The Slave Breakers, 11/15
Jul. 18th, 2007 12:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maculategiraffePrevious chapter
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been kneeling there when someone came in and knelt down beside him.
"Bran," said Alix softly, "are you all right?"
Bran looked up at his mistress, realizing with an odd shock that he hardly knew this woman. She had known Holden as a slave, owned him, loved him, married him, ran a business with him-- but he had barely looked into her face since the day she had gotten into the driver's seat while Holden stroked Bran's hair in the back. Even now he had trouble seeing her. Graying blonde hair, pinned up securely against her head. Small, regular features, crow's feet around her wide-set, greenish eyes. Primly dressed, as usual, in a high-necked blouse and a long skirt. Pretty, yes, almost beautiful, even if aging. Holden's wife.
"You love him," he said to her, jealousy and sympathy warring within him and leaving no room for proper respect. But Alix looked as if she understood. She settled down next to him on the floor, her pretty face kind and a little sad.
"Yes," she said. "It's not easy, is it?"
Startled, Bran looked into her eyes, which looked more green than ever at that moment. "You believe I love him, mistress?"
"I don't know, Bran," said Alix. “I’m sure it’s not easy either way."
"He thinks it’s a crush,” said Bran bitterly.
"And you can see why, can't you?" asked Alix gently. "I'm not saying I don't believe you really love him, Bran-- gods know I'd understand if you did, I've been in love with him for longer than you've been alive-- but a crush would be perfectly natural under the circumstances. Compared to anyone you've ever belonged to, anyone even halfway decent would look like a hero. And, forgive me, but you're very young, and young love is notoriously-- fickle. Look at Valor. Heartbreak on Monday, cheerful as ever by Friday."
"How old were you when you fell in love with him?" Bran asked rudely, then flinched reflexively, but Alix only looked amused.
"Touché," she said. "I was about eighteen. But he was only twenty himself. Do you know how we met?”
Bran nodded. “Miss Valor told me... Mistress? Did he– did he love you right away?”
“All-Father, no,” said Alix, smiling. “But I didn’t love him right away, either. Oh, Bran, who knows what throws people together, what makes them– I just felt very protective of him in the beginning. He wasn’t a very good slave, you know. Maybe he was with Pavel, I don’t know. But not since. I tried to look out for him, once I had some influence with our master. And he got to like me. He’d sit and talk to me for hours– he told me about Pavel, and about how he felt about Nikol, and Jer, and– other boys who belonged to Nikol, and it was– it wasn’t that he loved me more, but he could talk to me like he couldn’t talk to them. He could say anything to me."
Her face was pensive now, her eyes distant.
"It's hard to imagine him with Pavel. How he must have trusted him. I would have given anything-- You know, I thought owning him would be perfect. He loved me, after all, he wanted to please me, and I loved having that power over him, loved how secure I felt." Her eyes refocused on Bran, bright with a sudden, transient gleam of mischief, and in that moment Bran could picture her at twenty, glowing with the pride and pleasure of her new possession. "And it was nice to be able to beat him when he was being impossible.
"But he couldn't... handle it. It was as if he could either relax or behave, but not both-- not like you, Bran. I've seen you; you're like me, like I was. Every muscle in you relaxes when you know you're doing well. But it scared him to be doing well. It was as if he knew he couldn't keep it up. Praise only made him need more reassurance that if he didn't behave well I'd still love him...”
"And you did," said Bran, aching with jealousy at the sorrowful tenderness in her voice.
“Yes,” said Alix, rather wistfully. “I loved him enough to free him. And he married me of his own free will. He does love me very much, in a way. Not the same way he loves his boys. But then, he’ll never love anyone in the same way he loved Pavel. We’re all damaged goods, Bran. I think we all just love, as best we can, whoever we think can give us what we need. And he needs me.”
“What can I give him, mistress?” Bran asked, looking into Alix’s eyes. “What can I– offer? I don’t know what else I can do.”
“I don’t think there’s anything you can do,” said Alix quietly. “I think he simply has no room in his life for you. I’m very sorry, Bran.”
They sat in silence for a few moments.
“Did he ask you to come in here and talk to me?” Bran asked finally.
“He’s worried about you,” Alix answered. “Can I tell him you’ll be all right?”
