maculategiraffe (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
maculategiraffe) wrote2007-07-22 10:04 am
maculategiraffe) wrote2007-07-22 10:04 am
Entry tags:
The Slave Breakers, 12/15
Previous chapter
Drifting in and out of uneasy dreams filled with voices both real (Yves’, sounding upset, Holden’s low explanatory murmur) and imagined, Bran must have slept for some time, because when he woke with a start and sat up, it was just as the front door opened and Jer came in behind Alix, still dressed in the white tunic he’d worn as a member of Nikol’s household, his face a composed blank, expressionless as a wall. He looked at Holden without a change in affect, but Holden was already on his feet and in a few eager strides had his arms around the other man, hugging him close. Jer tensed for a moment, then relaxed into the embrace, laying his head down on Holden’s shoulder as a brief spasm crossed the controlled features. Holden was already talking, his tone urgent and tender.
“Jer, sweetheart. He’s an idiot. I’m so sorry. But I’m glad, because I finally get to have you. I’ve always loved you– you know that, don’t you?– I’ve always wanted you here with me. And now I’ve got you.”
“And only about ten years after I was last worth having,” said Jer dully. “Though it’s nice of you to pretend otherwise.”
“Don’t you fucking dare talk like that to me,” said Holden fiercely, grasping Jer by the shoulders and holding him at arm’s length. “Do you know I’m older than you are?”
“By all of two and a half months, I think,” said Jer with the ghost of a smile.
“So? Did you lose all interest in me ten years and two months ago?”
The smile became more pronounced, though it still didn’t reach Jer’s eyes. “If I had, it wouldn’t be very diplomatic to say so now, would it– master?”
“I don’t give a shit what you say,” said Holden roughly. “Your ass is mine now, and if you think it or any other part of you is too old to turn me on–“ He gripped Jer’s hips and took a step forward, pressing their pelvises together, as he had done with Bran some weeks ago. Jer was startled into a real if momentary grin. “I have every intention of proving otherwise.”
“You’re just fantasizing about that kid,” said Jer, his eyes drifting over Holden’s shoulder to where Bran sat silently watching from the floor. “What’s his name. Bran.”
Holden didn’t even glance in Bran’s direction.
“What I’m fantasizing about,” he said, “is getting you the hell out of this.” He flicked contemptuously at the white tunic.
“Oh, yes,” Jer said vaguely. “You’ll want me in green.”
“Eventually,” said Holden, turning Jer firmly around and nearly dragging him up the stairs.
Alix came and offered Bran a hand to help him up. He took it and scrambled to his feet, hoping for a word or at least a sympathetic look from her.
“You should go to bed,” she said, already turning away.
Bran went.
The next morning no one came to wake him. He hurried down to breakfast, a little late, to find Holden’s place empty, and another empty place set, presumably for Jer. Kit caught him looking and, inexplicably, winked. Bran glared at her. Yves looked pale but composed. No one spoke a single word for the entire meal.
Bran was in the library later that morning, staring at the bookshelves, when Jer came in, in green.
“Hi,” he said tentatively.
Bran looked back at him with the same blank stare he had been giving the shelves.
“So you pretty much hate me, huh?” said Jer philosophically, sitting down opposite Bran. “Okay. I guess it’s because you’re getting sold early to make room for me.”
“I’m not getting sold early,” said Bran coldly. “He said I was ready. And I don’t hate you.”
“Wow,” said Jer ruefully. “I think the temperature in here just dropped thirty degrees. If you pull that face and voice on the right master, you can have them scrambling to figure out what’s wrong without ever realizing you’re doing it on purpose.”
“I’m not doing it on purpose,” said Bran, even more coldly. “And I’m not taking slave lessons from you.”
“Hey,” said Jer, looking away. “Try to keep it above the belt.”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” said Bran. “But– Jer? You know what you said when we met before, about manipulation, about everything being manipulation? It didn’t– it doesn’t work, does it?”
“It should work for you,” said Jer, cocking an eyebrow. “It only quit working for me because I’m way past my expiration date. You’re eighteen and clear-eyed and lithe-limbed. You should be able to get anything you want.”
“I can’t,” said Bran with difficulty. “I tried.”
“Tried for what?” Jer asked curiously.
