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Damen dreamed of bells. He was back in Ios, the evening tinged with twilight, the taste of bile and despair in the back of his throat. The blood, the chains. The horrible ringing. His limbs were heavy with drugs, with sleep. He couldn’t move.
He opened his eyes slowly, in stages, and found that his limbs were heavy but he was not drugged; he was chained by the collar amidst Veretian finery, in his usual room in the Prince’s wing. But the bells were real: slow and powerful, a death knell. It was dawn, the sky pink and the air sweet with summer, and Damen did not need to be told that something terrible had happened.
Nevertheless, Laurent made sure to inform him. In what was undoubtedly a busy day for him, he found the time to come visit Damen, looking not unlike his usual self: severe, self-possessed, scornful.
“My uncle has died in the night,” Laurent said. It sounded as if he were talking about the weather. There was something restless in those eyes, but his voice carried no trace of it.
Damen said, “Congratulations.”
“Watch your mouth.” Laurent was calm. Damen had half-expected triumph, renewed threats. The wounds on his back itched.
Laurent didn’t linger long, and Damen found himself, soon enough, staring at the ceiling again. It had been three days since the hunt: half the court had turned out for it in their finery, all the best to impress their Patran visitors. Laurent had shattered his mare’s ankle; the Regent had shattered his skull.
It had been, undoubtedly, an accident. Dozens of eyes had seen the horse startle, the Regent slip off the saddle and hit his head on a rock. The child Nicaise had screamed; physicians had been summoned. Laurent had returned in a mood and set to giving orders. The atmosphere on the way back had been tense, incredulous. There had been no farewell banquet for Prince Torveld.
In the days that followed, Damen caught crumbs of information from Laurent’s household. The Regent had never woken up after his fall; the Council had held two emergency sessions. Rumours swung wildly about what would happen to the kingdom, to the Prince, to the Regent’s pet. Laurent’s guards were looser with their mouths than usual, the servants less tense even in Damen’s proximity, and even Radel’s self-importance betrayed an air of repose. There was a pulse of quiet relief all over the Prince’s household, which only made Damen worried. The thought of Laurent, unchecked, was a frightening thing.
The day after the bells, Damen was brought to the baths to great security. This was not new, but Damen couldn’t help being alert to every moment, constantly on edge. After he’d soaked, a servant oiled his skin; Damen felt cold all over, heartbeat thundering in his ears.
“I won’t fight in the ring,” he told Radel, who was watching, narrow-eyed, as if he expected Damen to attempt to force his way free at any moment.
“The Prince has more important things to do today than enjoy the entertainments of the court,” said Radel. “You’re to go back to your room. Prince’s orders.”
In his room, Damen was chained again, but his hands were left free. If he was going to be raped, this certainly was not efficient. He said as much to Radel, who replied that of course rape would be on the mind of an Akielon savage, who had betrayed the Prince at the first chance he’d got.
Laurent did not come to visit him that day, or the day after. Govart, whom Damen had half been expecting, did not come either. Damen was still brought to the baths every day, but never to the ring, or to serve at court. He tried to speak to the guards whose names he knew — Jord, Orlant, Huet — and learned that there were no ring fights or courtly fêtes to go to: a whole week of mourning had been declared, and the red banners had been swapped in for black. He learned that the Regent’s Guard had been disbanded, which seemed to please Orlant most of all, and that multiple nobles had extended invitations for their whole families to join them at court, as they all wanted to make a show of loyalty to the Prince. One day, he heard Nicaise’s voice speaking to Radel right outside Damen’s door: the words were muffled, but the tone was harried and too-shrill.
Finally — it must have been, by Damen’s count, two weeks — Laurent deigned to visit him again. He was dressed in Veretian mourning blacks, the barest change from his usual harsh blues.
He said, “The Council is to jointly rule Vere until I come of age. They seem to be suspecting I’ve killed you. For this reason, today you will come with me.”
In his hand, he held the golden leash.
Laurent took him to the audience chamber with the empty throne and the red carpet. The hunting tapestries were still there, but the room was bereft of gawking courtiers. It was only Laurent and the five councillors, who didn’t look at all pleased to see them.
“Your Highness,” said Councillor Audin. “This is a closed session.”
“It’s just my Akielon slave.” Laurent’s tone was dismissive. “I thought I might as well bring him along so you’d see I’ve not harmed him. I grow tired of speculations on my character.” To Damen, “You won’t tell anyone what we discuss, will you not? You’re not a gossip.”
Damen wondered if this was Laurent’s new plan: spread rumours about state secrets and then accuse him of divulging them. But he said nothing, and soon enough the session began.
Laurent sat on the dais, in the seat that had been his uncle’s. It was plain that he hadn’t been to many Council sessions before, if any: things had to be explained to him at length. He did not seem familiar with the state of the royal ledgers or the requests of petitioners. Once again, Laurent proved himself indolent and self-absorbed, which shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Damen, and certainly wasn’t to the Councillors. He saw Jeurre catch Audin’s eyes and raise his brows.
But Laurent was bright, too, when he bothered to apply himself. Even misinformed, he made sound suggestions, which he was good at presenting, with clear reasoning and strong rhetoric. Just as Damen was beginning to think that Laurent might have some good sides after all, the conversation turned to the subject of Akielos.