“I don’t know, mistress,” said Bran bitterly. “Do you mind lying to him?”
“Not a bit,” said Alix briskly, getting to her feet. "That's part of what he needs me for. The gods know none of you boys seem capable of it.”
***
Bran was getting a headache. He had been taught the basics of reading and writing as a child, but had had so little occasion for it since that deciphering the words, let alone the meaning, of poetry wasn’t exactly his idea of a relaxing evening. But poetry was what the book he had randomly plucked earlier, under Holden’s curious eye, from the library shelves, had proved to contain. It seemed to have something to do with death, and flowers, and someone grabbing someone by the hair. Bran blinked and looked up, rubbing at his temples irritably. As a distraction from the fact that Holden was now studiously answering letters at the desk while Alix played contentedly with Kit’s tow-colored hair, poetry was a failure.
Bran knew he was on his way out– transitioning had been Argounov’s word. Even so, the presence of the new girl, who kept giving him cheerful grins every time he caught her eye, and Holden and Alix’s accompanying shift in evening routine, hadn’t bothered him, until Holden had insisted on clarifying the issue. It was considerate of him, but Bran could have done without that clarity.
Nothing seemed to have changed between them in the week since. Holden treated Bran with as much casual affection as ever, and Bran responded as naturally. But he slept with difficulty, and his dreams when he did sleep were troubled not-quite-nightmares where strangers stroked his body possessively while asking questions or giving orders in a language he didn’t understand, or he found himself bound and gagged in the back seat of the car while someone– Valor, Jer, Kit– cheerfully drove him away from the house. What was constant was that he could not make anyone understand what was surely all a mistake, and he woke anxious and unhappy, reluctant to go back to sleep even if it were the middle of the night. He wished he need not always sleep alone– often on those nights he thought wistfully of the night when Holden had come to his room to soothe his nightmare and fallen asleep with Bran clasped close in his arms. Once Holden had asked him, with a sharp eye to his occasional lassitude and the dark shadows that had begun to develop under his eyes, if everything was all right, and Bran longed to confide the problem of his troubled nights in his master. But pride, and a certain taut determination to show Holden how very little trouble he was to keep, prevented him. He only said he had been sleeping very lightly and waking easily, and Holden did not press the issue. Bran tried not to let himself hope that if the problem persisted, Holden might worry enough to come to him some night.
Yves was reading an alarmingly thick book with every sign of absorption. Bran scowled back down at his own book, sleep threatening behind his eyes.
“How’s our girl?” Holden asked Greta, who was smiling over a letter in Valor’s sprawling, exuberant hand.
“She has a crush on her friend’s brother,” said Greta, laughing a little. “Actually, she describes herself as ‘madly in love.’”
“That was quick,” said Alix, amused. “Is it mutual?”
“She hasn’t said. Oh, here we are– ‘I know David is The One,’ capitalized and underlined, ‘and he feels the same way about me. We have absolutely everything in common. Lisa is thrilled,’ underlined, ‘but we haven’t told anyone else yet, not even Lord Kareyev.’”
“What?” said Holden sharply.
“I don’t know what they haven’t told anyone,” said Greta, scanning further. “Maybe they’re already engaged.”
“Over my dead body, she’s too young,” said Holden automatically. “No– what was that name you said?”
“David?”
“No,” said Holden impatiently. “The last name.”
“Oh, the father’s name?” Greta looked back down at the letter. “Kareyev.”
“She doesn’t mention his first name, does she?”
“No, master,” said Greta, puzzled. “Why, do you know him?”
Holden sat still for a moment, lost in thought, then said "No."
He turned and picked up another letter from his desk.
"Something from Nikol," he said, and Alix nodded absently. Bran bent his head to the poem again. Queer something death to something me by the way, Your blossom deem me, grip me by the hair, One something moment, on a silly dare, From–
A clatter startled Bran; he looked up in time to see Holden, standing, his chair toppled behind him, his face white and taut. Bran watched as he crumpled the letter in his hand, threw it furiously in Alix’s direction, and stormed out of the room.
Alix, looking only mildly surprised, put one comforting arm around an alarmed Kit, murmuring soothingly to her as she smoothed out the letter with her other hand and read it quickly.
“Stay here, dear,” she said to Kit, rose and hurried out after Holden.