“To–“ Bran looked down. “To make him love me.”
“Oh,” said Jer. “Oh. So that’s why you hate me. Here you are in the first flush of romance, and here’s me, jaded old wreck that I am, and he loves me, not you. It’s not fair, is it? Sorry.” He paused and gave a strange little chuckle. “But not that sorry. I kind of needed to win this one.”
“It’s not a competition,” said Bran, hating himself for having shown weakness in front of this mocking man.
“Yes it is,” said Jer definitely. “It’s always a competition. I’m sorry, Bran, but it is. He had time for you, and now he doesn’t. That’s how it goes. My– Argounov didn’t have time for his wife and Alix, both, so out Alix goes. Pavel gets married and out Holden goes. I know you don’t believe me, because you’re eighteen and you think love conquers all. Well, maybe it does, but there’s never enough to go around. Someone always gets fucked over. Maybe this time it’s you. And I’m sorry about that, I am. But–“
Unexpectedly, he swallowed and leaned forward a little. Bran looked into the aging face, still strangely, boyishly rounded, the tell-tale lines at the eyes and on the forehead and down the cheeks. Jer wasn’t that old, really. Younger than Holden– and Holden wasn’t old. But Jer looked older. Or maybe, Bran thought, he only looked more hurt, and for longer.
“You don’t understand. You have– everything– your whole life ahead of you, your whole future, youth, beauty, even– ideals. My life hasn’t been easy, Bran, and this– there’s no way you could understand how I feel right now. Like a carcass. Like I’ve died and they’re discussing over my head how to dispose of the body and the only one who realizes there’s someone still in here is–“ He looked up into Bran’s eyes, and his own pleaded for understanding. “I need him, Bran. More than you do.”
Bran nodded, shaken by the glimpse of bottomless hurt in those slate-gray eyes.
“I understand,” he said. “I do. I’m really glad– you have this. I’m even glad he loves you. I just wish– “
“Oh, hell,” said Jer. “You really are a sweet kid. I’m sorry I’m such a cynical bastard, Bran. I didn’t mean to get this fucked up. It just happens sometimes.”
“Hey,” said Holden from the doorway. “Who’s saying you’re fucked up?”
“Me,” said Jer, and Bran liked the way Jer’s face relaxed as he smiled at Holden. “We’re being civil. Actually, he’s being downright nice, and I’m trying not to claw his big, limpid eyes out.”
“Good,” said Holden, approaching Jer and leaning down to kiss him. “That would kill his resale value. Speaking of which, Bran, I’ve got someone coming in this afternoon who might be interested in buying you.”
Bran almost choked. “This afternoon?”
“I just spoke with him on the phone. He’s very anxious to meet you. There will be quite a demand once it’s known I’m looking for a buyer; I gave Taganov the chance to be the first. He’s a good man, Bran.”
“Master...” Bran whispered hopelessly.
Jer shifted uncomfortably as Holden came to stand by Bran, looking down at him with compassion. He put a hand on Bran’s shoulder, but Bran held himself stiffly instead of moving into the touch as he usually did.
“All you have to do is meet him, Bran,” said Holden gently. “Give him a chance. You might like him more than you think. I know you’re scared right now, and I don’t blame you, transitions are hard, but don’t you think it might help to meet someone and be able to at least– imagine a future away from here? A more permanent one? If you hate him, you’ll never have to see him again. And who knows? You might love him.”
Bran nodded, though the words stabbed. “May I go now, master? I need– I guess I need some time alone. To get used to the idea.”
“Of course,” said Holden. “You’re a good boy, Bran.“
“Thank you, master,” said Bran, getting up and leaving the room without looking back.
“Holden– I mean, master,” he heard Jer say behind him, and he paused out of sight in the hallway, listening, “you’re not selling him just because of me, are you?”
“No, not just because of you,” said Holden. “Why?”
“I don’t know. When you said that about a buyer, he looked so stricken and... and young. I’d feel sort of shitty if it was all my fault. Hell, I don’t mind having him around. He was here first. If you were going to like him better, you already would, right?”
“Right,” said Holden affectionately. “I’m glad you feel that way, sweetheart. I’ve still got to sell him, though. He’s been getting too attached to me, and I’m pretty sure that’s only going to get worse the longer I keep him.”