To treat with barbarians was a disgrace, Laurent said. The alliance should never have happened, no matter how many whores Kastor sent to infiltrate the court. He said this with the rod to Damen’s leash dangling from his hand, playing with it.
“Your Highness. The alliance was important to your uncle. He would have wanted peace—”
“My uncle,” said Laurent, “is dead. What he might have wanted does not matter.”
It was a plain misstep. There was a long, uneasy silence; the Councillors looked at each other. Laurent pursed his lips. Then Herode, chiding, “Your Highness. You don’t mean that.”
Laurent bowed his bright head. “I,” he said, haltingly. “You understand why I have no love for Akielos.” When he spoke next, he sounded very young. “I understand the necessities of state, that we must make peace with our neighbours. But I will not travel to Ios.”
Damen blinked. That seemed self-evident to him: of course Laurent would not travel to Ios. That had not even been in question. Herode, he could see, looked just as surprised as he felt.
“I know my uncle was planning to visit Ios, as part of the new alliance. He told me so himself. Is that not true, Lord Guion?”
Guion frowned. “It was only a possibility.”
“He told me so himself,” Laurent repeated. “But I will not set foot in a den of barbarians. If the bastard king wishes to maintain the alliance, he will have to come to me.”
Once again, the whole room was stunned into silence. Damen found he could feel his own pulse in his throat. He heard, as if from far away, Herode ask, “Your Highness?”
“You heard me. This is my condition to maintain the alliance: I will not pay homage to an Akielon bastard. He must come to me.”
He was playing with the chain again, as he had been for most of the session. Damen saw the moment his eyes went from his hand to the chain to Damen himself, who was standing there, stunned. Laurent’s face went from boyish to cruel.
“I see my slave doesn’t wish to entertain the bastard king either. On this we are aligned.” Then he spread his hands, letting the rod clatter to the ground. “But we must do what we must do.”
“Indeed, Your Highness.” It was Councillor Jeurre. He looked, for the first time, reluctantly approving. “Indeed.”
At first, Damen told himself it would never happen. It was just like Laurent, he thought, to deflect what he could not take head on, to set his adversaries an impossible task. Laurent did not want the alliance with Akielos, so he’d given his Council a condition that could not be met. Of course, they’d believed him: the only person to see through Laurent’s deviousness, besides Damen, had been the Regent, and the Regent was dead. Laurent must have guessed that Kastor would never set foot in Arles, not with his kingship so new; he must have all confidence that the invitation would be rejected. He would be ready to return to the Council with a snarl and a haughty look: I told you so.
Days passed. Damen was not required to accompany Laurent to any more Council sessions or courtly events: this was good only insofar as it meant not having to interact with Laurent, but it also meant that Damen was kept in the dark about anything that was happening. He spent most of his days in chains, bored and idle; he’d begun to lose muscle mass. He saw no occasions to escape, short of taking out multiple armed guards when he was being bathed in the morning. Some nights, thinking painful thoughts of home, Damen almost considered attempting it.
The corridors outside his rooms were filled with people. It seemed that the court of Vere had settled into the new state of affairs, with Laurent as the fixed star around which the entire firmament revolved. The Prince’s wing was busy; the Prince’s household was busier still, as Radel helpfully told him. It was now seven months to Laurent’s twenty-first birthday, which made it three months Damen had spent in chains. He was growing restless; worse, he was growing hopeless. His world had narrowed to this beautiful cell of a room and whatever glimpses of conversation he caught from the servants; occasionally, the physician would come to massage his back with perfumed salves. If the Prince’s Guard were bored of watching him, it did not make them laxer in their duties. They would sometimes respond when he tried to engage them in conversation, but not about anything that mattered.
One day, Nicaise came to see him. Damen heard the rumble of the guard’s objections, a childish voice answer, “Oh, I don’t care if he knows,” and then Nicaise was standing in front of him, free of paint and taller than the last time Damen had seen him, which must have been ten weeks ago now. He eyed him, critically.
“You’re still here.” He scowled. “I can’t believe he hasn’t killed you yet.” Then he said, “Have you been fucking him?”
“Hello, Nicaise.”
The scowl got deeper. “Your room is bigger than mine.” He stepped further into the room, well inside the range of the chain. Uncaring. “What do you need a big room for? You’re chained up.”
Damen hadn’t thought of Nicaise, after the Regent’s death. It had been hard to reconcile the reveal of the Regent’s tastes with everything else Damen had observed about the man but, ultimately, it only went to show that everything in Vere was rotten to the core. Damen remembered Laurent saying that he’d offer for Nicaise when the time would come; apparently, he had, if Nicaise had a room of his own in the Prince’s wing.
Nicaise was still speaking — something about Laurent, and how he wasn’t taking Nicaise to court functions, but he clearly wasn’t taking Damen either. How Nicaise’s days were filled with boring tutors now, and court was boring too, because of Laurent. But maybe that would change when the barbarian King got to Arles.
Damen said, “What?”
The Akielon King, Nicaise repeated, as if Damen were stupid. Guion had returned to Ios weeks ago, to extend the Prince’s invitation, and the barbarian King had said yes. Why, he would arrive before the end of the week.
“Do you think he will show you off to the barbarians, make you serve at dinner?” Nicaise said, uncaring of the storm he’d wrought inside Damen’s chest. “Or maybe he won’t. He hasn’t exactly been enjoying his gift.”
