Blurred Bloodlines [2nd in Blurred Trilogy]

by Kallysten

  She slid an arm around Blake's waist. The other followed his arm until her hand closed over his on the hilt of the sword. She slowly guided it back, then down, where it didn't threaten Marc anymore.

  "That's it,” she murmured, and Marc heard the quiet smack of her lips kissing the back of Blake's neck. “I'm not going to take Seneca, but I don't want you to hurt Marc. All right?"

  Blake was trembling by now. He turned in her embrace to look at her, blinking very fast. Marc took the opportunity to pull back. He went to pick up the scabbard and brought it back to them. Blake was still staring at Kate as though not quite believing that he was in her arms. Marc could hardly believe it, either.

  Blake was trembling against her, and Kate didn't know whether to cry or hold him closer. She wanted to do both. The last time she had touched him, he had completely broken down, and without Marc's arms holding him up, he would have fallen to his knees. This time, he was in her arms, and while he still looked a little frightened, he wasn't pulling away. On the contrary, he was the one who had stepped closer to her. And he had done so to protect her. That she had in no way needed protection didn't make the gesture any less touching.

  "All right, Marc is going to slide the scabbard over Seneca now. Is that OK?"

  Blake's only answer was a slow blink. She gave a small nod to Marc, who sheathed the sword. The whisper of metal rasping on metal caused Blake to turn back toward Marc. When the scabbard had slipped down to the hilt, Kate guided the sword closer to Blake. Her fingers entwined with those of his right hand, lifting it to close over the scabbard instead of the hilt. His left hand let go, and he brought the sword closer to his chest, the same way he had held it the previous night, as though cradling a shield.

  "That's better,” Kate crooned and slipped her hand into his. “We don't want to hurt Marc or anyone else. Come on, why don't we sit down?"

  She used her hold on his hand to guide him to the sofa. He sat down with his back to the armrest, his eyes going back and forth between her and Marc. Remembering what Marc had said before about the sofa being Blake's, Kate tried to let go so she could sit in the armchair, but Blake held on to her.

  "Can I sit with you, then?” she asked, and while Blake didn't answer, he kept her hand in his until she sat down next to him, almost—but not quite—close enough to touch. Kate looked up then, and her happiness faded when she saw Marc's expression. He had let himself fall in the armchair and was staring at them, his pain all too transparent.

  "Marc?"

  He gave a start when she said his name and blinked, meeting her eyes with something that looked like an apology. “I was wrong,” he said with a small, tight smile. “I thought he was afraid of you, but he was only afraid of seeing you hurt."

  She shrugged and smiled back. “I believed the same thing. And it's not like you could have known."

  A shadow crossed his face and darkened his eyes enough that Kate's smile wavered. “What is it?"

  Marc slowly shook his head. “I should have known. I should have guessed. He's been terrified of me since the first day. And when I asked him if he knew who I was..."

  Another shake of his head caused Kate to frown. “What did he say?"

  Rather than answering, Marc pushed himself to his feet. Kate could feel Blake shivering at her side, his entire body tensing as though preparing for an attack. Marc had to have noticed as well because he paused very briefly and winced before walking away. Kate watched him go to the end of the hallway that led, she supposed, to the bedrooms. He returned moments later with a slim notebook in his hand. He opened it on the last page and handed it to her.

  "Remember when you suggested that I try to have him write out his answers?"

  He leaned in to point at the first line, where a word had been crossed out. Blake shifted next to Kate, clearly uncomfortable that Marc was so close. Marc started drawing back, but Kate caught his hand, then his gaze.

  "Stay close to us,” she whispered, and after a beat Marc nodded.

  Looking down at the notebook, Kate frowned and tried to decipher the crossed-out word. “What does it say?"

  Marc's hand tightened on hers, and Kate had to hide a wince so as not to alarm Blake.

  "Master,” Marc said, and even though his voice was very quiet, Kate could hear the roughness behind the word. Blake must have heard it, too, because he shifted again, and this time there was no mistaking the movement; he was trying to pull away.