“He seems pretty far gone,” Jer agreed.
“You know how kids are,” said Holden. “I’m glad you don’t mind having him around, because it might take me awhile to find the right buyer and get him resigned to the idea, and I hate the idea of rushing him. But I really have got to get the process started.”
“Yeah,” said Jer. “Okay. Just so I don’t have to feel responsible when he gets that kicked-puppy expression.”
“You don’t,” said Holden, rather sadly. “I’m the one kicking him. I just wish he could understand that it really is for his own good.”
Bran moved silently away down the hall.
Pausing at the foot of the stairs, he listened. Judging from occasional high-pitched shrieks from behind its closed door, Kit and Alix were in the training room. A low murmur of voices from the kitchen indicated that Yves and Greta were both in there, perhaps commiserating on their mutual if temporary abandonment. Bran went up the stairs as noiselessly as possible, and slipped into his master and mistress’ bedroom, where, swiftly though with fumbling, sweaty hands, he went through the armoire, pulled out a respectable, inconspicuous blue tunic and folded it under his arm. He moved quickly from the room and into his own room, where he pushed the tunic under his mattress, beside the knife.
He thought of both as Holden led him, that afternoon, into the more formal parlor, where Taganov, a tall, lean young man, perhaps in his late twenties, rather dressily clad, sat waiting for him.
“Oh, wow,” he said, looking at Bran. “Come here, Bran.”
Bran went obediently and stood before the other man, his eyes appropriately lowered and his hands clasped behind him in the form Holden had taught him. Taganov reached up to caress his face and Bran stood absolutely still, fighting not to shrink away from the too-familiar touch.
For fuck’s sake, Bran, he told himself, you’re a sex slave, not a fucking bride.
“Kneel for me,” said Taganov, and Bran sank gracefully to his knees, hands still clasped and head still lowered. Taganov cupped his chin and turned it upwards, and Bran looked into the young nobleman’s face. Longish dark-red hair framed an interested face with delicate features, pale smooth skin and frank, light blue eyes. It wasn’t a cruel face, at least. But of course it wouldn’t be; Holden wouldn’t sell him to anyone cruel.
Taganov looked past Bran at Holden. “Shy, isn’t he?”
“Very,” said Holden. “He’s had a hard time, you know, and he’s naturally a bit reserved until he knows he can trust you. But once he does– he’s got the most gorgeous smile. It will break your heart.”
Bran kept his eyes on Taganov’s face, though he wanted to turn and look at Holden.
“Might take some time, though?” said Taganov kindly. “That’s all right. He’s quite a beauty, even with that serious look. Could I see him naked?”
Bran swallowed. Taganov caught the slight convulsive movement and, before Holden could speak, said quickly, “Never mind. Later, maybe. But he isn’t scarred anywhere, is he? Or permanently damaged in any way?”
“Luckily, no,” said Holden. “His former masters did at least have enough sense to refrain from that.”
“And he’s fully trained? Sexual service, all that?”
“Fully. Unless there’s anything specialized you’d like us to teach him.”
“Oh, I’m easy,” said Taganov lightly. “Nothing but the basics for me. I don’t even hit. Have you got anyone else looking at him?”
“You’re the first,” said Holden. “He’s too precious to offer to anyone without the taste to appreciate him.”
Bran went hot at the adjective; to his surprise and amusement, Taganov also blushed slightly. “Aren’t you kind. Bran?”
“My lord?” said Bran, a little hoarsely.
“Will you do something for me?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Bran, who found himself rather liking this oddly awkward young man, “if my master gives me leave.”
“Will you give me a kiss?”
Bran did turn then to look at Holden, who was leaning against the wall, watching closely; he nodded. Taganov leaned down and Bran lifted up his face obediently. The kiss was gentle, Taganov’s lips dry and slightly cool; Bran parted his own lips in a wordless offer, and Taganov deepened the kiss almost shyly. Bran kissed back dutifully. Eventually Taganov pulled back, looking pleased. Bran lowered his eyes.
“That was nice,” said Taganov. “Look at me, Bran. You look very somber.”