It took Laurent three days to come see him, after Nicaise had left. First, Damen had tried to draw the guards into a conversation, to make sure Nicaise hadn’t been lying to him, but these weren’t men Damen knew well and they would not answer. He’d had to wait for Orlant to get on duty, with his big mouth, but even Orlant had refused to bring his message to Laurent.
“He’s already in a mood as it is, with the Akielons coming. Last thing he wants is to hear from you.”
So he had to ask Radel, who said that the Prince was busy hosting the lords of Varenne that evening for dinner, and would have a meeting of the Council in the morning. The Prince, Radel said, had really come into his own. He was admired; he was most important. He did not have time to listen to the whims of a slave.
Damen knew from experience that Laurent would, eventually, listen. So he settled in for a long wait, counting nervously the days inside his own mind. Before the end of the week, Nicaise had said. Damen had lost count of which day it was, and the running of the hour was muffled inside his luxurious cocoon of a cell. He spent the hours in mounting restlessness, feeling unfamiliar fear.
It was a struggle to imagine Kastor here, amidst Veretian frippery; it was even more of a struggle to imagine seeing Kastor again, after everything he’d done to Damen. His hands shook when he thought about being presented to Kastor as a slave, to have to go along with the farce or condemn himself to death. When the Patrans had visited Arles, Damen had withstood the humiliation of it for the sake of Erasmus and those poor other slaves. The thought of having to act servile in front of Kastor made his stomach turn; he couldn’t. He shifted in his room as far as the chain would allow, tied up like an animal.
Laurent, when he showed up, looked well. It took Damen by surprise that he even noticed: he thought himself fairly immune to Laurent’s looks by now, given everything else about him, but it had been weeks, and Laurent’s clothing was less harsh than usual, his bearing more relaxed, his hair freshly cut, emphasising the lines of his jaw. It didn’t mean anything: Damen’s body would never forget the whip. But he did notice.
Then Laurent spoke, “What is it you want?”
“Kastor is coming here.”
Damen had expected some sort of reaction; Laurent’s face, instead, remained pleasantly even. “So you’ve heard. What, excited?” Then he said, “I bet you can’t wait to meet your old lover. Maybe I should have you serve him at the banquet.”
The chain pulled at Damen’s collar. He hadn’t realised he’d stepped forward, moved towards Laurent.
“No. No, you can’t.”
It was a mistake, he knew it immediately. Laurent’s voice turned low and dangerous. “I can’t?”
Damen remembered the leash, the paint, the dinner. He pictured Kastor in the middle of it, watching his brother reduced to a slave. Then he thought — but Kastor wouldn’t be alone — and his heart sank.
“Kastor won’t want to see me,” he said quickly. “He hates me. He sent me to Vere because he couldn’t stand to look at me.”
He was thinking: there would be a retinue, with Kastor. Attendants and even kyroi who would recognise the dead Prince Damianos. It would be the worst confrontation, in Vere, surrounded by Laurent’s men, the Akielons’ loyalties divided. It would not only be humiliating, which Damen might survive: it would be deadly. It would shatter Akielos from within.
“If you bring me to him, Kastor would hate it,” he said.
It was, once again, the wrong thing to say. Laurent affected a pensive look. “So, what you’re saying is that your presence would ruin the bastard’s evening. I don’t see how this should dissuade me.”
There was nothing Damen could reply to that, nothing at all. He breathed in. Went to his knees.
He said, “Please, Your Highness.”
Laurent smiled. It was not a pretty sight. “Look at you. But we’ve been here before, haven’t we? There’s something you want from me. And you have nothing left to bargain with.”
Damen hesitated. The last time, he’d offered Laurent his obedience. But that had been before; Laurent was the most powerful person in his court now. There was nothing Damen could give that Laurent could not simply take himself.
He bowed his head. “Please,” he said again. “I’d do anything.”
The silence stretched. Damen was aware of his every breath, the floor against his knees, the weight of the collar around his neck.
Then Laurent spoke.
“So, to be clear, you will give me anything I want if I won’t parade you in front of the Akielons delegation. Anything at all.” His voice was thoughtful. “Maybe we can come to an arrangement.”
The relief was almost startling. “Your Highness.”
“Oh, don’t strain yourself,” said Laurent. “You won’t like what I have in mind.”
The day of the Akielon King’s welcome, Damen was brought to the baths much later than usual. As it had happened only once before, he received the intimate attentions of the servants, who oiled his chest and limbs and every part of him.
He thought of Laurent warning him that he would not like what he was planning. He thought about Govart, about the ring. He looked to Radel. “What is to happen to me?”
“Tonight, you’re to serve in the Prince’s bedchamber,” Radel said, which wasn’t what Damen had been expecting. He hadn’t thought Laurent would… Radel, judging by the lack of his usual pontification, was not quite sure about it either. But he found his composure quickly, and found it within himself to scold Damen at length: about the honour that was being bestowed upon him, about his lowly position in Laurent’s household, about what it was expected of him. He was to do what the Prince asked, and only that. He was not to overstep his bounds. He was not to harm the Prince in any way. It was a long lecture, and it made Damen think of Adrastus, which in turn made him uncomfortable.
After the baths, he was taken to Laurent’s wing and brought directly to Laurent’s apartments. The same patterned tiles as last time, the same silken decor, the same beautiful view. And a hook newly bolted into the wall near the window, to which his chain was fastened.