“What now?” said Yves, sounding more resigned than worried. “Bran, where are you–?”
Bran paid no attention as he went after his master and mistress.
Neither of them saw him when he came out of the hallway into the dim foyer, where Holden was putting on his boots while Alix stood, holding the letter in one hand and watching him with pity on her face. Bran stood with his back against the wall, half in shadow, watching.
“That sick son of a bitch,” said Holden, yanking a boot on so viciously Bran thought the leather would split. “I’ll kill him.”
“Holden, he means well,” said Alix softly. “He thinks Jer would be happier with you. It’s rather– sweet, in a way.”
“Sweet,” Holden repeated incredulously, straightening up and rounding on his wife. “Yeah, Alix, that’s the sweetest damn letter I’ve ever read. Dear Holden, Jer is too old and ugly for me to keep around any more, so I thought you might want him. Love and kisses--”
“He didn’t say that,” said Alix wearily.
“What’s the difference? Jer is my age, Alix, as if it weren’t enough of a fuck you to offer him to me after all these years now that he’s, in dear Nikol’s charming phrase, past his prime, there’s the ever so delicate insinuation that so am I, that even if Nikol had given enough of a shit about me in the first place to keep me instead of dumping me off on you like another one of the baubles you took a fancy to at his place, he’d sure as hell be looking for somewhere to dump me now!”
“I'm sure that's not what he meant to convey,” said Alix. "He just didn't think, Holden. You know how he is."
“You’re damn straight I know how he is, I ought to, I belonged to the asshole for long enough, and so did you! Why the hell are you defending him?”
"I'm not defending him," said Alix softly. "I just think you take things too personally."
"Too--" With terrifying suddenness, Holden grabbed the front of Alix’s high-necked blouse and ripped; Bran cringed against the wall as buttons went flying and Alix gasped. Holden jabbed a finger at the center of Alix’s chest, where a livid, complicated scar showed against her skin even in the half-light. “He chiseled his fucking name onto you, Alix. That’s kind of personal, don’t you think? Intimate, even. NIKOL in scar tissue where I have to look at it every time I undress my fucking wife.”
“I wanted it,” said Alix steadily.
“You wanted it because it meant he’d never sell you.”
“And he didn’t sell me.”
“I give up,” said Holden, releasing her with a gesture as violent as the one with which he had seized her. “You’re hopeless. I could murder you in your sleep and your ghost would come back from Valhalla just to assure me you didn’t bear any ill will. I’ll be back.”
“Wait,” Alix said, drawing the edges of her ruined blouse together over her scarred chest as Holden turned towards the door.
"Wait for what? Do you think Jer’s spending another fucking night in that house?”
“No,” said Alix gently. “But if you go now, and Nikol looks at you crosswise, you'll brain him with a chair leg, and that won't do any of us any good. I’ll go, love. I'll bring Jer home to you, I promise. Just give me five minutes to change my shirt.”
“Alix--" Holden suddenly looked very tired, and older than usual. "All right. Thank you."
“Why else do you keep me around?” said Alix wryly, still holding the edges of her blouse together as she lifted her face to Holden's kiss before turning and disappearing up the stairs.
When she was gone, Holden sank down as if exhausted on the second step, then saw Bran, huddled against the wall.
“Bran,” he said, startled. “What are you doing there? Come here.”
Bran came on unsteady legs. He had seen Holden and Alix quarrel often enough, the flares of Holden’s passionate temper leaping and spending themselves quickly against Alix’s cool exasperation, but the scene he had just witnessed had shaken him. Though he would not have blushed at stumbling on anyone in the house naked, or even mid-coital, the thought of Alix’s scar, livid between the edges of her torn clothing, filled him with an obscure and fearful shame, as something he had had no right to see. He hesitated for a moment before kneeling on the floor at Holden’s feet. Holden put a hand on his shoulder.
“How long were you there?” he asked.
“The whole time, master,” said Bran guiltily.
Holden nodded and looked away.
“I’ve got to start looking for a buyer for you, kid,” he said after a pause.
