The Slave Breakers, 6/15

[maculategiraffe]

Previous chapter

The next time Bran woke, it was light out, and Yves was shaking his shoulder.

"Rise and shine, you lazy little punk," he said cheerfully. Bran sat up, startled, and examined Yves. He looked tired, and there was a pale bruise on his face, but he smiled at Bran.

"Come on," he said. "Time for breakfast."

"I'm coming," said Bran, getting out of bed. "Are you, um, okay?"

"Yeah, just sore as fuck," said Yves. "I got worked over last night. You can thank me later, when you see what a good mood the master's in this morning."

"What did he do to you?" Bran asked, horrified.

"Mostly just a good solid flogging. And this." Yves touched the bruise.

"But you hadn't done anything wrong!"

"Nobody said I had. Sometimes the master just needs to get his tensions out."

"But he's never hit me," said Bran, bewildered but insistent. "Not once. Not even with his hand."

"After just two weeks away from Dunaev? I should think not." Yves patted Bran on the back and handed him his clothes. "Pain's a funny thing, Bran. Like a catalyst. You know what a catalyst is?"

"No," said Bran, pulling his clothes on with unnecessary violence.

"Yeah, Dunaev probably wasn't much on spare time and access to a library. A catalyst is something that-- you could say it helps something else happen. Dunaev probably used it as a catalyst for your being scared out of your wits, since it seems like that was your ideal state as far as he was concerned. But it can catalyze other things. It can be... cathartic."

"Sorry," said Bran shortly. "Another big word I'm too dumb for."

"You're not dumb," said Yves automatically, then peered at Bran. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," said Bran. "I'm hungry. Let's go eat."

"Fine," said Yves after a moment, still looking at Bran curiously. Bran looked away.



"Bran," said his master after breakfast, "you're glaring at me."

Kneeling at his master's feet, Bran lowered his eyes to the floor. "I beg your pardon, master."

"That's all right," said Holden, sounding amused. "It didn't hurt. But what's going on? I've never seen you look so-- resentful."

They were in the same room where Bran's master had taken him after breakfast nearly every day since his arrival. They called it the training room, Bran had learned. He had gradually lost his nervousness at being surrounded by so many ominous structures and implements, since his master never used any of them to hurt. Bran wondered if this was where his master had brought Yves last night.

"Bran?"

Bran kept his eyes stubbornly on the floor. "Forgive me for contradicting you, master, but I'm not resentful."

"In my entire career you are truly the worst liar I've seen," said Holden amiably. "Most slaves are professional liars by the time they're your age. You must have a hell of a natural ineptitude. Come on, Bran, talk to me. Did Yves say something to upset you this morning?"

"No, master."

"What did he say?"

"I said no, master."

"You're lying."

Bran said nothing.

"Bran, are you trying to get me to punish you?"

"No, master," said Bran, his heart constricting sharply.

"I've never punished you yet," said Holden thoughtfully. "I haven't needed to. You're a good kid. But if you're going to get belligerent on me, maybe it's time."

"Please, master," Bran said desperately, looking up into his master's face. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to displease you. Please forgive me. I beg you."

"Hey," said Holden with unexpected pleasure, leaning down to caress Bran's hair. Bran swallowed and tried to focus on the touch. "Look at you. You're looking at me, you're talking to me, you're afraid of me. Me, not Dunaev. This is real progress, kiddo. I'm proud of you." His fist tightened in Bran's hair. "Now stop fucking lying to me."

"I'm not lying, master," Bran whispered. "I swear."

His master stared into his face for what seemed like hours before he dropped Bran's hair and sat back, still examining Bran thoughtfully.

"Stay here," he said finally, stood up and left the room.

Bran knelt, breathing deeply, wanting to run.

No, for fuck's sake, he didn't want to run. Running was stupid. He'd get nowhere, and he'd be back at square one-- if not worse-- when it came to pleasing his master. No, definitely worse. Because he should know better by now. He did know better.

He still wanted to run, wanted it so badly that it was a strain to stay still. But he wasn't going to. He was going to kneel here and wait for his master to come back and do whatever he was going to do.

Bran didn't even know why he was so scared. It wasn't like he hadn't been through worse. He'd survived two masters whose idea of a good time he didn't like to remember, weathered their pleasures and their rages for three years, and now that he'd gone two weeks without so much as a slap, here he was cringing like a fifteen-year-old at the prospect of being punished again. Holden wasn't a brutal man; if he did punish Bran it wouldn't kill him.

Maybe it was because he didn't even know what the punishment would be for, exactly. Not that that was new, either. But it was new from Holden. Bran had been confused by his new master before, but explanations had always been forthcoming. Now Holden was acting as if Bran already knew something-- and he definitely didn't. He wasn't resentful. And he hadn't been glaring. And Yves hadn't said anything to upset him. Not really.

Bran sighed and shifted his weight restlessly. Okay, maybe now I'm a little resentful.