Radel said, “The Prince is at the feast for the Akielon visitors; he will return at his pleasure. In the meanwhile, he has suggested that you drink this.”
On a low table, just within Damen’s reach, were a pitcher of wine and two cups. One was as beautifully ornate as the rooms around them, and it was empty; the other was plain and stout, made of wood, filled with water. And something else.
“What is this?”
“It’s a drug. You should know it,” Radel said. “It’s Akielon in origin. Your people give it to slaves.”
“I know it.” Damen stared at the cup. “The Prince has suggested I drink this?” A suggestion was not an order. Radel seemed to catch his meaning; he sniffled delicately.
“The Prince is very considerate.”
“I am sure,” Damen said, which gained him a harsh look but nothing else. He was left alone, in Laurent’s rooms, with the drugged drink. Stared at it.
In Akielos, the drug was given to slaves to help them relax. It made them eager, pliant, needy. Damen had some enjoyable memories of it, but he’d only sampled it himself as a curious youth, nearly a decade ago. He didn’t know what to do: drink it, and be sure to enjoy himself, or leave it there and face the evening clear-eyed. Any gift from Laurent would be poisonous in nature, he reminded himself. Besides, he did not think he would need any help fucking Laurent, even vicious as he was. Then he thought that the drug might help, since tonight was happening regardless.
He watched the sun stretch over the horizon, heard the ringing of cicadas. He remembered that day nine years ago, with Nikandros and two of his new slaves. It was a fond memory.
In the end, he drank. The water tasted sweet, and the residue at the bottom of the cup was pink. He washed it off with some wine from the pitcher and set out to wait.
The sky outside the window was dark by the time the drug hit. It started with dizziness: Damen had forgotten that part. Sat on the floor, he reached out with his hand to steady himself against the ground. He touched the soft carpet that had not been there last time, felt the texture of it against his hands. The silks that adorned his body felt oppressive, heavy. Arousal spiked in his veins; his lips were tingling. His cock went from soft and uninterested to fully hard in what felt like a heartbeat; he dug his fingers into the meat of his thighs, fighting not to touch himself. He could imagine what Laurent would say if he came and saw him rutting into his own hand — the cutting words, the arched brows. Then he found himself thinking of Laurent as he had been that one time, naked in the baths: the pleasant expanse of his body, all that skin pinked from the heat. Damen couldn’t help it; he squeezed at the base of his cock, and the groan he let out echoed in the empty room.
His thoughts wandered. He had no idea what to expect from Laurent, whom his guards called frigid and who did not partake of the erotic divertissements of the court. Maybe he needed a whip to be able to get it up. Unfortunately, in Damen’s drugged state, this did not scare him as much as it might have otherwise.
Time blurred. The chain was long enough that he could stand, barely; Damen would pace a few steps, clasp his hands, rock his hips against the air. His silks were soaked with sweat, his skin hot with need. At times, when he could not help it, he’d touch himself: the relief was instantaneous, and letting go felt like a terrible loss.
He heard Laurent before he saw him, from the tread of his boots, the sounds of hushed conversation outside. Damen sprang to his feet, his hands curled into fists, his jaw set. He wondered how he must look to Laurent: sweaty, dishevelled, hard and wanting.
“Look at that. An Akielon dog in rut.”
He’d said it very pleasantly. In the same tone, Damen said, “I thought that was what you wanted.”
“You have no idea what I want.” Laurent stepped into the room, to the low table with the wine pitcher. He scrutinised Damen’s empty cup and poured himself a drink into the beautiful goblet. He sat himself on the divan, and regarded Damen with a lash-fronded look. “Do you want to fuck me?”
The words, the mild tone, the images they sparked in Damen’s mind. It was too much. Damen’s throat was dry. “Is this how it’s going to be?”
“Probably not,” said Laurent, and Damen exhaled slowly. “But I want to hear you say it. Maybe you will convince me. Do you want me?”
Damen swallowed. “What is it that you want?”
“I want to hear you say it. Would you beg for release?”
There were worse things to beg for, Damen thought. Laurent was cruel but pleasing to the eye; he was, by all accounts, inexperienced. Perhaps, after tonight, he might relax his security; perhaps he might grow less careful around Damen. He said, “I would.”
Laurent’s smile was just as cold as the rest of him. “See? It wasn’t hard.” Then he put his cup aside and stood up. He held his arm out for Damen to take.
“Undress me.”
The laces were challenging. It took, maybe, five minutes for Damen to determine how to divest Laurent of his outer layers, which was made harder by his condition. The warmth of Laurent’s skin through the cloth felt incredible; his calm blue-eyed look was unbearable. Damen’s fingers slipped over those tiny knots; his hands were trembling. Laurent left him to work in silence until Damen was done; at that point, he slipped his jacket off his shoulders and said, softly, “Boots.”
Laurent’s boots were polished to a shine, tall almost to his knees. To unlace them, Damen had to kneel, which Laurent undoubtedly meant to be humiliating but which felt, in this state, incredibly erotic. The carpet was soft under Damen’s knees, and he found himself running his fingers over the leather, feeling the supple give, the shape of Laurent’s legs underneath.
Eventually, Laurent was left in a long white embroidered shirt that fell to his thighs and his pants, which he had unlaced by himself. Damen was breathing hard; he wanted his hands back on Laurent. He wanted many things. He was still chained to the wall.
