Chapter Four

Luka startled awake and winced at the pain pounding in his head.

“Easy, dear one,” someone murmured, and Luka was drawn back against a warm chest. Arms cradled him, muscular, secure, and he kept his eyes closed, breathed in Rhys’s familiar scent and sweet aura. He must be dreaming. This was how he remembered Rhys, strong and vibrant, his love open and beautiful, wrapping around them both.

“Where are we?” he asked. Sometimes his dreams held a kernel of truth.

Rhys’s soft laughter was tinged with sorrow. “You have come to me again, my sweet witch, when I called. Though better if I had wished for you to stay away.”

“Do you hate me so much?” Luka whispered, his heart torn in two.

The familiar arms convulsed around him, pulling him closer. “No. You are my heart, dearest master.”

Luka opened his eyes and drowned in the blue depths peering down at him, so full of love and pain his chest tightened.

“As you are mine,” he confessed, and curled an arm around Rhys’s neck and pulled him lower until their lips met. Rhys kissed him, tentatively at first, achingly tender; then harder, until Luka surrendered with a groan, sliding his tongue between Rhys’s parted lips into heat and home.

“Are you real?” he asked after a delirious moment. His dreams had often started this way, only to leave him broken and alone on waking.

Rhys murmured an incoherent word and slipped his hands under Luka’s tunic. Luka no longer cared. He’d die if Rhys stopped touching him. Rhys pushed against him and Luka eased onto his back on the hard floor, Rhys beside him. They kissed, Rhys’s hunger matching his own, his hands tracing the scars on Luka’s chest he’d gotten over the years. Luka jumped when nimble fingers found a nipple and he greedily swallowed Rhys’s chuckle of delight.

His chest swelled with emotion. He’d missed this. Missed Rhys’s playfulness and passion. They twined together, needing to be closer, desperate touches and kisses. Luka slid a hand between them and undid the knot on his pants. Rhys frantically did the same, his cock slipping out. Luka grabbed his ass with his free hand and yanked him closer, then gripped their cocks together, Rhys’s pale and his darker. If he had oil…

But he didn’t and pumped their members, drinking in Rhys’s moans against his lips, the joy on his face. This was everything. This moment, when Rhys yielded to him, surrendered to the pleasure Luka gave them both. He watched Rhys’s expressive face, his own pleasure rippling through him, mounting with each stroke of his hand, every uncontrolled moan and panted sigh from Rhys.

Rhys’s breath hitched, and sudden, glorious color flooded his skin. His body shuddered against Luka, and he tilted his head back in a silent cry as he swept across the edge into ecstasy. Luka’s heart burst open, his love gushing out in elation and agony. He clutched Rhys to him as he trembled, hot tears wetting his face. He thought he’d never hold Rhys like this again, never bring pleasure to this sweet man who was life to him.

Rhys’s ragged breathing slowed, and Luka loosened his hold, ignoring his own need. But it seemed Rhys would have none of that. Making a low growl sound in his throat, he brushed Luka’s hand aside and gripped his cock, still hard, slick with Rhys’s spunk, and pulled, drawing moan after moan from Luka until his pleasure spilled into Rhys’s hand.

He pushed his face against Rhys’s shoulder and fought the sobs rising in his throat, overcome, and only gradually became aware of Rhys’s hand caressing his head, the murmured words of love in his ear.

Luka sniffed, drew a deep breath. “Are you real?” he whispered once again, terrified of the answer.

Rhys stilled, pulled away, and Luka scrambled to his knees facing him, reaching for his hands to keep him there. They stared at each other in the early morning sunlight finding its way through the windows, Luka’s hungry gaze raking the face before him. It was kinder than the one he’d sat opposite from yesterday. Thinner. More beautiful than words.

“I don’t understand,” he said, utterly bewildered. Was this some dark machination of his enemy? A shapeshifter to torment him? No. The other had been. His heart knew this man.

Rhys’s face softened, and he picked up Luka’s hands, kissing each scarred knuckle. “It was not me in your home these last few days. Believe me, if it had been, you’d have no doubts left.”

Luka felt the heat rise in his face. He must look a fool, knowing the love he couldn’t hide shown in his eyes, curled his lips in an awkward smile. Rhys stood abruptly, pulling Luka up with him. “Come, we can at least be comfortable.”