“What?” said Bran in disbelief. “Master, no, please, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have eavesdropped, but–“
“Bran,” said Holden, looking down at him with a strange expression in the half gloom. “It’s not a punishment, sweetheart. It’s just that I’m going to have my hands full here in a bit. Yves and Jer get along okay, but– and under the circumstances, I don’t think Jer’s going to handle me dividing my time between him and a pretty teenager that well. You’re ready anyway; you’ve adjusted so well, I’ve just been putting off the next step because I enjoy you so much. But now–”
Bran clutched at his master’s knees in a sudden desperate gesture.
“Please,” said Bran. “Master, please. I’m not ready.”
“Sure you are,” said Holden soothingly. “You’re just nervous.”
“No, master, I– I mean, please don’t make me leave you, I can’t stand the thought of belonging to anyone else, I– please.”
“Bran,” said Holden, much too gently. “We talked about this.”
Bran dropped his head on Holden’s knees, half to avoid his master’s face, half to hide his own.
“Shit, kid,” Holden said worriedly, and his hand was warm on the back of Bran’s neck. “I’ve got to get you past this. Look– it’s a long process, all right? No one’s just going to show up and take you home with him. I’ll have someone over to meet you, and he’ll–”
He trailed off and Bran lifted his head as Alix passed by them on soft footsteps down the stairs, wearing a different blouse. Bran saw the high neckline with new eyes, remembering that all her clothing was made that way– even her nightgowns clasped her throat with a soft folded collar. Holden hesitated, watching her as she moved across the atrium and out the front door, as silently and sure-footedly as a ghost in the dimness, and closed it behind her without a sound.
“And afterwards,” he resumed finally, but slowly, fumbling for his train of thought, “you can tell me what you thought of him... and I’ll decide whether to follow up. If anyone... spooks you, he’s out of the running, even if he’s our best customer. Especially if he’s our best customer, considering the way you deal with being spooked. It wouldn’t do much for our reputation if you ran away on your first day after the sale.”
Bran couldn’t smile.
“Will it definitely be a man, then?” he asked in a small voice.
Holden looked down at him, surprised. “We haven’t trained you for women, so it would take a bit longer to get you ready for one, unless she had... specialized tastes. Why, do you have a preference?”
Whatever takes longer, Bran thought desperately, though in the next moment he wasn’t even sure of that. If he had to be sold, it might be better to just get it over with. No matter how hard he tried not to be any trouble, Jer would be here in a matter of hours, and from now on. And just like that, Bran would go from luxury plaything (had his master really said because I enjoy you so much?) to worrisome encumbrance, to be shifted as soon as possible. That was what Holden would see now when he looked at him, what he would think: I’ve got to find a buyer... Bran lowered his head again to his master’s lap, unable to keep his face from twisting with a sick and helpless rage: at Argounov for the letter he had written, at Jer for existing, and at Holden, for making room so instantly and unquestioningly for someone else in the life that held no room for Bran.
Holden stroked his back and Bran closed his eyes, trying not to think about anything but the touch. Holden’s generosity with physical affection had comforted and calmed him ever since Holden first offered it in the car on the way home from Dunaev’s, back when any touch that didn’t actually hurt was such an unexpected kindness that Bran was ready to weep with gratitude. He would have done anything then for the promise of what Holden was offering him now: a new owner, picked from a list of those who had proven themselves responsible and gentle towards slaves; even a voice in the matter, if a limited one. Now here he was, a bare five weeks later, cringing from the prospect, begging for more from the man who had offered him far more than he had any right to expect. Begging for love. Spoiled brat, Bran told himself. He meant to lift his head and apologize, but his head felt heavy, he was more tired than he had realized, and Holden’s hand was so gentle on his back, his cheek pillowed so securely on his master’s thigh, that in a moment more he had drifted off to sleep.
Laura Argounova was stroking him, kissing the back of his neck, her red hair pouring over her shoulders as she turned him to face her.
“Such a fine strapping young man,” she said, opening her legs. “Fuck me, Yves.”
Bran tried to explain that he wasn’t Yves, but Valor grew impatient and turned him over, her cock pressing between his legs. “Then I’ll show you how, stupid...”
Women didn’t have cocks, so of course it wasn’t Valor behind him, it was her husband. He touched Bran’s back gently. Bran turned his head and saw the gleam of the scalpel.
“You want it,” said Argounov. “It means I love you.”
“No,” said Bran, but he hesitated before struggling, confused, because he’d said I love you, and the blade cut softly into his back.