“You know.” He rolled his neck, and the chain along with it. “I can’t exactly do much, like this.”
“I can see that. If you were free,” Laurent asked. “What would you do?”
Damen hadn’t expected this. “Do you want to hear me talk?”
“Why not. Tell me.”
Damen thought about it. He needed to come so badly that he felt it in his back teeth; he wanted to fuck into Laurent like an animal, to make him gasp and moan and shake. But he remembered where he was, and who he was, and about Laurent’s guards posted just outside. It wouldn’t be impossible, he thought, to make Laurent trust him. Eventually, with time.
He said, honest, “I would ask what you want. I would learn your pleasure.”
Laurent looked amused. “Even though I’ve had you chained and flogged? Are the drugs that good?” Then, before Damen could speak. “Take your cock in your hand, I want to see you spill. Get on your knees.”
Damen, for all that he did not like Laurent, found himself doing as he was bidden. It was the drugs, he told himself, although there was something in Laurent’s voice, so cold and self-possessed, that made him want to shake him out of it, and there was something about being on his knees that was shamefully erotic. He found himself pumping into his hand in time with Laurent’s commands, stopping when he was told. When Laurent said to squeeze tighter, he did. When Laurent said to bring his other hand down to fondle his balls, he did that also.
Damen’s breathing was the only sound in the room. Laurent was staring intently. “Stop,” he said, after some time, and Damen did, letting out a pained moan. He was obeying so that Laurent would lower his guard, he reminded himself. Nothing else.
“I know you were prepared, earlier,” Laurent said. “Did you enjoy that?”
Damen said, frankly, “Not really.”
“No? Was it Radel being there that ruined it for you?” Laurent spoke as though the two of them were in on something together. Then he said, “I want you to put a finger inside yourself while your other hand is around your cock. You’re not allowed to finish yet.”
The way he said it went straight to Damen’s balls. It felt good to tease with his finger at the soft skin between his sac and his hole, but he’d never… before he’d come to Vere, before the two times he’d been touched there by Laurent’s servants in the baths, nobody had ever done that to him.
“Go on,” Laurent ordered. “It will feel good if you do it right.”
Damen knew it could feel good. He’d just never done it to himself, before. It was not his place. But he felt strange now, as though even the air against his skin was too much; his nipples under the silks felt heavy and tight — he shifted his hips into his hand.
“Stop,” said Laurent. “I haven’t given you permission to do that yet. Just fingers. Two of them.”
Damen had been prepared very thoroughly, but that had been hours ago. There was some slickness still inside of him, but it felt tight. The angle was odd: the cuff at his wrist bumped against the flesh of his ass. But Laurent was right that it felt good, especially as addled as he was — that must be the main reason, Damen decided: it couldn’t be just that Laurent was there.
He hadn’t lied when he said he had not enjoyed the attentions of Laurent’s servants, but there was something different about doing it now, about reaching inside of himself when he was like this, hard and leaking and needing something, anything. Damen found himself shifting his hips into it. He tried to reach with his fingers for the spot he knew was there, that he had felt in others. He found he liked the fullness.
“Do you want to come?” Laurent’s voice was heavy, leading. There was something he wanted.
Damen nodded. “Please,” he said, which made heat burst to his cheeks — he wasn’t supposed to beg. But it was wise to keep Laurent happy with him when he was like this.
Laurent said, “You may. But I want you to keep your other hand where it is.” Then, inquisitive, “Has it started to feel good yet?”
Damen did not answer. He’d have hated to say yes, to give Laurent what he wanted to hear. But it was good to rock his hips between the hand on his cock and the fingers in his ass, to have something filling him up.
He came spilling all over his hand, on his silks. Laurent made a soft sound. Then he said, “Stand up.”
Damen stood against the pull of the chain, feeling unmoored, lax from his orgasm.
“Now turn around.”
That was new. Damen wondered if Laurent was going to fuck him now that he’d made him get himself ready. The idea did not scare him as it would have some minutes ago. He obeyed, slowly.
“Put your hands behind your back.”
He did. Damen’s hand was still dirty with come; he didn’t know what Laurent meant to do.
Then Laurent’s hand was encircling his wrist, above the cuff. Before Damen could understand what was happening, Laurent had chained Damen’s cuffs to each other.
Strangled, “Is that what you like?”
“Not exactly,” Laurent said.
Damen turned back around, feeling uneasy. He tested his bindings: there was very little give. He watched Laurent walk to the table once more, pour himself more wine. His pale throat moved as he swallowed; Damen felt himself growing uneasy, thinking of the only time he’d seen Laurent drunk. He wondered how long Laurent meant to keep him like this, tied up and squirming; how many times he meant to see Damen beg. He had just come, but he felt still hungry for it, ready to go again.
“All right,” Laurent said, slamming the goblet back on the table. “I will not be long. Excuse me.”
It was surprising that Laurent should leave him like this. There was no point in struggling against his restraints, but Damen tried anyway, wriggling in place, antsy with the need to touch, to be touched. He imagined Laurent one room over, watching, waiting for him to break. Or perhaps he’d gone to fetch a servant, or to talk with the guards. Maybe he was taking his time on purpose, keeping Damen helpless and needy, so that he would bend that much faster. The need was growing with him already; he licked his lips, and they tingled under his tongue.
Then he heard it: footsteps, more than one person. It was Laurent and, with him, there was Kastor.
