Chapter Eighteen

Luka slid from the stallion’s back, keeping a hand on his shoulder as they stood on the outcrop of rock and gazed at the farm below, the lights of Sweetbrier a short distance away. This was the land Rhys worked before Aethan had taken him. The memory of his bright spirit lingered in the air and soil, gathered at the barn behind the moss-covered house.

The sun was lowering into evening, casting a pale light over the winter landscape. Ice filled the cracks in the stone under his feet, the fine layer of snow beginning to harden as the temperature dropped once again. Luka sighed and sat cross-legged, gazing unseeing at the valley filling with shadows. He missed Rhys.

The stallion moved off, finding a patch of grass on the edge of the forest. Luka huddled into his cloak as familiar loneliness crept over him, somehow heavier today. A slight wind carried the scent of smoke and cooking things to him from the village and an ache started in his heart. He longed to be home, snug in his cottage with a fire crackling on the hearth, Rhys beside him, holding his hand.

It had been his fault both times Rhys had been taken by Aethan. He should have done more to keep him safe. Done better by him and Aliya.

“But I thought my absence would keep his attention from you,” he explained to Rhys’s image in his mind and wiped at his tears before they could freeze on his skin. But he had been wrong, as he’d been so many times in the past, while others paid the price of it. Perhaps that was why his mother had left him. Why Loralyn had returned to the forest, leaving him alone. Rhys would go, sooner than later. Even Ravan…

Light appeared in the farmhouse below against the growing darkness and Luka climbed laboriously to his feet, stiff with cold. He needed to confront the man who’d betrayed Rhys, to somehow find a way to undo Aethan’s web of spies around him, if his lover was to be truly free. He clutched a small grain of hope to his heart that Rhys would forgive him, but he would do whatever he must, to ensure his safety.

Before he could start down the slope under the bluff, the stallion neighed and threw up his head, while joy and panic swept Luka. Rhys was there. How… Small matter. Luka had to hurry. He scrambled down the rocky hill with a silent plea to the earth to guard his steps. Rhys would try to stop him, and Luka could not allow that. He reached the valley floor safely and started across the wide field toward the farmhouse, barren now in winter, crusted with ice and fresh snow that crunched under his boots.

He walked with purpose, gathering his energy close, the lump of ice in his heart spreading. He’d meant to stalk the man, ferret out his secrets, but with Rhys so close… Bursting into the house in a wave of power and terror, wrench the answers he needed from his enemy, by any means, seemed the only course.

He stumbled to a halt, brought up short by the cold fury seething in his chest. This wasn’t like him. But he had never loved this desperately before. Perhaps—

A form sprang out of the darkness and slammed into him, knocking him off his feet. He landed with a heavy grunt, pain knifing up his back. The man grappled with him, but with a supple twist of his strong body, Luka rolled him over onto his back, instantly pinning his hands above his head. His opponent struggled, but Luka held firm, and couldn’t help the smug grin that touched his lips.

“Let me up,” Rhys muttered, squirming to break Luka’s hold. Then he stilled, chest heaving, and something flared in his eyes. Luka was instantly aware of how he lay sprawled over him, a knee between his thighs; groin, hips, chests pressed together. Rhys moved, a sensuous stretch of his body, and Luka was vaguely alarmed at how he roused at having Rhys helpless beneath him, at the mercy of his slightest whim.

The world darkened around them, but Luka could plainly see Rhys’s face, so close. He knew Rhys stared at his mouth, and heat swept him when Rhys moistened his lips, an open invitation. A moan was pulled from him, lust and need, and he lowered his head, touched his tongue to the sweet velvet of Rhys’s lips. They parted, and Luka groaned again and slid into the honeyed heat of his mouth, kissing him long and deep. Rhys sucked on his tongue and Luka felt the pull on his cock. In answer, he pressed his knee against Rhys’s responding hardness.

Luka drew back, breaking their kiss, and scrambled to collect his surging senses. Rhys blinked at him, a trifle dazed, fire in his eyes, mouth parted and moist. He looked wanton, utterly desirable. But Luka couldn’t make love to him in the frozen mud. Could he?

He pushed up, laughing under his breath, and pulled Rhys to his feet with him. “I can never resist you,” he confessed, and brushed his thumb over Rhys’s lips, swollen from their kisses.