“I’m sorry, my lord,” said Bran guiltily, looking up into the young nobleman’s kind blue eyes, but he could not muster a smile.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” said Taganov. “You’re shy, all right, but that was a lovely kiss. He is a treasure, Holden. And I think he likes me. That’s enough for now. Next time I’ll bring Mona; maybe she’ll be able to coax a smile out of him.”
“Maybe,” said Holden, amused. “Come here, Bran.”
Bran rose and went to stand before his master. Holden put an arm around him, kissing him quickly– but not perfunctorily– on the lips.
“Good boy,” he said. “You may go.”
Bran bent his head, his master’s kiss burning on his lips, then hurried from the room and slipped quietly upstairs, listening all the way.
Shoes were the most nerve-racking step. He wouldn’t get far without them, but they wouldn’t fit under the mattress and were far too likely to be spotted or missed if he took them too soon. There was no time to try them on, but he and Holden were much of a size and he trusted they would fit well enough to serve. He stashed the pair he had chosen under his bed, moving away from it just in time; little Kit, her face pink with whatever Alix had been doing with her, came hurrying in and plopped down on the bed. Bran flinched.
“You met the buyer!” she said excitedly. “Will you tell me all about him? Was he nice? Did you like him? Is he going to buy you?”
“He was nice,” said Bran tensely. “I liked him. I don’t know yet if he’s going to buy me.”
“Aren’t you excited?” Kit demanded, wide-eyed.
“Ecstatic,” Bran snapped. “Don’t you see me jumping for joy? Piss off.”
Kit stared at him, her eyes huge with hurt. Bran sighed.
“I didn’t mean to be nasty,” he said. “I’m just nervous, I guess.” That was true enough, especially with Kit sitting on his bed, on top of everything he had carefully stolen.
“But you said he was nice,” Kit protested. “I don’t understand why you don’t want to talk about it. And why are you mad at me?”
“I’m sorry, Kit. I’m not mad at you. I’m just in a bad mood.”
“You’re always in a bad mood when I’m around,” said Kit, almost tearfully. "You act like you don’t like me, and I’ve never done anything to you! I’m nice to you! I don’t even take his attention away, but you act like I did something bad to you just by existing!”
After a moment, Bran sat down beside the unhappy girl on the bed and put an arm around her; she stiffened but did not shake him off. “Kit, did your parents ever tell you bedtime stories?”
“My mom did,” said Kit sulkily. “But she died when I was seven.”
“But you remember the stories she told you, right? Like, Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess named Kit?”
Kit peered up at him. “That’s not a story.”
“No? She never told you the one about the adorable princess who lived in the castle with her terrible, wicked foster brother Bran?”
Kit cracked a smile. “No.”
“Really? And how the little princess smiled all the time and was happy and fun and friendly, and everyone loved her, except her evil, awful foster brother, who was horribly jealous of her because a witch had placed a curse on him at birth.”
“What curse?” Kit asked, narrowing her eyes at him.
“The terrible curse of the bad attitude,” said Bran solemnly. “The princess had a wonderful, glorious, sparkling attitude in every color of the rainbow, and everyone said ooh and ahh and what a great attitude! But her brother had such a bad attitude that even the king, whose special pet he was, just sighed when he saw it and said, ‘It will get better with time, my boy.’”
“I do have a good attitude,” said Kit defiantly.
“What a coincidence,” said Bran, “you’re just like the princess in the story.”
Kit lowered her eyebrows at him, but she was trying not to smile. “I’m fifteen, Bran, not five.”
“I’m just trying to fill in the gaps in your education,” said Bran. “So do you want to hear all about the buyer, or what?”
He lay still after the house had gone to sleep, wide awake, thinking about Kit's smile after he told her of Taganov's gentle kiss, about the kiss itself, about Jer's eyes, gray and wide and full of bewildered pain. He didn't think of Holden, except to worry vaguely: if anyone came to him in the night–
No one did. He waited until an hour after all movement in the house ceased, then dressed himself carefully in tunic and boots, stuck the knife in his belt, and crept inch by inch down the stairs and out the front door, which Holden and Alix no longer bothered to dead-bolt from the inside. With any luck, he’d have six hours’ head start before anyone noticed he was missing. It was a night of bright moonlight, and he knew his direction, and as he walked away from the house, running down the checklist– clothed, shod, dry, unrestrained, and unobserved– he congratulated himself on a fairly auspicious start.
