by Lisa Henry
The lad was stomping around like a drunk, even muttering to himself. He couldn’t have made an easier target. Darragh was a big man but not a clumsy one. He had a fair bit of experience tracking and hunting prey, and he put it to use now. He moved as quickly and as silently as he could towards the lad, thankful that he’d waited so long in the darkness that his eyes had adjusted. Another advantage over the lad, who’d come straight from the firelight.
Except …
Except hadn’t Darragh seen the lad performing some dexterous trick by the fire? And hadn’t he spun like a ballerina? A lad with moves like that shouldn’t be blundering around in the trees. And why the hell would they keep a prisoner right on the edge of the camp like that, where any watcher in the darkness could clearly see him? Particularly when the lad had so helpfully hauled him half out of the boot.
Because this was a trap. Ciaran was bait, and the noisy lad with the key was bait, as well. The bandits knew he was coming. They wanted him to come. Come to the lad with the key. And then what? Well, Darragh wouldn’t give them the chance to spring whatever trap they’d devised for him.
He turned back towards the camp, his heart thumping. He had to move quickly.
An old, rusted car like that. Could he break the lock on the boot?
There was an old tyre iron or something on the ground beside the car. It looked hefty enough for the job.
A slim chance … but if he followed the lad with the key, probably no chance at all. The only advantage he had now was surprise.
Sucking in a deep breath. Darragh broke from the cover of the trees and ran towards the camp, towards the rusted car with Ciaran inside. He had covered about fifteen paces when he was spotted. A shout rang out from behind him.
Run. Run you dumb brute culchie. Run to him. Get him.
Save him.
He had to protect Ciaran. He was the only one, the only one who mattered. Darragh snatched up the tyre iron and bashed the lock with it. Nothing. But there was a sliver of space where the trunk hadn’t closed right, where the metal was twisted and misshapen. He wedged the tyre iron into that space and pried.
Another shout. Someone behind him. The lad, maybe. Or someone else. Darragh didn’t turn around. The men inside the camp had already seen him. They were coming. Darragh looked up to see how many there were. He saw the redheaded leader on his feet, shoving the child behind him. As though to protect the little one. As though Darragh was the danger here.
Darragh wrenched on the tyre iron. Metal screamed.
So did Ciaran, the sound muffled by the gag.
Darragh wrenched again, and the lock gave. The boot swung open.
“Ciaran!” Darragh exclaimed, and Ciaran stared up at him wide-eyed, his grimy face streaked by tears. Darragh reached down and laid his palm against Ciaran’s cold cheek. “I’ve got you.”
Darragh’s moment of triumph was hopeless and short-lived. Did he really think he could carry Ciaran out of here when the bandits were racing for him? When they were already on him?
“Stand down!” the leader shouted. “You, Boru’s man, stand down!”
Boru’s man? It took Darragh a moment to realise the leader meant him. He looked up to find that the man had a firearm and it was pointed at him.
Darragh hooked his fingers behind Ciaran’s gag and tugged it free. “I’m sorry, Ciaran.” He was so, so sorry.
Ciaran only stared, his face blank. Empty.
Someone was already pulling Darragh’s arms behind his back. He didn’t resist as his wrists were bound.
“Well, so,” the lad with the key said, puffing for breath. “Laid all them bread crumbs down and this one didn’t even take a tiny peck!” He reached a grimy hand into the boot and patted Ciaran on the hip. “All right, little birdie?”
“Don’t you fucking touch him!” Darragh shouted, wrenching free from the man who held him. He rammed the lad with his shoulder, sending him sprawling onto the ground. Someone punched Darragh in retaliation, but the blow was badly aimed and glanced off his jaw without much force behind it. It was enough to stun him, though, and that was all it took for hands to grab him by the arms again, restraining him tighter this time.
“You right, Rabbit?” the leader asked, without taking his eyes off Darragh.
The lad climbed to his feet again with a dazed nod.
Darragh just stared at Ciaran, at Ciaran lying helpless and bound in the boot of the car, the gag hanging around his neck like a bandana. The hands on Darragh’s arms held him fast, wouldn’t even let Darragh go to Ciaran and comfort him. He’d been crying. Crying alone in the dark boot of that car, tied up and waiting. Waiting for Boru to claim him again. And Darragh had failed to save him, failed to help him at all.
