Dreamspinner Press Year Five Greatest Hits

by Tinnean

  “I don’t understand,” Gareth said, flinching slightly as it felt as though Daemon Shar had put claws into his thigh and buttocks. “And if you don’t stop squirming, I will relieve you of the light.”

  “Then put me down, you daft man.”

  “If I do, will you promise to sit still with your leg up and not move?”

  Daemon growled, absolutely stunned at the change that had come over Gareth Terhazien. He had never been anything but the soul of propriety. Even when Daemon had attacked him, he had stood by passively and allowed the assault. But now he had suddenly changed into… what? He was acting as though Daemon belonged to him and more. “I am the con—”

  Gareth bounced him on his shoulder to show him who was in control. “I apologize, Prefect; the consul needs to learn his place in a world without war.”

  “Indeed he does. With the war over, the purses all paid, and as he is not a citizen of Rieyn and so cannot serve in the military in other than wartime, his commission is gone. He is a freeman with no ties to any. He stays with Ehron at his urging and none other. Daemon Shar could leave your brother, and this is the matter I would speak to him of.”

  “And what is your desire, Prefect?” Gareth asked on Daemon’s behalf.

  Prahna gave Gareth a sly grin. “I had thought to invite him to be steward of my estate, but I see that perhaps you have other plans for the hellion.”

  “I am not a—”

  “Make no mistake,” Prahna cut off the smaller man dangling behind Gareth. “He has plotted to secure the seat of shield bearer for your brother by way of befriending Ram Troen and forging a match of your house to that of the archlord’s. I know not how it was done, but I know well his handiwork when I see it.”

  “Prahna!”

  Laughter from the prefect was interrupted by a call from the serving women.

  “Oh,” Gareth said, “My servants bid me that preparations have been made. Come inside.” Gareth presented his modest sleeping wagon. “Enter, Prefect.”

  It was larger inside than Daemon would have guessed. There was a bigger area for eating and entertaining and, behind a sliding wooden door, a tiny bedchamber. There were furs to sit on and linen pillows and a low table covered in meat and cheese and bread. An enormous platter of fruit sat in the center with a steeping pot of tea, a pitcher of water, and an open wine decanter. As Prahna sat down, Gareth passed him by, carried Daemon the length of the wagon, threw open the door, and tossed him down onto his pallet bed. He wasn’t prepared for how fast Daemon rolled over and tried to scramble away, but the space was tiny and so his quarry easy to secure. Gareth grabbed Daemon’s good ankle and yanked him back to him.

  “Let me—”

  In the same moment, Gareth shoved the cowl away, pushing the piece covering Daemon’s face back, revealing the consul. Daemon tried to shove his hand away, but it was too late. Gareth brushed the long mahogany curls from his face and unveiled the amber eyes that appeared when Daemon lifted his head. Thick, brown lashes fluttered for a moment before he looked for the first time on Gareth without the cover of black.

  Daemon couldn’t breathe.

  Gareth’s eyes slid all over him.

  He swallowed hard. “Speak.”

  “’Tis hard when you steal my very breath,” Gareth confessed shakily.

  The mischievous brows, chiseled features, and the full, soft, sinful mouth was enough to make Gareth Terhazien raw with need.

  Mine.

  He heard the word in his head and felt it in every beat of his heart, in the blood rushing through him, in the clenching of his stomach.

  Mine.

  The man belonged to him, and it was done.

  Daemon was shaking as his eyes remained locked with Gareth’s.

  “Why do you tremble?”

  “No one has seen the man that I am in ten seasons, my lord.”

  “For what cause?”

  “I am a beast.”

  Gareth reached out a hand, and Daemon leaned forward into it, closing his eyes as the fingers slid over his cheek and jaw, joined fast by the other hand as Gareth greedily mapped the terrain of the face of his love. “You are beautiful. ’Tis all I see.”

  But how? Daemon’s mind reeled.

  Ravel, Unharc of his brother the Ko-Tai, had cursed him. Whether or not his brother Arterus knew what she had done, he knew not. What he did know was that he was a cat.