Shock ran through Damen like ice. His vision was black and fuzzy around the edges, but he would recognise his brother anywhere: this was Kastor, with a freshly grown beard, his lion pin, his purple-hemmed chiton. He looked foreign, composed, powerful. And then there was Damen: restrained in his chains, obviously well-used. He looked like a slave.
Laurent said, “And here we all are.”
He was looking to Kastor. Sweetly, he said, “My Council wanted me to express my thanks for your gift.”
Kastor was still looking Damen in the eye; he obviously liked what he saw. He said, “Your Council, not yourself?”
Laurent’s fine shoulders shook with a lazy shrug. “I haven’t found much use for him yet.”
“No use at all? You’ve had him for months.”
They spoke of Damen as if he weren’t here. Whatever foolish dream Damen still held that his enslavement might have been a mistake somehow, that Kastor might be innocent of it, vanished. He inhaled a ragged breath.
“Kastor,” Damen said, urgently, in Akielon. “I can’t believe you—” He was aware of Laurent there, but he couldn’t help it. “I would have been loyal to you. I would have kept you by my side.”
“Touching,” Laurent said. “So he was your lover. I’ve wondered.” He said, “I haven’t found any use for him yet, but I thought, if you wanted to put him in his place, I’d watch.”
Damen held back a hysterical laugh. This was bad enough, seeing Kastor when he was like this, defenceless and humiliated, unable to say what was on his mind, without Laurent there making it worse, suggesting obscenities in his pretty voice.
“You don’t understand—” he began, but Laurent smiled at him sweetly and said, “You are not here to talk.” He raised a golden brow in Kastor’s direction. “Well?”
Kastor, with his new beard, looked so much like Father did in Damen’s memories. He was wearing Father’s pin, and looking at Damen as one might look at a speck of dirt on one’s sandal. He said, “Why not?”
“Kastor, you can’t do this.”
“Telling the King what to do,” Laurent said idly. “You have a high opinion of yourself.”
Damen rounded on him. He was chained by the collar, hands behind his back, unpleasantly messy. His pulse drummed with blood; his cock, too. He still felt open from what he’d just done to himself. His lips felt dry; he looked at Laurent. “You don’t understand.”
Laurent said, “What’s there to understand?”
Damen could say nothing. He could speak and be killed, he thought: Laurent’s wrath would be immense if he knew who he had in his hands. Or he could keep silent, and submit himself to…
“Kastor,” he said, in Akielon. “Please.”
Laurent asked, “Does he always whine like this when he’s about to be taken? Like a dog.”
Kastor looked thoroughly unbothered. Worse, he looked as though he was looking forward to this. “I suppose you’re about to see for yourself.”
“Please.” Damen knew it was foolish to appeal to Laurent’s good nature, but he couldn’t help it. The words slipped out of his mouth. “Send him away. Not him. I will do anything you want.”
At that moment, he meant it. But Laurent’s face did not change. He said, “I can hardly refuse our brother of Akielos. He’s a King.”
I should be the King, Damen thought. He said nothing. Kastor had come to stand in front of him; despite everything, Damen’s body reacted. It was the drug, the presence of another so close. It made Damen sway on his feet; he wanted to be touched. He said, “Please, don’t do this.”
Kastor’s dark eyes were merciless. “Maybe I should gag you.”
“No.” It was Laurent. “I want to hear him.”
Kastor put his hands on Damen’s shoulders. Damen could not help it: his treacherous body leaned into it. It felt good to be touched, to be held. It was appalling how much he needed it.
When Kastor spoke next, it was in Akielon. “I’ve thought about doing this. When I sent you away, I thought perhaps you were getting fucked in Vere. Like a slave.”
Laurent was pouring himself another cup of wine. Damen took advantage of his distraction, leaned in to whisper into Kastor’s ear. “Brother,” he pleaded. “Don’t do this. Anything but this.”
Kastor’s fingers tightened on Damen’s shoulders. “You deserve to be put in your place. You always had everything you wanted. You’re nothing now. Besides,” he said. “It was the Prince’s idea. Do you think he likes to watch?”
Laurent had seated himself on the low divan. His fingers were curled nonchalantly around the stem of the wine goblet, his expression serene, his legs tucked under his body in an impossibly innocent pose.
He said to Kastor, “You can just fuck him. I had him get himself ready. He was very happy to do it.”
Kastor said, “And I suppose you’d give the instructions?”
“We all have our strong suits.”
They were again talking of Damen as if he wasn’t there. Damen breathed. He felt as though his skin was too tight for all that he was feeling right now. He wanted to be horrified, but he was all bodily sensations — he swayed side to side, thirsty and overheated. The place where he’d made himself ready felt empty now; there was heat again in his belly, his too-tight balls. His cock was hard again despite everything.
Laurent said, “He’s ripe for it.”
Kastor circled him slowly. Damen caught the moment he looked at his soiled hands; Kastor’s low, familiar laugh.
“What is this?”
“I told you, he’s ready.” Then Laurent said, “Turn him around, I want to watch his face.”
Kastor, who was not usually inclined to obey instructions, did as Laurent commanded readily enough. Damen was reminded of when Laurent had him flogged, how he’d positioned himself to watch the pain on Damen’s face.
The room was spinning. Laurent instructed Kastor in a low voice on where to find the oil, if he even wanted to use oil at all. Damen’s hands flailed in their restraints.