  Looking up at Marc, Kate forced a smile to her lips despite the sadness she felt. She wanted Blake to see she wasn't afraid of Marc, and that he shouldn't be, either. She drew Marc's hand up to her mouth and kissed his knuckles.

  "Marc,” she said, louder than she might have at any other time when he was standing so close to her, “I'd like you to draw a chair and sit with me and Blake. Would that be OK?"

  He glanced at Blake before answering. “That would be nice."

  He sounded grateful and pulled her hand to his lips to reciprocate the soft kiss. After letting go, he went to pick up the armchair and set it just in front of the sofa, close enough that when he sat down his leg brushed against Kate's. She slipped her shoe off and pressed her foot against his. As meager comfort as the touch was, the look he gave her was pure gratitude.

  She returned her eyes to the notebook, and the next word made her smile. She held out the notebook so that it was between the three of them and pointed at the page.

  "He remembered your name!"

  Marc's half-smile was heartbreaking. “He didn't write that. I did."

  "Oh.” Kate's shoulders slumped. She continued to read, hoping to find more reasons to hope. What she found instead were words of pain repeated over and over, the paper ripped beneath them. Her throat tightened.

  "I thought,” Marc said slowly, as though each word cost him, “that he meant you had hurt him. I should have figured it out. He meant that I—"

  "Not you,” she cut in. “You didn't hurt him."

  "I know that.” His eyes turned to Blake, who was looking at his hands, clutched on the sword. “I'm not sure he does."

  She turned the notebook page, revealing line after line of two words repeated over an entire page. Marc and Master. She wondered what Blake had been trying to do by writing these words over and over. Was he trying to figure out who Marc was? Or to convince himself that Marc wasn't the master who had hurt him, maybe?

  Pulling free the pen that was clipped to the notebook cover, she handed it to Blake and opened the notebook to a fresh page. He hesitated for a moment, apparently unwilling to let go of the sword, but finally tucked it between the back of the sofa and his body. He took the notebook and pen with cautious hands, throwing Marc a wary look as though he expected a reprimand. Marc didn't say a word, but he gritted his teeth, clearly unhappy. Kate reached out and rubbed her hand over his shoulder before looking back at Blake.

  "Blake? Do you know who he is?” she asked, her head tilted toward Marc.

  A small frown pulled at Blake's brow, and Kate wondered if he understood what she was asking.

  "What is my name?” Marc asked, his voice blank of any emotion. “Write my name."

  Kate held her breath as Blake looked down at the notebook and the slow letters he was tracing. She started smiling when he wrote Marc's name, but her smile faded when he added a question mark after it, like he still wasn't sure and was afraid to make a mistake.

  "Yes,” Marc sighed. “Yes, Marc. I'm your Sire. Not your... not your master. You do understand the difference, right?"

  Blake's gaze returned to the notebook. Kate thought for a moment that he would answer in writing, but instead he traced over the letters of Marc's name.

  "Do you understand why you're confused about that?” Marc pushed on. “Why you think I'm... someone else?"

  Kate would have given anything for Blake to respond in any way

  "It's the tattoo,” Marc explained, voice tight and mouth twisted unhappily. “I know you must have heard what Simon said. The tattoo makes you believe t
hings that are not true.” His hand rose from where it rested on his knee, twitched toward Blake's thigh, but returned to his knee without making contact. Kate rested her hand over his and squeezed it lightly.

  "Marc never hurt me,” she said when she noticed that Blake was watching their hands, his frown yet again giving away his confusion. “And he never hurt you, either. Someone else did. Someone who looked like him hurt someone who looked like me. Do you understand?” Her throat felt raw, as though she had been talking for hours. “Please Blake, tell me you understand."

  Blake blinked, then lowered his eyes to the notebook in his lap. The pen was pressing hard enough on the paper to leave an imprint, but Blake didn't write anything.

  "It wasn't me,” Marc said, his voice stronger now. “You know it wasn't, right? They wanted you to believe—"

  Marc fell silent when the pen started moving on the paper, words forming very fast, the script even less tidy than it had been so far.

  looked like you sounded like you felt like you tasted like you acted

  "No!"