  He was covered from head to tail in gray fur. His muzzle was white, and his eyes, which had been a deep burnished-amber, had changed to a bright, frightening, glittering gold. He was stronger and faster now that he was half-man, half-cat, but that was the one and only benefit he had ever found. For ten long years there had been only the transformation drowned in blood as he had gone to war instead of going mad. The metamorphosis would have killed a weaker man, but Daemon, raised to accept fate and to accept duty, had resigned himself to a life of disguise. When he had come upon the battle on the field at Arca, he had rushed forward to save Ehron, seeing the man ready to attack him from behind. The prefect had turned in time to find himself not impaled at the end of a broadsword but instead saved by a man cloaked in black whom he would come to trust with his life.

  All of him was disguised so no one would shriek in horror at the animal pretending to be a man. For ten years he had hidden himself. Serving Ehron had given him purpose. Plotting his ascension gave him a path, but now… now this man he had never expected, had never seen coming, the brother of his lord—this man had looked past the frightening exterior to his heart. This man had wanted what lay beneath sight unseen. And now, by whatever magic bound the spell, he was transformed, and Gareth saw his true form.

  Daemon wanted to test, to see if, by the removal of Gareth’s hand, the fur would return. Would claws again grow where fingers were? Would smells, sights, and sounds assail him? Would he be able to move like the wind? He wanted to know and so asked, “Lift your hand from me, my lord.”

  Gareth’s eyes narrowed. “I would not have you leave me.”

  The only truth Daemon knew at the moment was that never from this moment forward would Gareth ever need to consume himself with such a worry. “I will remain in this wagon unless you order me from it.” His breath hitched. “I swear on my life.”

  Gareth nodded and released the man he had no intention of ever allowing to leave him.

  Daemon sat still and silent, trying not to so much as breathe as he waited for something to happen, for his body to run with fur or to be seized by a devouring pain before he crumpled and died.

  Gareth arched a golden eyebrow.

  “Will you break bread with me or no?” Prahna called to them.

  “We will, Prefect,” Gareth called back, chuckling, leaning forward, and bending down close to the man he planned to make his own. “Perhaps you will spare me a kiss, Consul, that will slake my thirst through this meal.”

  Daemon whined in the back of his throat as he realized that the only transformation he was going through was the one of his body heating, his skin on fire as he ached to press all of it against the man hovering over him.

  “Your rod strains against your lacings,” Gareth growled into his ear. “Shall I suck that for you and drink down your offering?”

  The man was wicked and wanton, and how in the name of the high ones had Daemon missed that?

  “I have taken many men to my bed,” he told Daemon, his voice husky and low, “but never have I taken one as bewitching as you, and if you will be mine, I will never take another.”

  Such sweet words.

  Daemon lifted his hand, reaching up for Gareth, but he suddenly stopped, staring at the glove. Slowly, carefully, he removed the elbow-length leather covering to reveal smooth, pale skin. He wiggled his fingers in wonder before his head tipped back to look at Gareth.

  “Do you want to touch me?”

  He swallowed hard, nodding.

  Gareth took hold of the hand and placed it gently on the side of his neck.

  Daemon’s breath caught, an
d his eyes, the beautiful, amber-flecked eyes, absorbed Gareth’s face.

  He smiled slowly, and Gareth found that breathing was suddenly hard. The beguiling, bewitching creature lying beneath him, staring up at him with such trust, such hope, had stolen his heart without him even noticing. He’d known he wanted the consul, wanted him in his bed, but until that moment, he didn’t realize it was love. How it had happened was hard to fathom, but it was a certainty.

  “As you no longer belong in the service of Rieyn or to my brother,” Gareth said softly, “I would you belong to me, my dearest Daemon.”

  Daemon’s hand slid around the back of the man’s neck and up his nape into his hair. The noise that Gareth made in the back of his throat made him smile. “Such a sensual creature you are.”

  “I simply need you to touch me and bed me and just… stay.”

  But could Daemon stay? “Let me first give you the kiss you crave, Gareth Terhazien,” he said, easing him down close. “For my heart beats with the same desire.”