“Untie him, please,” Darragh said to the man with the gun, his voice hoarse, all the fury gone from him. At least he could help this much. “He’s hurting.”
The man hesitated, but only for a moment. “Go on, Rabbit. Untie him.”
Ciaran cried out as the lad released the ropes, and Darragh bristled. How long had he been trussed up that it hurt to be released? Long enough that it had cut off the circulation to his hands and feet. Long enough that the blood rushing back must have felt like agony.
“Ciaran,” Darragh said helplessly, wanting to gently chafe Ciaran’s hands until they no longer hurt.
The lad—Rabbit—gave a guilty start as Darragh spoke.
Ciaran sat up in the boot, but he didn’t try to run. He just cried silently and rubbed his wrists and ankles. The redheaded man lowered the gun at last. “Send for the king. Tell him we’ve found his traitors.”
Ciaran sobbed.
How bad was it that Ciaran could no longer guard his emotions? Bad enough that all Darragh could think of was how much he wanted to comfort Ciaran, to hold him and shush him and keep him safe. If he was angry at Ciaran before, the feeling was gone from him now. How could he ever be angry at this terrified young man, so desperate for a freedom that was always slipping from his grasp, further and further away?
“And what do we do with them in the meantime?” another man asked.
The leader sighed, as if he were exhausted. “Put them in the big van. Together is fine, and no need to gag them. Just because we’re going along with the mad king doesn’t mean we have to be as cruel as he is.”
“You want us to clear your stuff out first?” the man asked. “Boss?”
“Leave them some blankets,” the leader said. “Nights are getting cold.”
“And where are you going to sleep, if they take your van, exactly?”
“I’ll take Rabbit’s bed, since he’ll be guarding them so.”
“Boss,” Rabbit acknowledged, suddenly soldier-like.
“Eyes and ears open, Rabbit,” the leader said with a tired smile. “Come on, let’s get them shut away before the little ones start asking questions.”
All in all, Darragh thought, it would have been easier to understand the reality of this new, cruel situation if the man were as mad and heartless as Boru. If he hadn’t been the sort of man who helped Ciaran shuffle painfully along into the heart of the camp. If he hadn’t been the sort of man who left them blankets and, after checking it first and removing the scalpel from the first aid kit, Darragh’s pack. If he hadn’t made sure Darragh’s arms were untied and that Darragh and Ciaran had fresh water before slamming doors of the old delivery van he put them in.
At least with a mad and heartless monster you knew where you stood.
Ciaran didn’t resist when Darragh wrapped his arms around him. He knelt with his head against Darragh’s chest, shaking, and Darragh rubbed warmth back into his hands.
“I wish you hadn’t come,” Ciaran mumbled. “I wish you hadn’t followed. But I’m happy you’re here.” He sniffed. “I’m a mess.”
“Happy?” Darragh asked, wondering where he summoned his teasing tone from.
“Relieved,” Ciaran said. “Not to be alone.”
So it wasn’t Darragh, then. There was nothing
special about Darragh; he was just a warm body, just a familiar not-too-cruel face. Of course. This was the man who’d tricked him and run, after all. And yet, the anger still wouldn’t come. He just felt sad for Ciaran, pitying, regretful that he couldn’t help. Ciaran was hurting, and the time for anger had passed.
“Go to sleep,” Darragh said. “Things will be brighter in the morning.”
His mother used to say that, and Darragh had always believed it.
Ciaran made a small sound of dissent, but didn’t speak.
Darragh held him until he fell asleep. Told himself that he wouldn’t let go again, not until he was forced. Which, he supposed, would be any moment now. How long would it take for Boru to come?
There was a bed in the van, or a mattress at least. Darragh carried Ciaran to it and laid him down, his sleepy body slack. Tucked him in. He looked so young in sleep. So vulnerable. Darragh had to take care of him. Whatever that meant. He had a duty to Ciaran, now. As much of a duty as he’d ever had to the people of his village.