"Just get it over with," he whispered under his breath, but nothing happened. It occurred to him that Holden had probably gone to ask Yves about their conversation this morning. Bran laid his head on the bench where his master had been sitting and thought about Yves' bruise, trying to imagine Holden inflicting it, Yves' head snapping back with the force of the blow-- not too hard, the mark wasn't that dark, not a real punch, just a smack, across the face. Yves' expression, turning his head back to his master. Like his expression this morning. So fucking-- okay. Not scared, not angry, just...

Do you need me?

Yes.

Smiling.

Smug.

"Oh come on," Bran said aloud to himself.

Was he jealous of Yves? That was ridiculous. Bran knew what a flogging felt like, and he wasn't likely to volunteer for the receiving end of one, no matter what Yves said about cat- whatever. If that was how Yves got off, he was welcome to it. Bran was just lucky someone else was around for when his master needed--

--me?

Yes.

Bran sat back and drew up his knees under his chin, wrapping his arms around them and closing his eyes.

He was jealous. Not of the pain, but of the need. Holden didn't need Bran. Enjoyed him, sure-- Bran knew that. Even liked him. But he wouldn't hesitate to sell Bran when the time came; he'd made that clear.

Well, what was so awful about that? He'd sell him to someone nice, a good fit, and Bran would figure out how to be good enough to make his new master look at him the way Holden looked at Yves, and everyone would live happily ever after. No problem. No reason to start crying. No reason, for fuck's sake, Bran, at all.

But he was still crying when Holden came back in, silently sat down on the floor beside him and put an arm around him, and he cried for a while longer after that, with his master's arm warm and solid around his shoulders, and when he was finished crying, Holden leaned over and kissed his cheek softly.

"I know it's hard," he said. "Making the transition. I know how hard it is, Bran."

How the hell would you know? Bran thought bitterly, but he said nothing, only leaned his head on his master's shoulder, and was held. They sat in silence for a while longer. It was strange to be held when he was tired out from crying, strange and good and warm. Bran wondered vaguely if he were still going to be punished. Finally his master stirred.

"Your mistress and I are going out to dinner tonight," he said, "to the home of the lady who owns Greta's brother."

"Greta has a brother?" Bran asked thickly, and cleared his throat.

"A twin, in fact. Though they're not very alike. But they're fairly close, and Irina and Alix like to give them a chance to visit. So it will just be you and Yves left here tonight. Might be a good opportunity for you two to talk about... anything you have to talk about."

"Yes, master," said Bran, feeling annoyance flare again for a moment at the mention of Yves. Gods, he had to get that under control, and fast. Never mind all this emotional stuff; the plain fact was that making Yves an enemy could get him killed. "I'll talk to him."



But when it was just Yves and Bran in the house, Bran, finding his imagination strangely possessed by Yves' bruise, and by the occasional slight wince when he moved, could think of nothing to say to him, before or during the meal they ate in wary silence in the kitchen, and after eating, went upstairs to avoid him. He lay down on his bed, wondering if Yves' back was striped under the tunic or an even sunburn red, imagining what had gone on last night between them after the door had closed on Bran, while Greta probably cried a little in Alix's arms. Yves would have cried out (or not?) and been strapped down (or not?) and he'd probably gotten fucked; masters liked to fuck a well-heated ass in Bran's experience. Had Holden kissed Yves' lips, his marks, had Yves smiled as he cried out under the leather, his master's cock opening him, hands digging into his welts, the pain catalyzing-- what?

"Bran?" Yves called from downstairs.

Startled, Bran realized with some surprise that his cock was hard. He blushed, though there was no one to see, and smoothed his tunic self-consciously over his knees before getting up and going to the head of the stairs.

"Come down here and sit with me," said Yves. "I made coffee."

"Slaves can't have coffee," said Bran, unable to control the irritation in his voice. Was Yves so adored by his master that he'd completely forgotten the rules by which other slaves lived? "It stains your teeth and-- does something to your circulatory system."

"I got permission. For both of us. Come on, Bran. Don't be angry with me."

It was nice of him not to say "Don't make an ass of yourself" in so many words, Bran thought, and came a little sheepishly down the stairs. Yves smiled kindly at him. Bran saw himself suddenly through Yves' eyes: an attractive but sullen child, with a childish crush on the man who'd rescued him from danger of death, and an equally childish resentment of Yves for being the one their master loved. He smiled back at Yves, his jaw hurting.

Bran's first cup of coffee was bitter but comfortingly warm, his second strangely enjoyable in its pungence. He didn't notice the effects of the caffeine until the sound of the front door opening nearly made him jump out of his skin.

"Mom?" called a girl's voice.

"Oh, great," said Yves under his breath.

A moment later the voice's owner, a tall dark-haired girl of about Bran's own age, hurried into the kitchen and stopped short. "Oh. Hi, Yves. Hi-- I don't know you."

"This is Bran," said Yves, rising. "What are you doing home, Miss Valor? I thought the term wasn't over for another two weeks."