“I think he could take you dry,” Laurent was saying, in that dangerous even voice. “But maybe you could see if he begs you to use the oil. I think he will.”
Kastor’s hand tightened on the back of Damen’s neck. “What an excellent suggestion,” he said. “Are you going to beg?”
“I’ve found it’s easy to make him.” Laurent sounded, and looked, fully dispassionate, bloodless.
Kastor’s hand trailed down Damen’s back, over his shackled arms, down to his ass. It was a heavy, possessive touch; it left goosebumps in its wake. “Will you beg?”
Damen thought with sudden clarity: he was going to be fucked. It wouldn’t be Laurent who did it, but Kastor, who was his brother, and Laurent would watch. He was shoved to the ground on his knees on the carpet again, Kastor above him. He could have fought back, but he would not have won; and so he made himself go lax, to spare his body the pain. It would happen regardless, Damen thought. He would get fucked, and he would come. He knew that it would feel good; it felt good already to feel the touch of Kastor’s hands on him, the brush of his hardness against Damen’s back.
Then Kastor’s fingers were there, sudden and sharp inside him, deeper than Damen had gone before. It stung, and it felt good. He would gain nothing from keeping his silence, Damen thought. So he let himself say, “Please.”
“I think he can do better.” It wasn’t Kastor; it was Laurent. He had one ankle crossed over his knee, goblet still in hand. “Say what you want.”
“Please use the oil,” he said. “Please.”
“That’s not how a slave begs a king,” Kastor said. He said it in Akielon, in a low voice that made Damen shiver despite himself. Kastor’s fingers spread wider inside him, a rough threat, making him wince.
“Please,” he said, in Akielon. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d begged in his language. Kastor’s fingers were harsh inside him; it was hard not to buck into it. Even like this, he needed it. It stung, and he needed it. Damen knew what Kastor wanted to hear. He gritted his teeth. “Please,” he said. “Exalted.”
Kastor’s hand stilled. “That’s good. That wasn’t hard, was it?”
The hand retreated; there was a clink of something glass. Laurent’s face was a mask. The hands — Kastor’s hands — returned, slick with oil. Damen’s cock was so hard that even the light brush of the silks against it felt like torture.
Laurent said, “I think you can make him ask to be fucked. It shouldn’t take long.”
Damen didn’t want to beg to be fucked by his brother, but he’d learned that if Laurent wanted him to plead, he would. He was too out of it, too mindlessly lost to his need. In Akielos, the drug he’d drunk was given to slaves before their First Night. Damen’s only experience with it had been as a wanton sixteen-year-old; it had been fun. He’d never thought it could feel like this, your mind wanting one thing, your body wanting another.
Kastor’s hand, the one that was not inside of him, caressed the ridges of the welts over his back underneath the silks Damen still wore. Softly, “This must have hurt.”
Damen did not answer. Kastor’s fingers traced the scars, as soft as a feather. The other hand was three fingers deep in Damen’s hole, rubbing inside of him, and it had started to feel treacherously, painfully good. It was so much better than when Damen had done it to himself, the angle and Kastor’s self-assuredness as he went about it. He’d found the spot, the one that made slaves mewl; Damen kept his jaw shut and breathed through it. He could feel Laurent’s eyes on his face, like burning. It was either to submit to that stare or to shove his face into the carpet like a slave.
It was hard to keep himself from making noises. He could hear Kastor’s breaths above him, the wet squelch of Kastor’s fingers inside him. He found himself pushing back into it — he could not help himself — it was good, it was so good. When the fingers left him, he found himself bereft. It took all he had not to moan. Kastor’s body pulled away, which felt bad because Damen needed him; it also felt bad because he knew what was coming.
There was a sound of cloth — Kastor’s chiton, Damen thought. It was happening. He wanted it, and he hated that he wanted it. He squirmed in place, cock leaking against his thigh. The friction on the head of his cock felt good, so he did it again.
Laurent said, “Don’t fuck into him yet.” He was instructing the King of Akielos on how to fuck Damen as if he were Ancel in the garden. Kastor, for some reason, was listening, although he snorted a laugh. Over Damen’s head, he said, “You really enjoy watching, do you?”
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to fuck him myself.” Then, in a different voice, he said, “You should rub your cock against him. Make him feel what’s coming. Make him ask for it.”
Having Laurent’s voice tell him what was about to happen didn’t make it any less effective. There was something hard and warm and slick pressing just outside his entrance, and Damen needed it — he felt empty, hollowed out. It would feel good, he thought; he knew it would feel good. His body had been made ready for it, and Laurent was looking at him in blue-eyed contempt. Laurent, who had arranged for this to happen.
Kastor thrust his hips against Damen’s, his cock teasing at Damen’s hole, the head of it rubbing against Damen’s tight balls. Damen couldn’t help but thrust back into it, feeling desperate. The drug was making him aware of parts of him he’d never considered before: his hard nipples, the sweaty skin of his nape. He needed this, he thought, he needed it badly. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but he could feel Kastor’s body heavy above him, the weight of Laurent’s stare.
Kastor said, in Akielon, “Come on, say that you want it.” His hand circled around to squeeze at Damen’s cock — Damen hadn’t been expecting it; he groaned. Kastor laughed. “There it is. I want to hear you.”
Damen heard somebody say, as if from very far away, “Please.” And then, because he knew that wasn’t good enough, “Please, just do it.”