Next chapter
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been kneeling there when someone came in and knelt down beside him.
"Bran," said Alix softly, "are you all right?"
Bran looked up at his mistress, realizing with an odd shock that he hardly knew this woman. She had known Holden as a slave, owned him, loved him, married him, ran a business with him-- but he had barely looked into her face since the day she had gotten into the driver's seat while Holden stroked Bran's hair in the back. Even now he had trouble seeing her. Graying blonde hair, pinned up securely against her head. Small, regular features, crow's feet around her wide-set, greenish eyes. Primly dressed, as usual, in a high-necked blouse and a long skirt. Pretty, yes, almost beautiful, even if aging. Holden's wife.
"You love him," he said to her, jealousy and sympathy warring within him and leaving no room for proper respect. But Alix looked as if she understood. She settled down next to him on the floor, her pretty face kind and a little sad.
"Yes," she said. "It's not easy, is it?"
Startled, Bran looked into her eyes, which looked more green than ever at that moment. "You believe I love him, mistress?"
"I don't know, Bran," said Alix. “I’m sure it’s not easy either way."
"He thinks it’s a crush,” said Bran bitterly.
"And you can see why, can't you?" asked Alix gently. "I'm not saying I don't believe you really love him, Bran-- gods know I'd understand if you did, I've been in love with him for longer than you've been alive-- but a crush would be perfectly natural under the circumstances. Compared to anyone you've ever belonged to, anyone even halfway decent would look like a hero. And, forgive me, but you're very young, and young love is notoriously-- fickle. Look at Valor. Heartbreak on Monday, cheerful as ever by Friday."
"How old were you when you fell in love with him?" Bran asked rudely, then flinched reflexively, but Alix only looked amused.
"Touché," she said. "I was about eighteen. But he was only twenty himself. Do you know how we met?”
Bran nodded. “Miss Valor told me... Mistress? Did he– did he love you right away?”
“All-Father, no,” said Alix, smiling. “But I didn’t love him right away, either. Oh, Bran, who knows what throws people together, what makes them– I just felt very protective of him in the beginning. He wasn’t a very good slave, you know. Maybe he was with Pavel, I don’t know. But not since. I tried to look out for him, once I had some influence with our master. And he got to like me. He’d sit and talk to me for hours– he told me about Pavel, and about how he felt about Nikol, and Jer, and– other boys who belonged to Nikol, and it was– it wasn’t that he loved me more, but he could talk to me like he couldn’t talk to them. He could say anything to me."
Her face was pensive now, her eyes distant.
"It's hard to imagine him with Pavel. How he must have trusted him. I would have given anything-- You know, I thought owning him would be perfect. He loved me, after all, he wanted to please me, and I loved having that power over him, loved how secure I felt." Her eyes refocused on Bran, bright with a sudden, transient gleam of mischief, and in that moment Bran could picture her at twenty, glowing with the pride and pleasure of her new possession. "And it was nice to be able to beat him when he was being impossible.
"But he couldn't... handle it. It was as if he could either relax or behave, but not both-- not like you, Bran. I've seen you; you're like me, like I was. Every muscle in you relaxes when you know you're doing well. But it scared him to be doing well. It was as if he knew he couldn't keep it up. Praise only made him need more reassurance that if he didn't behave well I'd still love him...”
"And you did," said Bran, aching with jealousy at the sorrowful tenderness in her voice.
“Yes,” said Alix, rather wistfully. “I loved him enough to free him. And he married me of his own free will. He does love me very much, in a way. Not the same way he loves his boys. But then, he’ll never love anyone in the same way he loved Pavel. We’re all damaged goods, Bran. I think we all just love, as best we can, whoever we think can give us what we need. And he needs me.”
“What can I give him, mistress?” Bran asked, looking into Alix’s eyes. “What can I– offer? I don’t know what else I can do.”
“I don’t think there’s anything you can do,” said Alix quietly. “I think he simply has no room in his life for you. I’m very sorry, Bran.”
They sat in silence for a few moments.
“Did he ask you to come in here and talk to me?” Bran asked finally.
“He’s worried about you,” Alix answered. “Can I tell him you’ll be all right?”
“I don’t know, mistress,” said Bran bitterly. “Do you mind lying to him?”