  Marc's angry exclamation startled Blake so much that the pen drew a wild line on the page. Wide, frightened eyes looked up at Marc. Kate squeezed Marc's hand and said his name quietly, hoping he would calm down before he could upset Blake, but while the volume of his voice dropped, the words were still close to a growl when he said, “Don't you dare say that... that thing acted like me! You're my Childe. I take care of you, I don't hurt—"

  He stopped abruptly again, but this time Blake wasn't writing anything. All he did was flex the fingers of his left hand as he peered at it, frowning. Kate wasn't sure why Marc suddenly looked like he'd just been punched.

  "I had to,” Marc said quietly, and now he sounded as though he were pleading. “I had to fix your hands so you could feed and write and touch yourself."

  The last words startled Kate, and she turned a questioning glance to Marc, but he didn't notice. His entire attention remained focused on Blake. The tip of the pen danced on the page, leaving faint marks behind but no legible words. Blake's look of concentration turned into one of intense frustration, and he shook his head, looking past Marc and toward the fireplace behind him. The fire was long dead, leaving only ashes behind. Kate was afraid, all of a sudden, that Blake's mind was the same, that only traces of him remained, trapped in the body that had once been a man she loved but crumbling to nothing whenever prodded. She blinked very fast, trying to chase away the tears that were rising to her eyes. Marc whispered her name in a heartbroken voice, but it did nothing to help her regain her composure. She stood, intending to go to the kitchen and pour herself a glass of water, but Marc caught her hand and held it tight, pulling her close to him. Sitting up, he wrapped both arms around her and hugged her, his cheek pressed to her stomach. Kate closed her eyes tight and stroked his shoulder, offering both thanks and comfort.

  They remained like that for a few seconds. Marc pulled away first, although he didn't let go, and Kate knew why at once. Behind her, the quiet scratching of the pen on paper was unmistakable. She slowly turned toward Blake and held her breath as she read upside-down the words he had scribbled in furious, uneven lines.

  FIX ME

  Kate's throat tightened. She couldn't have said a word to save her own life, but it was Marc that Blake was staring at, eyes dark and wild.

  Marc shook his head. “I'm trying,” he said quietly. “That's all I've been trying to do for months."

  Blake looked at the notebook again, but as before he seemed unable to write anything, and the pen only made stray marks on the page. His every gesture betraying his frustration, he closed the notebook and dropped it beside him, keeping the pen in his hand. Before either Marc or Kate could say anything or try to calm him down, he scrambled off the sofa and all but ran out of the room.

  "Should we...” Kate started, but already Marc was standing. His hand slipped into hers, and they followed Blake to the kitchen. At first Kate couldn't see him, but when Marc muttered a quiet curse and let go of her hand to rush to the back of the room, she realized Blake was on the floor, sitting with his back to the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him. In the few seconds it had taken them to follow him, he had shoved his sweatpants and boxers down, exposing the tattoo on his thigh, and had tried to write over the dark lines. The pen didn't work so well on skin, though, and under Kate's horrified gaze he pressed harder into his own flesh, drawing lines of blood over the tattoo.

  "Blake, don't!” she cried out, even as Marc reached him and dropped to one knee by his side. He closed his fingers over Blake's wrist, stopping his hand before he could hurt himself any further.

  Her eyes filling with tears, Kate pressed a hand to her mouth to stop the whimper she could feel rising from deep in her chest. Her knees were threatening to cave in, and she let herself fall into the closest chair. Marc pulled the pen from Blake's clenched fingers and threw it across the room.

  "Why...” She swallowed hard and dropped her hand before she started over. “Why would he do this?"

  Blake shut his eyes and banged his head lightly against the wall behind him. His entire body was shaking.

  "Because I told him to,” Marc murmured. He laid a hand at the back of Blake's head and pulled him close. “I told him that if he wanted something, he had to get it for himself."

  He pried a piece of crumpled paper from Blake's left hand and handed it out to Kate without even looking at it. Her hand trembling a little, she took the paper and smoothed it out with her fingers, revealing the drawing of Blake's tattoo that Simon had showed Marc the night before.