  Gareth bent and sealed his lips over Daemon’s. He expected the kiss to feel and taste like others he had received and so was overwhelmed that it was not. Daemon ravaged his mouth, kissed him voraciously, sucking, licking, biting, his tongue swirling around Gareth’s as he took absolute possession. Gareth fell into the kiss, stretching out over Daemon, his leg between Daemon’s thighs, pinning him under him, wrapping the smaller man tight in his arms.

  The moan that came out of Daemon made Gareth smile against the man’s mouth.

  “I would speak to you, consul!” Hektar Prahna barked from the other side of the small sliding door. “Molest your man later.”

  Gareth lifted up, his own heavy-lidded eyes locked on Daemon’s. Looking at the consul, seeing his passion-clouded gaze, the dark, swollen lips, hearing his panting breath, Gareth realized how much he ached to be alone with the man.

  “Send him away,” he said, his voice deep and husky. “I need to be buried in you, Daemon Shar. I need to make you mine.”

  Daemon smiled slowly, wickedly, but then sucked in his breath when Gareth accidentally touched his ankle.

  “Oh.” His brows furrowed, his hand instantly in Daemon’s curls, brushing them back from the eyes he was already a slave to seeing. “Forgive me; I forgot, in my ardor, that you were hurt.” He turned and looked over his shoulder. “A scrap more, Prefect.”

  Daemon sighed deeply.

  “The prefect begs for attention, but I will care for your first,” Gareth told him, his hands sliding down Daemon’s leg to his ankle. He propped up the wounded ankle, peeling off the stocking to reveal a small, finely boned, high-arched foot. The wounded ankle was clearly visible, the redness and swelling making Gareth wince.

  “I am well,” Daemon lied, tears welling up in his eyes, overwhelmed and amazed at seeing his own skin.

  “You are hurt,” Gareth corrected him, “and we must wrap this, but first you need a bath.”

  A bath sounded like a dream.

  Gareth opened the sliding door, stepped out, and then closed it behind him. Daemon closed his eyes and let his head fall back on the pillows. It felt so good to be lying down, having another care for him—overwhelming.

  “I will speak to the consul now, Gareth Terhazien.”

  “You will hold on my word, Prefect, or remove yourself from my wagon.”

  Daemon waited to hear Hektar’s decision. The fact that Gareth had given the dangerous man an ultimatum was stunning, and it was even more so that Hektar seemed to be considering the terms.

  “He has only just now been restored, Prefect. I wish to speak to him as much as you.”

  Daemon was surprised at Hektar’s grunt of agreement but had noticed that there was something about Gareth that commanded respect. He was not loud and hard like Ram or Mycah or even his brother. It was more of a quiet strength that radiated off the man.

  Gareth opened the door and called outside. As water was continually heated in several vats throughout the day, minutes later, four male servants carried a large copper tub into the wagon for Daemon to bathe in. A screen was set up so that Daemon could sink naked under hot water without any eyes to see but his own. After a few minutes of soaking and listening to Gareth and Hektar discuss the food, horses, and the ride from the castle, he began to wash himself with the abrasive soap made from meal that Gareth had left for him. It was rough to the skin from the tiny pieces of nuts and seeds in it. The only aroma it gave off at all was to make the washer smell like newly milled grain.

  “Hear me from where you are?” Hektar called to him.

  “Aye, Prefect,” Daemon sighed, the water so soothing he was trembling.

  Gareth sat beside the screen, guarding the only path to the man, wanting more than anything to lift the consul from the water and return him to his bed.

  “Would you hear the news from court?”

  “I would.”

  Deep breath. “It seems that I have been commanded by the warlord to sack Caruvia for her part in the war.”

  “For providing supplies to Crosas?”

  “Aye.”

  “And what of Narsyk?”

  “Why would an empire as vast as Narsyk care about a tiny country like Caruvia?”

  “For the same reason that Crosas cared about Rieyn,” Daemon told him firmly. “Your country bordered theirs. Mind you, one of the many reasons, outside greed, that Crosas even began war with Rieyn was out of fear of Narsyk.”

  “True, Narsyk was rumored to be ending their civil war, and so the King of Crosas wanted to unite the borders of the continent in preparation of an attack from that quarter.”