“You’re my own, now,” Darragh said softly, stroking Ciaran’s filthy hair. Not mine—Darragh didn’t own Ciaran and no man ever should, not if Darragh had a say, but—“One of my own.” A part of me. Dear to me. Under my protection.
For what it’s worth, Ciaran, I will always fight for you. Even when it’s hopeless.
Especially when it’s hopeless.
Even if I’m only protecting you from yourself.
It was cold in the van, just like Garvan had promised. Nevertheless, Ciaran didn’t expect to wake up wrapped in Darragh as much as the blankets. Darragh’s breath ruffling his hair, Darragh’s hands clasped around his chest, their legs entangled … Ciaran’s first instinct was to pull away. His second was never to move again. In the darkness, with Darragh holding him, he felt safe. Stupidly, irrationally safe. The sound of Darragh’s soft breathing filled the small space at the back of the van, and Ciaran felt himself lulled by the gentle rhythm of it, so steady and sure.
That was Darragh all over, wasn’t it? Stolid. Sensible. Safe.
So safe.
Who knew when Boru would arrive to take him away, but until then he was with Darragh. It was Darragh who slept deeply beside him, his strong arms cradling Ciaran’s smaller, frailer body.
Darragh, who’d come after him, who’d tried to protect him, who’d begged he be untied.
Not the actions of a man who wanted to trade him for a reward. The actions of a man who genuinely wanted to see him safe.
“I’ve got you.”
The way he’d said it, like he never wanted to let Ciaran go.
Well, Ciaran didn’t want to be let go, if having Darragh hold him felt this good. Maybe, for once, instead of thinking about how it would all be ripped away again at any moment, he should instead take what solace he could for as long as it lasted.
Darragh shifted, sighing. He tightened his grip on Ciaran. Possessive, Ciaran would have thought a day ago, and railed against it. Today he didn’t fight it. He gave himself over to it, let his body mould to Darragh’s, his arse settling against the thick length of Darragh’s hardening cock. In his sleep, Darragh growled, and Ciaran closed his eyes and smiled.
What was that nonsense Darragh had said last night?
“Things will be brighter in the morning.”
Bollocks they would, but they were nice now. The mattress didn’t smell too bad, the blankets were warm and free of lice and other pests, and Darragh was holding him.
Darragh was holding him. Ciaran had forgotten what it felt like just to be held, to be wrapped up in another man without attendant feelings of fear and shame and obligation. Only safety and warmth and lust, curling deep in his abdomen.
It was a rare and precious thing, and Ciaran needed to grab it. He pressed back against Darragh’s cock, rolled his hips with a soft, meaningful moan.
Darragh lifted his arm and put a hand on Ciaran’s hip. “No,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. “I don’t want that.”
Liar. Ciaran rocked back against him.
“Ciaran, no.” Darragh stilled him. “Not … not again.” There was a note of real sadness in his voice.
Ciaran chewed his lip. “Because you think I’m playing you? Why would I, now? What do I have to gain?”
“I don’t know,” Darragh said. “I’m not clever enough to keep up with you, Ciaran.”
Ciaran rolled over to face him. “We’re done, Darragh. Finished. We’re dead men. I know what you must think of me. I deserve it.”
“You have no idea what I think of you,” Darragh warned, hand cupping Ciaran’s jaw. Even in the pre-morning darkness, his blue eyes were bright.
“Oh no? So tell me.” Ciaran’s hand covered Darragh’s, not letting him draw away again.
“I’m not sure I have the words,” Darragh replied, but his voice was tender, rubbed raw.
“Say it in Irish, then.” And then Ciaran pushed his hips forwards, grinding their cocks together through their clothes. “And with your body.”
Now Darragh’s bright gaze darkened. His hands slid down to Ciaran’s hips and held him fast. And then Darragh rolled them both, until he half covered Ciaran with his body. Did Darragh want to fuck him again, like last time?
No.
It wasn’t that it wasn’t pleasurable with Darragh, but Ciaran didn’t want that. It hurt, and at the time it had been an act, and the act reminded him of his place in Boru’s bed. Manipulating. Using his body just to survive.
This wasn’t like that at all. Ciaran didn’t want it to be like that.