They crossed the flagstones to a pallet against the wall of the circular room of what must be part of the tower, the stone walls thick and tightly sealed. Windows high in the walls let in daylight and Luka heard the wind outside, the screech of a bird of prey in the distance. But the room was warm despite its bareness and the quilts soft as they sat on the pallet, backs to the wall.

“We’re above the kitchens,” Rhys explained, guessing his thoughts as they shared a scrap of linen to clean themselves, exchanging a grin. “The quilts came from one of the servants. Aethan wouldn’t want to see me in such comfort.”

Luka reached over and twined his fingers with Rhys’s, placing their clasped hands on his thigh. He needed to dispel the bitterness that didn’t belong in Rhys’s voice. “Tell me,” he urged. “Who was it that came to my house and betrayed me?”

Rhys’s breath was a desperate sigh in the bright room, and he wouldn’t meet Luka’s gaze, though his hand in Luka’s tightened. “It was my cousin, Lorin. We were born two days apart, though our upbringing was—disparate.”

Luka felt the tension in him and squeezed his hand. “What is it? Let me help you, my heart.”

Rhys’s voice sounded strained as he spoke with great reluctance, “We share the same father.”

A coldness settled around Luka’s heart. “Aethan.”

“Yes.”

They sat in silence. Luka watched the play of sunlight across the walls, hurting for Rhys. He would spare Rhys further revelations if he could, though perhaps the telling would be cathartic for him. His next words filled Luka with sorrow.

“He raped my mother, his wife’s sister, and she fled to Moss Hollow before he found out about me. He would have destroyed us, had he known.” Rhys breathed deeply and continued, unknowingly wounding Luka with each word, “I don’t know how he found out about me. Mother had died in the winter of my twelfth year, and I did small chores, ran errands, whatever I could in the village to survive and stay out from under the Watchman’s eye. Aethan came the day I turned seventeen, knew me, and took me to that cabin in the forest.”

His voice had grown dull, empty of emotion, and Luka gathered him in his arms, kissing his face until he stopped shaking.

“Did you think I would judge you for what he did?” he whispered against Rhys’s golden hair. Rhys drew a ragged breath as if to speak but Luka silenced him with a kiss on his mouth. “I know the horrors you endured, chained in that dark cellar. That it was at the hands of you own father… Dear heart, it tears at my soul. But there is no blame here for you to bear.”

“I didn’t tell you who he was,” Rhys said, in tears, though hope danced on the face he turned to Luka.

Luka smiled slightly. “I don’t remember asking.” For just an instant the fury he fought to contain for the monster who’d hurt Rhys spilled out. “I would gladly watch him die for what he did to you, both back then and now.”

“Luka, no.” Rhys shifted on the quilts and took Luka’s face in his hands, stared into his eyes. “Put that thought from your mind. You are all that is beautiful and good in the world. I won’t see that tainted by any ugliness. Especially on his behalf.”

Luka blinked in surprise at his vehemence then rested their foreheads together, breathing in Rhys’s scent as he sought his center. What peace he could find filled him, and he raised his face for a kiss, but the rattle of the door sent Rhys springing to his feet. Luka rose more slowly as the door opened inwards.

A familiar face peered around the door then Lorin strolled into the room, the arrogance he’d kept hidden now on display in his walk, the sneer on his face. Rhys’s stance changed as well. He held himself ramrod straight, chin raised, as if daring Lorin to do his worse. There was no love lost between these two, longtime enemies. Luka’s heart ached for them, both victims of a cruel, selfish man.

Lorin stopped a short distance inside the room, his cool gaze looking them over, and his eyes narrowed. “Aethan wants to see you. Both of you,” he amended when Luka hesitated. He followed on Rhys’s heels, but when they passed Lorin, he grabbed hold of Luka’s braid, pulling him to a stop. He jerked his head back and Luka swallowed a grunt of pain.

Lorin’s lusting gaze raked his face, took in his disheveled tunic. He bent close, his breath brushing Luka’s cheek. “I should have fucked you when I had the chance, Witch. I still might, and make my dear brother watch,” he murmured, and licked along Luka’s jawline.

“Let me go.”

Luka didn’t push, kept his voice even, but uncertainty touched Lorin’s face and he released his braid. “Come with me,” he said shakily, and stalked from the room.