“Not a bit,” said Alix briskly, getting to her feet. "That's part of what he needs me for. The gods know none of you boys seem capable of it.”
***
Bran was getting a headache. He had been taught the basics of reading and writing as a child, but had had so little occasion for it since that deciphering the words, let alone the meaning, of poetry wasn’t exactly his idea of a relaxing evening. But poetry was what the book he had randomly plucked earlier, under Holden’s curious eye, from the library shelves, had proved to contain. It seemed to have something to do with death, and flowers, and someone grabbing someone by the hair. Bran blinked and looked up, rubbing at his temples irritably. As a distraction from the fact that Holden was now studiously answering letters at the desk while Alix played contentedly with Kit’s tow-colored hair, poetry was a failure.
Bran knew he was on his way out– transitioning had been Argounov’s word. Even so, the presence of the new girl, who kept giving him cheerful grins every time he caught her eye, and Holden and Alix’s accompanying shift in evening routine, hadn’t bothered him, until Holden had insisted on clarifying the issue. It was considerate of him, but Bran could have done without that clarity.
Nothing seemed to have changed between them in the week since. Holden treated Bran with as much casual affection as ever, and Bran responded as naturally. But he slept with difficulty, and his dreams when he did sleep were troubled not-quite-nightmares where strangers stroked his body possessively while asking questions or giving orders in a language he didn’t understand, or he found himself bound and gagged in the back seat of the car while someone– Valor, Jer, Kit– cheerfully drove him away from the house. What was constant was that he could not make anyone understand what was surely all a mistake, and he woke anxious and unhappy, reluctant to go back to sleep even if it were the middle of the night. He wished he need not always sleep alone– often on those nights he thought wistfully of the night when Holden had come to his room to soothe his nightmare and fallen asleep with Bran clasped close in his arms. Once Holden had asked him, with a sharp eye to his occasional lassitude and the dark shadows that had begun to develop under his eyes, if everything was all right, and Bran longed to confide the problem of his troubled nights in his master. But pride, and a certain taut determination to show Holden how very little trouble he was to keep, prevented him. He only said he had been sleeping very lightly and waking easily, and Holden did not press the issue. Bran tried not to let himself hope that if the problem persisted, Holden might worry enough to come to him some night.
Yves was reading an alarmingly thick book with every sign of absorption. Bran scowled back down at his own book, sleep threatening behind his eyes.
“How’s our girl?” Holden asked Greta, who was smiling over a letter in Valor’s sprawling, exuberant hand.
“She has a crush on her friend’s brother,” said Greta, laughing a little. “Actually, she describes herself as ‘madly in love.’”
“That was quick,” said Alix, amused. “Is it mutual?”
“She hasn’t said. Oh, here we are– ‘I know David is The One,’ capitalized and underlined, ‘and he feels the same way about me. We have absolutely everything in common. Lisa is thrilled,’ underlined, ‘but we haven’t told anyone else yet, not even Lord Kareyev.’”
“What?” said Holden sharply.
“I don’t know what they haven’t told anyone,” said Greta, scanning further. “Maybe they’re already engaged.”
“Over my dead body, she’s too young,” said Holden automatically. “No– what was that name you said?”
“David?”
“No,” said Holden impatiently. “The last name.”
“Oh, the father’s name?” Greta looked back down at the letter. “Kareyev.”
“She doesn’t mention his first name, does she?”
“No, master,” said Greta, puzzled. “Why, do you know him?”
Holden sat still for a moment, lost in thought, then said "No."
He turned and picked up another letter from his desk.
"Something from Nikol," he said, and Alix nodded absently. Bran bent his head to the poem again. Queer something death to something me by the way, Your blossom deem me, grip me by the hair, One something moment, on a silly dare, From–
A clatter startled Bran; he looked up in time to see Holden, standing, his chair toppled behind him, his face white and taut. Bran watched as he crumpled the letter in his hand, threw it furiously in Alix’s direction, and stormed out of the room.
Alix, looking only mildly surprised, put one comforting arm around an alarmed Kit, murmuring soothingly to her as she smoothed out the letter with her other hand and read it quickly.
“Stay here, dear,” she said to Kit, rose and hurried out after Holden.
“What now?” said Yves, sounding more resigned than worried. “Bran, where are you–?”