Next chapter
Drifting in and out of uneasy dreams filled with voices both real (Yves’, sounding upset, Holden’s low explanatory murmur) and imagined, Bran must have slept for some time, because when he woke with a start and sat up, it was just as the front door opened and Jer came in behind Alix, still dressed in the white tunic he’d worn as a member of Nikol’s household, his face a composed blank, expressionless as a wall. He looked at Holden without a change in affect, but Holden was already on his feet and in a few eager strides had his arms around the other man, hugging him close. Jer tensed for a moment, then relaxed into the embrace, laying his head down on Holden’s shoulder as a brief spasm crossed the controlled features. Holden was already talking, his tone urgent and tender.
“Jer, sweetheart. He’s an idiot. I’m so sorry. But I’m glad, because I finally get to have you. I’ve always loved you– you know that, don’t you?– I’ve always wanted you here with me. And now I’ve got you.”
“And only about ten years after I was last worth having,” said Jer dully. “Though it’s nice of you to pretend otherwise.”
“Don’t you fucking dare talk like that to me,” said Holden fiercely, grasping Jer by the shoulders and holding him at arm’s length. “Do you know I’m older than you are?”
“By all of two and a half months, I think,” said Jer with the ghost of a smile.
“So? Did you lose all interest in me ten years and two months ago?”
The smile became more pronounced, though it still didn’t reach Jer’s eyes. “If I had, it wouldn’t be very diplomatic to say so now, would it– master?”
“I don’t give a shit what you say,” said Holden roughly. “Your ass is mine now, and if you think it or any other part of you is too old to turn me on–“ He gripped Jer’s hips and took a step forward, pressing their pelvises together, as he had done with Bran some weeks ago. Jer was startled into a real if momentary grin. “I have every intention of proving otherwise.”
“You’re just fantasizing about that kid,” said Jer, his eyes drifting over Holden’s shoulder to where Bran sat silently watching from the floor. “What’s his name. Bran.”
Holden didn’t even glance in Bran’s direction.
“What I’m fantasizing about,” he said, “is getting you the hell out of this.” He flicked contemptuously at the white tunic.
“Oh, yes,” Jer said vaguely. “You’ll want me in green.”
“Eventually,” said Holden, turning Jer firmly around and nearly dragging him up the stairs.
Alix came and offered Bran a hand to help him up. He took it and scrambled to his feet, hoping for a word or at least a sympathetic look from her.
“You should go to bed,” she said, already turning away.
Bran went.
The next morning no one came to wake him. He hurried down to breakfast, a little late, to find Holden’s place empty, and another empty place set, presumably for Jer. Kit caught him looking and, inexplicably, winked. Bran glared at her. Yves looked pale but composed. No one spoke a single word for the entire meal.
Bran was in the library later that morning, staring at the bookshelves, when Jer came in, in green.
“Hi,” he said tentatively.
Bran looked back at him with the same blank stare he had been giving the shelves.
“So you pretty much hate me, huh?” said Jer philosophically, sitting down opposite Bran. “Okay. I guess it’s because you’re getting sold early to make room for me.”
“I’m not getting sold early,” said Bran coldly. “He said I was ready. And I don’t hate you.”
“Wow,” said Jer ruefully. “I think the temperature in here just dropped thirty degrees. If you pull that face and voice on the right master, you can have them scrambling to figure out what’s wrong without ever realizing you’re doing it on purpose.”
“I’m not doing it on purpose,” said Bran, even more coldly. “And I’m not taking slave lessons from you.”
“Hey,” said Jer, looking away. “Try to keep it above the belt.”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” said Bran. “But– Jer? You know what you said when we met before, about manipulation, about everything being manipulation? It didn’t– it doesn’t work, does it?”
“It should work for you,” said Jer, cocking an eyebrow. “It only quit working for me because I’m way past my expiration date. You’re eighteen and clear-eyed and lithe-limbed. You should be able to get anything you want.”
“I can’t,” said Bran with difficulty. “I tried.”
“Tried for what?” Jer asked curiously.
“To–“ Bran looked down. “To make him love me.”
