hand slid up to clasp his throat, fingers caressing the smooth leather that hugged his skin.
Alard released a deep breath. Louvel's fingers hooked into the collar, and the pressure of it felt calming.
“Do I have to put you on a leash?” Louvel said quietly.
With one hand on the collar, he now once more grasped Alard's face with his other hand. His thumb pressed against the small cut at his lip that had since healed, but the spot was still sensitive and ached when Louvel put pressure on it.
“It would be your right, monsieur,” Alard replied thickly.
His lips felt dry. He imagined Louvel's mouth on his. He remembered the taste of his own blood in Louvel's mouth and had to bite back the moan that rose in his throat.
“So it would.” Louvel spoke the words thoughtfully.
He did not release the collar. Instead, his grip on it tightened, until Alard could feel the leather digging into his skin and it became harder to breathe.