Besides, Darragh was still inexperienced when it came to sex; there were so many other things Ciaran could show him. Huddled together under the blankets, like two boys on a sleepover, maybe Ciaran could make it feel innocent and wondrous again. Make himself feel innocent again.
“So there were no other boys like you in your village?” he whispered.
“Like me?”
“Boys who wanted boys,” Ciaran raised his hand to Darragh’s jaw and rubbed the pads of his fingers against Darragh’s dark stubble. He shifted closer, working a knee between Darragh’s thighs, bringing their cocks into contact through their layers of clothing. “That nice?”
Darragh’s shaky exhalation answered that question. “No boys like I am, no. You’re the first I … met.”
That’s why. That’s why you can’t look past me. That’s why you followed me. I’m not worth your infatuation; you just haven’t met anyone else to give it to.
“I know I am,” Ciaran said. He rocked his hips, smiling when Darragh’s breath whooshed out of him. “It means you never just messed around then?”
“Messed around?” Darragh asked. “Like, out in the muck or the bog? Of course I have. Chasing down sheep mostly.”
“I could cry, you’re so … so you.” Ciaran’s smile grew. He wormed a hand down between them, fumbling for the button on Darragh’s fly. Kept rocking his hips, as well, just to distract Darragh from blurting out another refusal he didn’t mean. “It can be fun, too, you know.”
“Is that what we’re doing? Are we having fun?” Darragh frowned. “With everything—”
“Shush.” Ciaran rubbed his jaw against Darragh’s. “Just turn your brain off for a moment, won’t you?”
God, he still thinks I’m playing him for a fool somehow.
Ciaran couldn’t blame Darragh for that. When had it been otherwise? Just that one time, in the library. The one time that Ciaran had let himself want something—someone—just for the sake of it, and everything had gone to hell.
“But—”
“Just forget who I am, forget who you are, forget everything,” Ciaran urged. He finally popped that damn button and tugged Darragh’s zip down. He felt the heat of Darragh’s cock against the back of his hand as he struggled with his own fly. “We can have this, and nobody can take it, you understand?”
Darragh nodded dumbly, his breath shuddering out of him.
“It’s all ours,” Ciaran said. An
d you’re all mine. His fly finally down, Ciaran pressed his cock against Darragh’s, rubbing them up against each other. With his own girth added to Darragh’s already large one, his hand couldn’t hope to wrap around both at the same time, but he still tried.
“Ciaran,” Darragh whispered, shuddering. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second as though overwhelmed, then opened them again. “You mean it?”
“I mean it.” Ciaran pressed his lips to Darragh’s jaw, then flicked his tongue out to taste him. He loved it when Darragh let him take control like this and allowed himself to be led. And it wasn’t just Darragh’s inexperience. It was something more than that, and always had been. Darragh didn’t want to hurt him. Darragh cared for him. No matter what he’d done, Darragh had sought to save and protect him, loyal to the point of naivety. At Croke Park. Here in the bandits’ camp. Darragh had run to him first, and damn the consequences.
Ciaran didn’t know why. With Darragh, Ciaran was always playing either the weeping slave or the manipulative whore, but he didn’t want to question why the man looked past both acts. Not when there was so little time left. Could that glimpse of his real self in the library have been enough? Ciaran wouldn’t have thought so, but even now he saw it, reflected back through Darragh’s wide eyes. Not the slave, or the hostage, or the lying Boy, but Ciaran. And every time his name fell from Darragh’s lips, Ciaran earned a piece of himself back.
He groaned in frustration as he ground himself against Darragh, their cocks and his fingers slippery with fluid. They needed more friction. “Just … lie down for me.”
Darragh rolled onto his back, and Ciaran half straddled him, getting his knees on either side of Darragh’s hips. Getting some leverage at last. They were tangled in blankets and clothing now, but it didn’t matter. Ciaran began to thrust into his fist, his cock sliding against Darragh’s. Darragh held his hips and pulled him closer, creating a warm, tight space between them.
Awkward, messy, and hot as hell.
The soft predawn light filtered in through the back window of the van. Grey rather than golden, but Ciaran decided he would remember it as golden instead. His last, golden memory. Here with Darragh, safe in this cocoon of blankets. A person for the last time.