"It isn't," she said. She was tall, angular, and dressed in a plain traveling suit. Bran thought he could detect a resemblance to Greta in the green eyes and high cheekbones, but this girl was thinner and harder-looking, with a pronounced nose and rather severe eyebrows, and her skin was sallow, not creamy and freckled like Greta's. The dark hair must have been Holden's contribution, though otherwise Bran saw little resemblance. "Where are my mom and dad?"

"Out to dinner with Lady Galenova and your uncle," said Yves. "Were they expecting you?"

"No," she said, looking a bit lost. "I meant to surprise them. Is Alix gone too?"

"Yes. Sorry," said Yves. "May I get you something to eat or drink?"

"I'm fine. I ate on the train. When will they be home?"

"I'm not sure," said Yves, "but it shouldn't be too long now."

"Come help me get my suitcase out of the taxi," she said quickly. "I brought home a million books. You too, Brian."

"Bran," Yves corrected, as Bran rose obediently and the two men followed the girl out to the waiting taxi. Between them they lifted an enormous and extremely heavy suitcase out of the trunk as Valor paid the driver, saying, "Keep the change" in a tone more impatient than generous, and followed her back inside, where she shoved the suitcase aside with her foot, came up to Yves, put her arms around his neck and kissed him lingeringly on the lips. He kissed her back gently, without passion or surprise.

"God I'm sex-starved," she said, pulling back and looking at him winsomely. Two dimples appeared in her cheeks, enhancing her resemblance to Greta. "Gordon jilted me, the bastard."

"I know, Miss Valor," said Yves. "We got your letter yesterday."

"Oh, no," Valor groaned. "God damn the post office. I thought for sure I'd get here before the letter did."

Yves laughed quietly.

"I wish you had," he said.

"I'm sorry, Yves, I wasn't doing well that night, I regretted it as soon as I mailed it-- Were they really upset? Did my dad beat you to a pulp?"

"More or less," said Yves.

Valor frowned. "Let me see."

Yves turned around and shrugged off his tunic, displaying a welted back. Bran bit his lip involuntarily. Valor sighed.

"Poor Yves," she said, reaching out to gently stroke the angry stripes. "I'm sorry. Do you hate me?"

"It's hardly the first beating I've gotten on your account, Miss Valor," said Yves with equanimity. "May I put my clothes back on?"

"You didn't catch my subtle hint before about being sex-starved?" Valor teased, turning him around with a touch to face her.

"I did manage to pick up on it," said Yves dryly, "but you know I can't do anything about that until your father gets home."

Valor sighed. "He'll probably send me straight to bed. Alone. Okay, put your stupid clothes back on. What about him?" She pointed at Bran.

"He's a delinquent," said Yves, pulling his tunic back on with a slight grimace of pain. "Your father is in the process of retraining him. No, you may not have sex with him, at least not without your father's permission."

Valor shrugged philosophically. "Any girls in the house right now?"

"No, Miss Valor."

"I'm inundated with stupid snob girls at school. Lisa's the only sensible one in the lot. Well, Gordon's sister has been really decent to me. But then, I thought Gordon was really decent too, until lately-- What was your name? Bran?"

"Yes, Miss Valor," said Bran timidly.

"What did you do?" Valor asked.

"Miss?"

"Why are you a delinquent?"

Bran blushed. "I tried to run away. Twice-- three times."

Valor tsked. "And how's the retraining going?"

Before Bran could answer, the front door opened again, and Bran backed up a few steps automatically, to be out of the middle of whatever was about to happen.

"Valor?" Greta gasped.

"It's me," said Valor, beaming. "Surprise."

"What are you doing here?" Holden demanded.

Valor raised dark eyebrows at him. "Nice to see you, too, Dad."

"Don't tell me you've run off from school over that Marmeladov whelp. I won't have you ruining your future for calf love, young lady."

Ignoring him, Valor stepped forward to hug her mother. "Mom, listen, I'm sorry about that letter, I was upset, I didn't mean all that stuff I said. Gordon's a jerk, that's all. If he can't accept that I've got the best mom in the world, then fuck him!"

"Val," said Greta, pink but smiling. "Language."

Valor giggled, the dimples in her cheeks mirroring her mother's. "Sorry. Um. Nuts to him."

"So you came home to tell us that?" Holden asked suspiciously.

"And to study. Classes were over yesterday and exams aren't for another week and the ruckus in the dormitories you would not believe." She paused to grin ingratiatingly at her father. "Plus, I thought it might speed the grieving process over Gordon if I could spend some time with Yves. He's a much better lover, anyway."

"Oh, Valor," said Holden, sighing with relief or exasperation, Bran couldn't tell which. "We spoiled you, didn't we? We should have tried to protect your virginity until we'd married you off to some rich sucker who was crap in bed, so you'd never know what you were missing."

"Gosh," said Valor sarcastically, "thanks, Dad."

"Eh. Too late now." Holden turned and kissed Yves quickly. "Don't let her stay up too late."

"Thanks, Dad," said Valor again, happily, as Yves moved resignedly to follow her up the stairs.

Next chapter