Kastor’s hard released his cock, and Damen whimpered at the loss. Kastor said, like one would to a slave, “Good boy.”
Then he pushed in.
Damen couldn’t help it; he whined. It felt good, the pressure, the sensation of being filled; it was what his body had been needing. Laurent said, “Look at you. You’re so good at taking it.”
Damen couldn’t bear the weight of those eyes anymore. He bowed his head, letting his forehead rest on the carpet. His body shook with every thrust, treacherous sounds spilling from his lips. He told himself that it would be over soon, but he didn’t want it to — he never wanted this to end. The pleasure was mounting inside him. He opened his fists, closed them — chained behind his back, his arms and shoulders had started to hurt. Kastor was fucking into him deep, hitting that spot inside of him that felt so good, and Damen couldn’t keep quiet — he was panting, making sounds, rocking into it. He wondered if Laurent liked the performance. He wondered if Kastor liked the fuck. He wondered how he could go back to Akielos after this, if he ever managed to escape, how he might ever stand in the Kingsmeet knowing what his brother had done to him. He felt a familiar heat growing inside him; his balls felt tight, the head of his cock leaking against the carpet.
When he came, it felt better than anything else ever had. He felt so good; he felt more ashamed than he’d ever had in his life. Kastor said something — his mouth was on Damen’s nape, mouthing into the skin. His powerful thrusts shook through Damen’s body; that spot inside of him felt like a spark of need. When Kastor came inside of him it was hot, and wet. It made him feel used; when Kastor pulled out, his treacherous mouth let out a sound of regret.
Damen was breathing hard against the carpet, empty and leaking. Above him, Kastor said, “Are you sure you don’t want a turn?”
In the distance, Laurent’s voice. “I quite got what I wanted.”
Kastor’s laugh. “You really are everything they say.”
“No,” Laurent said. “I’m worse.”
Kastor left shortly after. He exchanged more words with Laurent but Damen wasn’t listening; still lying on the carpet, still bound, he let the sounds wash over him. The thick wool tickled at his cheek; he could feel Kastor’s come slowly drip out of him.
The last thing Damen expected was for Laurent to attend to him, after, as a slave would. If he’d thought that far ahead, he would have expected to be left on the floor, soiled and fucked out, until the morning. Instead, he was shaken gently as Laurent crouched above him with a wet cloth, wiping the sweat from his skin, the mess between his legs. Damen hissed when the cloth rubbed over his hole; surprisingly, humiliatingly, his cock twitched.
“It’ll wear off.”
Laurent’s tone was the same he’d used when he suggested to Kastor that Damen should be made to beg to be fucked. Damen didn’t say anything.
“You won’t have to see Kastor again for the rest of the visit.”
He visualised, vividly, what it would be to have his hands free, to hit Laurent in the face and make his mouth bleed. “Do you expect me to thank you?”
“No. It’s only what we agreed on.”
There was a clink, and Laurent stepped back. Damen realised too late that his hands had been freed. He could have hit Laurent for real if he’d been faster. Hurt him. He would have been killed after, but Laurent would not have emerged unscathed.
“Why did you do this?” Damen heard his own voice as if through a fog. He rolled around on the carpet, getting up to his elbow, and saw Laurent watching him intently. His cock was filling up against his thigh again; he was too tired to care.
“I did it for the same reason I had you flogged,” said Laurent. “Because I wanted to, and because I could. And also,” he said. “I did it because you said nothing that may have stopped me.”
Damen remembered distinctly that he had begged Laurent not to do this. “I don’t understand.”
Laurent made a soft sound. “Why do you think Kastor chose to do it? He didn’t need much persuading, you know. I only suggested it. He jumped at the chance.”
“He hates me,” Damen said. For the first time, he understood that it was true.
“He does.” Laurent rolled his shoulders under the shirt. Licked his lips. “It is remarkable. He hates you more than I do.”
It was an odd thing to say, but Damen didn’t care to understand the intricacies of Laurent’s mind. He didn’t care about anything right now. He watched as Laurent walked delicately towards the archway that led to the bedroom and threw Damen one last look from behind his shoulder. He moved his mouth as if to speak. Damen watched him swallow. Turn back around.
Eventually, Laurent said, “There is a merchant caravan leaving Arles tomorrow for the borderlands. They might take a passenger to Delfeur, and ask no questions.”
He seemed to be waiting for something. Damen said nothing. Laurent cleared his throat. “You will have to find a blacksmith to remove the collar, of course, but you can do that away from Arles. Nobody will know what it means in Vere, anyway. I will not send my men after you.”
He was still talking. His words were overly precise, inflectionless. Damem blinked up at him from his position on the carpeted floor.
“Nothing to say?”
Damen didnʼt understand. The words made no sense coming from Laurent, who had arranged for Damen to be raped.
“I am telling you that you can go,” said Laurent, impatient. “Tomorrow. To Akielos.”
It seemed like a faraway dream, Akielos, and the man heʼd been there. In Akielos heʼd had a life, a good one. A father and a brother.
Damen did not speak. Laurentʼs mouth opened again, then he thought better of it. His face was very white, like a corpse.
Eventually, Laurent left. And then there was just Damen, alone and aching and reeling, disgusted with himself. In the morning, he thought, Radel would come for him, and he would be cleaned, as if today had never happened, and the days would go on.