  “As well as to acquire more land and gold,” Daemon told him.

  “Aye, and only when Rieyn refused to submit did we become the object of war.”

  “So I say to you then, why would a smart man like the warlord ever believe that Narsyk would simply sit idly by and allow Rieyn to conquer a country on their border? This path makes no sense.”

  “I do not understand the move myself, but I was to go, and only this set were those plans changed when I spoke to Mycah,” Hektar told him.

  “Tell me,” Daemon urged, rinsing away the soap and dirt from his skin and hair.

  “It seems that Crosas has been taken under the rule of Narsyk. Cisidian Vahl of the newly formed sixth legion was expelled from Crosas a fortnight ago. The entire occupational force was ordered from Crosan soil on threat of death.”

  Daemon stood up fast and cried out when too much weight was put on his ankle. Gareth was immediately at his side, wrapping him in a thick robe before scooping him up into his arms. He tucked him against his chest, again marveling at how small and fragile the man was.

  “I am well,” he told the bigger man who held him. “I am no trembling maid, Gareth Terhazien. I am the Consul of the First Legion.”

  “You are mine; ’tis all you are,” Gareth told him.

  Normally Daemon would have argued over anyone telling him what he was or was not, but somehow hearing Gareth’s declaration of possessiveness sat well instead of goading his temper.

  “Bring the consul to me,” Hektar ordered.

  Daemon’s fingers trailed over the stubble that lined Gareth’s jaw and across his cheek.

  Gareth turned his face so that he could kiss the palm, his eyes fluttering shut as he drank in the contact of skin on skin.

  Never, ever, had Daemon had another that so wanted him. Even more astonishing was that, sight unseen, Gareth had desired him. Even if he returned to his previous form, Daemon was certain that Gareth’s feelings would remain unchanged. The man craved his attention as much as his touch. It was a stunning revelation.

  “The form that I have so long covered is beastly Gareth Terhazien and well I might find myself returned.”

  Gareth’s eyes opened a crack and glinted in the waning light. “There is no shape you would take that I would not find favor in.”

  “You cannot know the horror I could be.”

  “I have no fea
r and neither should you.”

  It was pointless to argue. “Set me before the prefect.”

  When Gareth placed Daemon down on the furs beside the table, Hektar’s smile was wide.

  Daemon sighed deeply. “Speak, dreg.”

  Hektar shrugged. “I had not thought there would be golden eyes on you, rat-catcher.”

  “No? What other color for a cat?”

  He nodded, reaching out to gently pat the face of the consul. “I am so glad to finally see you, but tell me, why the dark visage during the war?”

  Daemon cleared his throat. “To be mistaken for a maid in a sea of men could be dangerous, Prefect, could it not?”

  “Indeed,” he said, taking in the smooth skin, thick, dark lashes, and plump lips. The man who had stood beside him in battle, been lethal and deadly in combat, had the most delicate features Hektar Prahna had ever seen. Even as he was not a lover of men, there was still no denying that Daemon Shar was not a handsome man—he was a beautiful one. Had he walked through camp with his long, curling hair and big, golden eyes, Hektar did not doubt that he would have been molested. The disguise had been an inspired choice.

  “Speak of Narsyk,” Daemon prodded him as he drank deeply from the goblet of water that Gareth passed him.

  The long line of the man’s throat as he drank had the prefect momentarily transfixed, but the question brought him back to himself.

  “The men leaving Crosas by ship saw a fleet of corsairs flying the flag of the hawk, the great raptor of Narsyk. Others reported seeing an entire armada sailing toward the bay of Creon when they were leaving it. The giant of the west has been awakened by our small war, Daemon, and they will wipe us off the map of the world if they choose.”

  “What are you saying?” Gareth gasped. “Are you telling us that Narsyk has turned its predatory eye on Rieyn and they seek to do us harm?”

  “I tell you that they have left us alone only because they have been engaged in their own civil war. Now that their war is over and they are a country united, it makes sense that they would seek to destroy any that they would consider a threat.”

  “But we pose no threat to them. We don’t even share a border. We border Crosas only on this continent. Caruvia is across the channel from us, and Narsyk lies above that.”