Bran paid no attention as he went after his master and mistress.
Neither of them saw him when he came out of the hallway into the dim foyer, where Holden was putting on his boots while Alix stood, holding the letter in one hand and watching him with pity on her face. Bran stood with his back against the wall, half in shadow, watching.
“That sick son of a bitch,” said Holden, yanking a boot on so viciously Bran thought the leather would split. “I’ll kill him.”
“Holden, he means well,” said Alix softly. “He thinks Jer would be happier with you. It’s rather– sweet, in a way.”
“Sweet,” Holden repeated incredulously, straightening up and rounding on his wife. “Yeah, Alix, that’s the sweetest damn letter I’ve ever read. Dear Holden, Jer is too old and ugly for me to keep around any more, so I thought you might want him. Love and kisses--”
“He didn’t say that,” said Alix wearily.
“What’s the difference? Jer is my age, Alix, as if it weren’t enough of a fuck you to offer him to me after all these years now that he’s, in dear Nikol’s charming phrase, past his prime, there’s the ever so delicate insinuation that so am I, that even if Nikol had given enough of a shit about me in the first place to keep me instead of dumping me off on you like another one of the baubles you took a fancy to at his place, he’d sure as hell be looking for somewhere to dump me now!”
“I'm sure that's not what he meant to convey,” said Alix. "He just didn't think, Holden. You know how he is."
“You’re damn straight I know how he is, I ought to, I belonged to the asshole for long enough, and so did you! Why the hell are you defending him?”
"I'm not defending him," said Alix softly. "I just think you take things too personally."
"Too--" With terrifying suddenness, Holden grabbed the front of Alix’s high-necked blouse and ripped; Bran cringed against the wall as buttons went flying and Alix gasped. Holden jabbed a finger at the center of Alix’s chest, where a livid, complicated scar showed against her skin even in the half-light. “He chiseled his fucking name onto you, Alix. That’s kind of personal, don’t you think? Intimate, even. NIKOL in scar tissue where I have to look at it every time I undress my fucking wife.”
“I wanted it,” said Alix steadily.
“You wanted it because it meant he’d never sell you.”
“And he didn’t sell me.”
“I give up,” said Holden, releasing her with a gesture as violent as the one with which he had seized her. “You’re hopeless. I could murder you in your sleep and your ghost would come back from Valhalla just to assure me you didn’t bear any ill will. I’ll be back.”
“Wait,” Alix said, drawing the edges of her ruined blouse together over her scarred chest as Holden turned towards the door.
"Wait for what? Do you think Jer’s spending another fucking night in that house?”
“No,” said Alix gently. “But if you go now, and Nikol looks at you crosswise, you'll brain him with a chair leg, and that won't do any of us any good. I’ll go, love. I'll bring Jer home to you, I promise. Just give me five minutes to change my shirt.”
“Alix--" Holden suddenly looked very tired, and older than usual. "All right. Thank you."
“Why else do you keep me around?” said Alix wryly, still holding the edges of her blouse together as she lifted her face to Holden's kiss before turning and disappearing up the stairs.
When she was gone, Holden sank down as if exhausted on the second step, then saw Bran, huddled against the wall.
“Bran,” he said, startled. “What are you doing there? Come here.”
Bran came on unsteady legs. He had seen Holden and Alix quarrel often enough, the flares of Holden’s passionate temper leaping and spending themselves quickly against Alix’s cool exasperation, but the scene he had just witnessed had shaken him. Though he would not have blushed at stumbling on anyone in the house naked, or even mid-coital, the thought of Alix’s scar, livid between the edges of her torn clothing, filled him with an obscure and fearful shame, as something he had had no right to see. He hesitated for a moment before kneeling on the floor at Holden’s feet. Holden put a hand on his shoulder.
“How long were you there?” he asked.
“The whole time, master,” said Bran guiltily.
Holden nodded and looked away.
“I’ve got to start looking for a buyer for you, kid,” he said after a pause.