“Oh,” said Jer. “Oh. So that’s why you hate me. Here you are in the first flush of romance, and here’s me, jaded old wreck that I am, and he loves me, not you. It’s not fair, is it? Sorry.” He paused and gave a strange little chuckle. “But not that sorry. I kind of needed to win this one.”
“It’s not a competition,” said Bran, hating himself for having shown weakness in front of this mocking man.
“Yes it is,” said Jer definitely. “It’s always a competition. I’m sorry, Bran, but it is. He had time for you, and now he doesn’t. That’s how it goes. My– Argounov didn’t have time for his wife and Alix, both, so out Alix goes. Pavel gets married and out Holden goes. I know you don’t believe me, because you’re eighteen and you think love conquers all. Well, maybe it does, but there’s never enough to go around. Someone always gets fucked over. Maybe this time it’s you. And I’m sorry about that, I am. But–“
Unexpectedly, he swallowed and leaned forward a little. Bran looked into the aging face, still strangely, boyishly rounded, the tell-tale lines at the eyes and on the forehead and down the cheeks. Jer wasn’t that old, really. Younger than Holden– and Holden wasn’t old. But Jer looked older. Or maybe, Bran thought, he only looked more hurt, and for longer.
“You don’t understand. You have– everything– your whole life ahead of you, your whole future, youth, beauty, even– ideals. My life hasn’t been easy, Bran, and this– there’s no way you could understand how I feel right now. Like a carcass. Like I’ve died and they’re discussing over my head how to dispose of the body and the only one who realizes there’s someone still in here is–“ He looked up into Bran’s eyes, and his own pleaded for understanding. “I need him, Bran. More than you do.”
Bran nodded, shaken by the glimpse of bottomless hurt in those slate-gray eyes.
“I understand,” he said. “I do. I’m really glad– you have this. I’m even glad he loves you. I just wish– “
“Oh, hell,” said Jer. “You really are a sweet kid. I’m sorry I’m such a cynical bastard, Bran. I didn’t mean to get this fucked up. It just happens sometimes.”
“Hey,” said Holden from the doorway. “Who’s saying you’re fucked up?”
“Me,” said Jer, and Bran liked the way Jer’s face relaxed as he smiled at Holden. “We’re being civil. Actually, he’s being downright nice, and I’m trying not to claw his big, limpid eyes out.”
“Good,” said Holden, approaching Jer and leaning down to kiss him. “That would kill his resale value. Speaking of which, Bran, I’ve got someone coming in this afternoon who might be interested in buying you.”
Bran almost choked. “This afternoon?”
“I just spoke with him on the phone. He’s very anxious to meet you. There will be quite a demand once it’s known I’m looking for a buyer; I gave Taganov the chance to be the first. He’s a good man, Bran.”
“Master...” Bran whispered hopelessly.
Jer shifted uncomfortably as Holden came to stand by Bran, looking down at him with compassion. He put a hand on Bran’s shoulder, but Bran held himself stiffly instead of moving into the touch as he usually did.
“All you have to do is meet him, Bran,” said Holden gently. “Give him a chance. You might like him more than you think. I know you’re scared right now, and I don’t blame you, transitions are hard, but don’t you think it might help to meet someone and be able to at least– imagine a future away from here? A more permanent one? If you hate him, you’ll never have to see him again. And who knows? You might love him.”
Bran nodded, though the words stabbed. “May I go now, master? I need– I guess I need some time alone. To get used to the idea.”
“Of course,” said Holden. “You’re a good boy, Bran.“
“Thank you, master,” said Bran, getting up and leaving the room without looking back.
“Holden– I mean, master,” he heard Jer say behind him, and he paused out of sight in the hallway, listening, “you’re not selling him just because of me, are you?”
“No, not just because of you,” said Holden. “Why?”
“I don’t know. When you said that about a buyer, he looked so stricken and... and young. I’d feel sort of shitty if it was all my fault. Hell, I don’t mind having him around. He was here first. If you were going to like him better, you already would, right?”
“Right,” said Holden affectionately. “I’m glad you feel that way, sweetheart. I’ve still got to sell him, though. He’s been getting too attached to me, and I’m pretty sure that’s only going to get worse the longer I keep him.”
“He seems pretty far gone,” Jer agreed.