“You don’t have to,” Rhys assured him as he straightened his clothing. He rubbed his wrists and Luka gave him a look of dismay.

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Rhys cut off his words with a sharp gesture. “I rather enjoyed being dominated by you. In fact—” He stepped closer, making Luka’s heart pound. “—we need to explore this further. Would you like it, Luka? Me enthralled, powerless, while you take your pleasure in me?”

Luka stared at him, finally remembering to breathe while his pulse thundered in his ears. “You’re distracting me,” he accused, made awkward and shy by Rhys’s boldness. He’d been gentle with his lover, knowing his past, but perhaps Rhys needed more from him. Once again, Luka longed to be home, Aethan’s cruelties a thing of the past, and search out all the ways to bring Rhys to ecstasy.

He drew a deep breath, determined to create this future for them.

“Why have you followed me?” he asked, and then widened his eyes. “Who brought you here so swiftly? I had several hours lead.”

Rhys’s smile left his face. “We’ll discuss you abandoning me later.” He tilted his head, and Luka followed his gaze up the hillside to where the horses stood, dark silhouettes in the dusk. A figure shimmered beside them, and Luka frowned, unable to touch its magic.

“She stepped out of the woods, saying she’s come with a message for you,” Rhys explained, and put a hand on Luka’s arm. “I’m not entirely sure I trust her.”

“Then you are wiser than most. How did she appear to you?”

“Her hair is a flame. Wild green eyes. Surely, an enchantress of some power.”

Luka nodded. He’d known a woman like that, once upon a time. He searched Rhys’s face, saw his faint blush. Of course. Very few mortals could resist the Fae. Had they… No, he wouldn’t ask, and pushed the sting of jealousy from him. The slam of a door inside the cottage brought him back to the matter at hand.

He took a step toward the dwelling, but Rhys tightened his hold on his arm. “You will not harm him, Witch.”

Hot blood scorched Luka’s face at his tone, dismayed he’d caused Rhys to mistrust him. He gave a curt nod in place of a reply, keeping his face averted. The cold spot inside him had melted in the burning shame tightening his chest. He strived to be a good man but had gone against his very nature when he’d contemplated harming another living being. If Rhys eventually left him—and he had no reason to think otherwise—it would be his own doing, nothing more than he deserved.

The farmhouse was lost in shadows, but firelight flickered in a window, oddly comforting, where Luka expected to find apathy and decay. Rhys led the way, climbing the steps of the wide porch, and gave the front door a sharp rap with his knuckles. Luka was disconcerted by his brashness, then remembered Rhys knew the farmer, had worked for him in the past. Rhys would have issues of his own to work through with the man.

They waited. Silence greeted them—then the creak of a board, the fumble of the latch. The door swung inward and a large man filled the entranceway, backlit by the fire. The axe in his hands lowered but was held at the ready. He looked them over, a flicker of recognition in his eyes as they landed on Rhys. With a grunt and jerk of his head, he motioned for them to enter and crossed back to the fire crackling on the hearth.

Luka glanced at Rhys, but his expression was unreadable as they stepped into the cabin, and he closed the door behind them. They took a moment to remove their muddy boots, and Luka shivered, missing the warmth of his cloak as he hung it on a peg by the door. The room was still cold, the fire having only been lit a short time before, and they crossed the barren floor, thankful for the heat of the burning logs and the worn woven rug laid out before it.

The farmer stood to the side and set the axe against the wall at Rhys’s raised brow.

“Why have you come?” he asked gruffly, firelight glinting in his red hair, his gaze sliding to Luka and back to Rhys, who clenched his hands.

“I worked myself near to death for you, Calan, to be beaten and starved in payment. Then you sold me to Aethan. I would ask you why.” Rhys’s cold tone chilled Luka.

Calan gave him a contemptuous look, a sneer curling his hard lips. “What do you have to complain of? Your work was slovenly done, and Aethan paid me far more than your worth. Be grateful you had a roof over your head, Rhys. Who else would have taken you in, without experience or someone to vouch for your character? I got the worst of the deal, to my thinking.”

The two men glared at each other, and Luka studied the farmer. Calan’s face was handsome in the firelight, powerful body evident despite his rough garb. He disarmed Luka. He’d expected the man to be cowardly, easily manipulated by Aethan’s subversions. But Calan was proud and clearly no one’s fool. His gaze was intent on Rhys, dismissing Luka for the moment, leaving Luka free to peer into his heart.