“What?” said Bran in disbelief. “Master, no, please, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have eavesdropped, but–“
“Bran,” said Holden, looking down at him with a strange expression in the half gloom. “It’s not a punishment, sweetheart. It’s just that I’m going to have my hands full here in a bit. Yves and Jer get along okay, but– and under the circumstances, I don’t think Jer’s going to handle me dividing my time between him and a pretty teenager that well. You’re ready anyway; you’ve adjusted so well, I’ve just been putting off the next step because I enjoy you so much. But now–”
Bran clutched at his master’s knees in a sudden desperate gesture.
“Please,” said Bran. “Master, please. I’m not ready.”
“Sure you are,” said Holden soothingly. “You’re just nervous.”
“No, master, I– I mean, please don’t make me leave you, I can’t stand the thought of belonging to anyone else, I– please.”
“Bran,” said Holden, much too gently. “We talked about this.”
Bran dropped his head on Holden’s knees, half to avoid his master’s face, half to hide his own.
“Shit, kid,” Holden said worriedly, and his hand was warm on the back of Bran’s neck. “I’ve got to get you past this. Look– it’s a long process, all right? No one’s just going to show up and take you home with him. I’ll have someone over to meet you, and he’ll–”
He trailed off and Bran lifted his head as Alix passed by them on soft footsteps down the stairs, wearing a different blouse. Bran saw the high neckline with new eyes, remembering that all her clothing was made that way– even her nightgowns clasped her throat with a soft folded collar. Holden hesitated, watching her as she moved across the atrium and out the front door, as silently and sure-footedly as a ghost in the dimness, and closed it behind her without a sound.
“And afterwards,” he resumed finally, but slowly, fumbling for his train of thought, “you can tell me what you thought of him... and I’ll decide whether to follow up. If anyone... spooks you, he’s out of the running, even if he’s our best customer. Especially if he’s our best customer, considering the way you deal with being spooked. It wouldn’t do much for our reputation if you ran away on your first day after the sale.”
Bran couldn’t smile.
“Will it definitely be a man, then?” he asked in a small voice.
Holden looked down at him, surprised. “We haven’t trained you for women, so it would take a bit longer to get you ready for one, unless she had... specialized tastes. Why, do you have a preference?”
Whatever takes longer, Bran thought desperately, though in the next moment he wasn’t even sure of that. If he had to be sold, it might be better to just get it over with. No matter how hard he tried not to be any trouble, Jer would be here in a matter of hours, and from now on. And just like that, Bran would go from luxury plaything (had his master really said because I enjoy you so much?) to worrisome encumbrance, to be shifted as soon as possible. That was what Holden would see now when he looked at him, what he would think: I’ve got to find a buyer... Bran lowered his head again to his master’s lap, unable to keep his face from twisting with a sick and helpless rage: at Argounov for the letter he had written, at Jer for existing, and at Holden, for making room so instantly and unquestioningly for someone else in the life that held no room for Bran.
Holden stroked his back and Bran closed his eyes, trying not to think about anything but the touch. Holden’s generosity with physical affection had comforted and calmed him ever since Holden first offered it in the car on the way home from Dunaev’s, back when any touch that didn’t actually hurt was such an unexpected kindness that Bran was ready to weep with gratitude. He would have done anything then for the promise of what Holden was offering him now: a new owner, picked from a list of those who had proven themselves responsible and gentle towards slaves; even a voice in the matter, if a limited one. Now here he was, a bare five weeks later, cringing from the prospect, begging for more from the man who had offered him far more than he had any right to expect. Begging for love. Spoiled brat, Bran told himself. He meant to lift his head and apologize, but his head felt heavy, he was more tired than he had realized, and Holden’s hand was so gentle on his back, his cheek pillowed so securely on his master’s thigh, that in a moment more he had drifted off to sleep.
Laura Argounova was stroking him, kissing the back of his neck, her red hair pouring over her shoulders as she turned him to face her.
“Such a fine strapping young man,” she said, opening her legs. “Fuck me, Yves.”
Bran tried to explain that he wasn’t Yves, but Valor grew impatient and turned him over, her cock pressing between his legs. “Then I’ll show you how, stupid...”
Women didn’t have cocks, so of course it wasn’t Valor behind him, it was her husband. He touched Bran’s back gently. Bran turned his head and saw the gleam of the scalpel.
“You want it,” said Argounov. “It means I love you.”
“No,” said Bran, but he hesitated before struggling, confused, because he’d said I love you, and the blade cut softly into his back.
Next chapter