“You know how kids are,” said Holden. “I’m glad you don’t mind having him around, because it might take me awhile to find the right buyer and get him resigned to the idea, and I hate the idea of rushing him. But I really have got to get the process started.”
“Yeah,” said Jer. “Okay. Just so I don’t have to feel responsible when he gets that kicked-puppy expression.”
“You don’t,” said Holden, rather sadly. “I’m the one kicking him. I just wish he could understand that it really is for his own good.”
Bran moved silently away down the hall.
Pausing at the foot of the stairs, he listened. Judging from occasional high-pitched shrieks from behind its closed door, Kit and Alix were in the training room. A low murmur of voices from the kitchen indicated that Yves and Greta were both in there, perhaps commiserating on their mutual if temporary abandonment. Bran went up the stairs as noiselessly as possible, and slipped into his master and mistress’ bedroom, where, swiftly though with fumbling, sweaty hands, he went through the armoire, pulled out a respectable, inconspicuous blue tunic and folded it under his arm. He moved quickly from the room and into his own room, where he pushed the tunic under his mattress, beside the knife.
He thought of both as Holden led him, that afternoon, into the more formal parlor, where Taganov, a tall, lean young man, perhaps in his late twenties, rather dressily clad, sat waiting for him.
“Oh, wow,” he said, looking at Bran. “Come here, Bran.”
Bran went obediently and stood before the other man, his eyes appropriately lowered and his hands clasped behind him in the form Holden had taught him. Taganov reached up to caress his face and Bran stood absolutely still, fighting not to shrink away from the too-familiar touch.
For fuck’s sake, Bran, he told himself, you’re a sex slave, not a fucking bride.
“Kneel for me,” said Taganov, and Bran sank gracefully to his knees, hands still clasped and head still lowered. Taganov cupped his chin and turned it upwards, and Bran looked into the young nobleman’s face. Longish dark-red hair framed an interested face with delicate features, pale smooth skin and frank, light blue eyes. It wasn’t a cruel face, at least. But of course it wouldn’t be; Holden wouldn’t sell him to anyone cruel.
Taganov looked past Bran at Holden. “Shy, isn’t he?”
“Very,” said Holden. “He’s had a hard time, you know, and he’s naturally a bit reserved until he knows he can trust you. But once he does– he’s got the most gorgeous smile. It will break your heart.”
Bran kept his eyes on Taganov’s face, though he wanted to turn and look at Holden.
“Might take some time, though?” said Taganov kindly. “That’s all right. He’s quite a beauty, even with that serious look. Could I see him naked?”
Bran swallowed. Taganov caught the slight convulsive movement and, before Holden could speak, said quickly, “Never mind. Later, maybe. But he isn’t scarred anywhere, is he? Or permanently damaged in any way?”
“Luckily, no,” said Holden. “His former masters did at least have enough sense to refrain from that.”
“And he’s fully trained? Sexual service, all that?”
“Fully. Unless there’s anything specialized you’d like us to teach him.”
“Oh, I’m easy,” said Taganov lightly. “Nothing but the basics for me. I don’t even hit. Have you got anyone else looking at him?”
“You’re the first,” said Holden. “He’s too precious to offer to anyone without the taste to appreciate him.”
Bran went hot at the adjective; to his surprise and amusement, Taganov also blushed slightly. “Aren’t you kind. Bran?”
“My lord?” said Bran, a little hoarsely.
“Will you do something for me?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Bran, who found himself rather liking this oddly awkward young man, “if my master gives me leave.”
“Will you give me a kiss?”
Bran did turn then to look at Holden, who was leaning against the wall, watching closely; he nodded. Taganov leaned down and Bran lifted up his face obediently. The kiss was gentle, Taganov’s lips dry and slightly cool; Bran parted his own lips in a wordless offer, and Taganov deepened the kiss almost shyly. Bran kissed back dutifully. Eventually Taganov pulled back, looking pleased. Bran lowered his eyes.
“That was nice,” said Taganov. “Look at me, Bran. You look very somber.”
“I’m sorry, my lord,” said Bran guiltily, looking up into the young nobleman’s kind blue eyes, but he could not muster a smile.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” said Taganov. “You’re shy, all right, but that was a lovely kiss. He is a treasure, Holden. And I think he likes me. That’s enough for now. Next time I’ll bring Mona; maybe she’ll be able to coax a smile out of him.”