Rhys stared at Luka a moment, then suddenly bowed to him. “My lord and dearest master,” he said with pride and love in his eyes. Luka frowned to be so addressed, but Rhys gave him no time to object, linking his arm with Luka’s, and they followed Lorin along the winding staircase downward.

The door at the bottom of the tower opened onto a large room, the flagstone echoing under their feet as they crossed the vast space. The stronghold was newly built, stone walls and oak beams, richly appointed with tapestry and bright rugs. But the servants laying the long table kept their eyes downcast, shoulders hunched as they approached.

Luka grieved, wounded by the thought of the blood mixed with the mortar in the walls. Whispers reached him, faint cries of pain and grief.

“Peace,” he murmured on a wave of compassion. If he had his herbs, sage, and sweetgrasses, he could possibly free them. Perhaps…

He closed his eyes, opening himself to the aura of the room. Waves of anguish struck him, days of misery, hunger, the whip. The cries of a child for the loss of a father, an older brother…

“Hush,” he whispered brokenly. “You don’t have to stay—”

A heavy blow against his back staggered him and he fell and cried out as his knees struck the stone floor, sending pain splintering through him.

“None of that,” Lorin hissed. Rhys put an arm across his shoulders to help him stand, but Lorin shoved him aside with a snarl. “No. On his knees is where he belongs.” He drew a glittering knife from his belt, held it ready. “Try anything, Witch, and I’ll slit Rhys’s throat.” He looked at Rhys, his malice plain. “Gladly.”

Luka raised a hand as Rhys took a step toward him. “Let it be,” he begged. He could see Lorin’s jealousy as a flame around him, fierce, dangerous. It would take little to push him into violence. Rhys’s life was in danger every moment they remained in the castle.

“Yes, brother, do stop. In fact, get on your knees as well. The proper position to great our lord.”

Rhys’s lips thinned as he contained his fury, and he purposely moved closer to Luka, kneeling beside him. A wild gleam entered Lorin’s eyes, but he remained silent, glancing across the room at the sound of boots on the stone floor. Three soldiers in dark livery entered, followed by Aethan, and Luka shivered in the cold, tainted air that proceeded him, affected, but an accurate warning of the deadly nature of the man.

The guards moved to one side and Aethan swept up to them, a false smile on his full mouth, his dark eyes calculating.

“What’s this?” he asked with a simper and stopped before Rhys. “Is this any way to greet your father?” He looked up and exchanged a lewd glance with Lorin. “Maybe it is.” He crowded closer, the buttons of his pants a hairsbreadth from Rhys’s mouth. He licked his lips, face flushing, hand going to the back of Rhys’s head.

A growl rose in Luka’s throat as he gathered himself, anger a hot knot in his chest. Aethan flicked him a dismissive glance, but then the dark eyes widened, and he took a hasty step back before he recovered himself, standing stiffly, eyes flashing.

“As you wish, Witch,” he snarled. “I won’t touch your whore.” His tone turned menacing. “On your feet, both of you.”

Luka made to comply, but Rhys lurched up with a shout of hatred and torment and shoved against Aethan, sending him staggering backward. Lorin’s sharp cry rang in the room, as did the hiss of a blade leaving scabbard. No! Luka sprang in a burst of energy that radiated outward to crash against the walls. Light flashed, blinding. He threw an arm around Rhys and raced with him to the doorway.

“I can’t see!” Rhys called out, his panic resounding in Luka’s breast.

“It will return,” Luka promised, power thrumming through him he fought to contain. Guards blinked, dazed, as they passed, and Luka prayed his strength lasted. He guided Rhys’s steps through sheer will as they crossed yet another long room. The doors came in sight. Once outside, he found men blinking at the sky, rubbing their eyes. His steps faltered on the wide stairs as exhaustion slammed into him.

“I need you,” he whispered fiercely. A loud neigh answered from the stables and a horse raced across the wide yard, kicking up dirt. Luka took a perilous moment to help Rhys mount on its bare back, then swung up behind him.

“Hold on to his mane,” he urged, and slumped against Rhys as the horse surged forward, the powerful muscles bunching beneath his thighs. They cleared the gates and ran for what seemed like leagues, Luka clinging to consciousness.

Rhys gasped, “My sight returns,” and Luka tightened his hold, leaning to his ear. “Find us a safe place,” he murmured, and closed his eyes, letting the warmth of Rhys’s body drive the cold from his bones.