  "Is this what you want?” Marc asked, whispering the words against Blake's temple. “You want Simon to try his magic trick on the tattoo?"

  Blake's nod was so tiny that, for a moment, Kate was sure she had imagined it. But then he nodded again, the gesture a little larger this time.

  "I'll go get Simon,” Kate said, and somehow the words sounded like a question.

  Marc closed his eyes and pressed his lips to Blake's hair. “All right,” he whispered. “Get him. Get him now."

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  Chapter 23

  As the front door closed with a soft metallic clank, Marc felt Blake shudder against him.

  "She'll be back,” he murmured, purposefully keeping his voice low so he wouldn't start growling in anger. “She's going to get Simon, and they'll come back to try and help you."

  Blake slowly calmed down, the scent of despair that had been wrapped so tightly around him ever since he had written down “Fix me” in the notebook fading enough that the smell of blood camouflaged it. Marc clenched his teeth to stop the few choice words that were ready to roll off his tongue. As scared, as angry as he had been and still was, he realized that blaming Blake for hurting himself wouldn't help anything now. He didn't want to do more damage with mere words than Blake had done with that pen.

  Pulling away from Blake, Marc sat back on his heels and took a closer look at Blake's thigh. The blood had dried already, leaving dark trails that would flake away at the smallest touch. The scratches didn't look as bad as he had first feared.

  "Stay here,” he said, pressing his hand on Blake's shoulder for a second or two. “Don't move."

  Getting to his feet, he looked down at Blake just long enough to assure himself that Blake wasn't about to hurt himself further. When Blake's hands remained on the floor on either side of him, Marc walked over to the kitchen counter and pulled a clean hand towel from the drawer. He wet a corner of it at the sink and returned to Blake, kneeling next to him once more. Keeping his movements controlled and as gentle as possible, he dabbed at the scratches, cleaning away the blood. Blake started shifting under his touch. At first, Marc thought he was reacting to pain and trying to pull away. Soon, however, Marc realized that Blake's cock, left bare when he had shoved down his sweatpants and boxers, was filling up with blood and hardening.

  Was it his touch, he wondered, that was such a turn on for Blake? He tried not to
touch Blake unless Blake came to him for sexual release; he didn't dare touch him, afraid he wouldn't be able to stop if he did, afraid he would forget that Blake didn't know how to refuse advances anymore. He didn't even appear to know he could refuse them.

  Maybe it wasn't his touch, though. If Simon was right, the magic imbued in the tattoo blurred the lines between what felt good and what didn't. Could it be that it was transforming the pain of the scratches and their cleaning into pleasure? Was magic transforming any pain into a welcome experience for Blake? It would explain why spending so much time kneeling never did anything other than increase Blake's arousal. If it was the case, Marc had only made matters worse whenever he had ignored Blake's need. It felt like every decision he had made to help Blake had been the wrong one. He only hoped that he wasn't wrong again in letting Simon try his magic on Blake.

  Blake's eyes opened again, and they were now focused on Marc, who pointedly refused to meet his gaze. Blake shifted again, and as he did so, his cock brushed against Marc's wrist. Marc drew back his hand. The scratches were as clean as they would get.

  "Up you go,” he said as he got to his feet. He held his hand out to Blake, who took it gingerly and allowed Marc to pull him up. His cock bobbed in front of him as though seeking fingers that would caress it. Marc clenched his hands, then forced them open again so he could tug Blake's underwear and pants up, carefully sliding them over Blake's cock. “Sit down at the table. I'll warm up some blood for you so those scratches will heal faster."

  He turned to the fridge and pulled a blood container out. He filled two mugs and warmed them in the insta-oven, keeping his back to Blake the entire time and trying to will his erection away. After all that had happened, the mixed scents of Blake's blood and lust were still an aphrodisiac to his senses, but now was not the time to indulge. He had recovered some control over his own body by the time he turned back to the table—or so he thought until he saw that Blake was seated, as Marc had requested, but he had pushed the sweatpants and boxers down his legs again, leaving his cock proudly exposed as he sat sideways on the chair.