Luka sucked in a hard breath. Pride and anger played on the surface of Calan’s mind as he fenced words with Rhys. But underneath was fear and a sorrow that burrowed deep. Love and unbearable pain twisted his heart, leaving it raw and bleeding. But why…

“You have a son,” Luka stated, and Calan’s indrawn breath was a hiss of pain. Silence fell on the room, eased only by the snap of the fire.

“I don’t—” Calan’s voice broke, and he covered his face with his work-worn hands. He backed to the wall, a shuddering sob escaping between his fingers. “I won’t deny him,” he forced out, and choked as if the words caught in his throat.

Luka’s heart squeezed, and he glanced at Rhys, whose pitying look was tempered with caution. Catching Luka’s gaze on him, he shook his head. “I know of no such person,” he said softly. “I never saw a child on the farm.”

Taking a calming breath, Luka let his glance travel the somber room. A low couch faced the hearth, the pillows bunched as if the man habitually slept there. A solid table and two chairs sat behind it in the shadows. A cup and plate rested on the mantel along with several unlit candles, the remains of Calan’s dinner in a pot over the fire. It was a sparse room for a solitary man. And yet…

A woolen cap rested on a hook beside the mantle. Drawn to it, Luka took the soft hat in his hands. Instantly, the image of a boy, thirteen or fourteen years, sprang to his mind, laughing up at his father. Playing in the nearby creek. Bringing in the cow from the pasture.

He closed his eyes, a tear slipping through his lashes. “Aethan?” he murmured, not to call the sorcerer, but he sent a tendril of thought out in search of his malignant presence. Luka took a sip of air, nauseous. Aethan’s dark essence saturated the wood of the cottage down to its foundation. Luka opened his mind further, finding traces of him in the surrounding fields and outbuildings as well. His hold on the land and its caretaker was strong, too much for Luka to break. It remained for Calan to do so himself.

Calan staggered from the wall with a wounded cry, lurching over to grab the cap from Luka’s hands, shoving him aside. “Don’t touch this! How dare you—”

“Peace,” Luka told him.

Calan stared at him, the anger gradually leaving his face until only sorrow and anxiety remained. He crossed to the couch and sat, hands between his knees, rolling the cap around and around.

Luka’s heart ached for him. “How long has he been gone?” he asked gently, though he could guess the answer.

“Months before Rhys came to work for me,” Calan said heavily, eyes on the fire, though he glanced up at Rhys’s low sound of pain. “Aethan said he’d be returned once I took Rhys in and reported back to him. He didn’t keep his word,” Calan ended, impotent rage thickening his voice.

“Are there any others, like you, who watch for him?” Luka pushed, senses heightened to catch any stray thoughts of treachery.

Calan jabbed a hand through his thick hair. “Perhaps, but they are unknown to me. Please go. I have endangered Tarian’s life by speaking with you.”

“I have masked our presence,” Luka assured him. “Aethan will not know we’ve been here.” He took a step closer, the pain and hopeless fear from Calan washing over him. “Can you tell us where your son is?”

“There is a cottage in the forest outside Sweetbrier—”

Rhys gave a strangled cry, his pain slamming into Luka before Rhys brutally checked it, and stood, face turned as he fought for control. Luka watched him in dismay, dread creeping through him. He feared to ask the next question.

“Has he been held there long?”

Calan shook his head. “He was moved around, though he is there now. Aethan tortured me with the knowledge, warning me to stay away. I tried to rescue Tarian once, the first month he was taken. Aethan sent me three of his fingers in retaliation. I haven’t tried since.”

Luka held perfectly still as the full horror of what Calan claimed sank in. How had he not known Aethan had taken another prisoner? Rhys’s suffering had been the tolling of a bell in his head, insistent, striking his heart. Perhaps because Luka had already been involved in his life?

He drew a troubled breath. Aethan was indeed strong if he could hide Tarian from him. He met Rhys’s vicious, tortured gaze, and for a moment the weight of his failures crushed him. But he set it aside, accepting there would be a reckoning one day.

“We’ll set him free,” he promised Rhys’s unspoken plea.