“Maybe,” said Holden, amused. “Come here, Bran.”
Bran rose and went to stand before his master. Holden put an arm around him, kissing him quickly– but not perfunctorily– on the lips.
“Good boy,” he said. “You may go.”
Bran bent his head, his master’s kiss burning on his lips, then hurried from the room and slipped quietly upstairs, listening all the way.
Shoes were the most nerve-racking step. He wouldn’t get far without them, but they wouldn’t fit under the mattress and were far too likely to be spotted or missed if he took them too soon. There was no time to try them on, but he and Holden were much of a size and he trusted they would fit well enough to serve. He stashed the pair he had chosen under his bed, moving away from it just in time; little Kit, her face pink with whatever Alix had been doing with her, came hurrying in and plopped down on the bed. Bran flinched.
“You met the buyer!” she said excitedly. “Will you tell me all about him? Was he nice? Did you like him? Is he going to buy you?”
“He was nice,” said Bran tensely. “I liked him. I don’t know yet if he’s going to buy me.”
“Aren’t you excited?” Kit demanded, wide-eyed.
“Ecstatic,” Bran snapped. “Don’t you see me jumping for joy? Piss off.”
Kit stared at him, her eyes huge with hurt. Bran sighed.
“I didn’t mean to be nasty,” he said. “I’m just nervous, I guess.” That was true enough, especially with Kit sitting on his bed, on top of everything he had carefully stolen.
“But you said he was nice,” Kit protested. “I don’t understand why you don’t want to talk about it. And why are you mad at me?”
“I’m sorry, Kit. I’m not mad at you. I’m just in a bad mood.”
“You’re always in a bad mood when I’m around,” said Kit, almost tearfully. "You act like you don’t like me, and I’ve never done anything to you! I’m nice to you! I don’t even take his attention away, but you act like I did something bad to you just by existing!”
After a moment, Bran sat down beside the unhappy girl on the bed and put an arm around her; she stiffened but did not shake him off. “Kit, did your parents ever tell you bedtime stories?”
“My mom did,” said Kit sulkily. “But she died when I was seven.”
“But you remember the stories she told you, right? Like, Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess named Kit?”
Kit peered up at him. “That’s not a story.”
“No? She never told you the one about the adorable princess who lived in the castle with her terrible, wicked foster brother Bran?”
Kit cracked a smile. “No.”
“Really? And how the little princess smiled all the time and was happy and fun and friendly, and everyone loved her, except her evil, awful foster brother, who was horribly jealous of her because a witch had placed a curse on him at birth.”
“What curse?” Kit asked, narrowing her eyes at him.
“The terrible curse of the bad attitude,” said Bran solemnly. “The princess had a wonderful, glorious, sparkling attitude in every color of the rainbow, and everyone said ooh and ahh and what a great attitude! But her brother had such a bad attitude that even the king, whose special pet he was, just sighed when he saw it and said, ‘It will get better with time, my boy.’”
“I do have a good attitude,” said Kit defiantly.
“What a coincidence,” said Bran, “you’re just like the princess in the story.”
Kit lowered her eyebrows at him, but she was trying not to smile. “I’m fifteen, Bran, not five.”
“I’m just trying to fill in the gaps in your education,” said Bran. “So do you want to hear all about the buyer, or what?”
He lay still after the house had gone to sleep, wide awake, thinking about Kit's smile after he told her of Taganov's gentle kiss, about the kiss itself, about Jer's eyes, gray and wide and full of bewildered pain. He didn't think of Holden, except to worry vaguely: if anyone came to him in the night–
No one did. He waited until an hour after all movement in the house ceased, then dressed himself carefully in tunic and boots, stuck the knife in his belt, and crept inch by inch down the stairs and out the front door, which Holden and Alix no longer bothered to dead-bolt from the inside. With any luck, he’d have six hours’ head start before anyone noticed he was missing. It was a night of bright moonlight, and he knew his direction, and as he walked away from the house, running down the checklist– clothed, shod, dry, unrestrained, and unobserved– he congratulated himself on a fairly auspicious start.
Next chapter