Blurred Bloodlines [2nd in Blurred Trilogy] Page 13

  After a few tense moments, Blake began relaxing into his touch, and soon followed Marc's light prodding to rinse off the shampoo. Picking up the bar of soap, Marc tried to make his touch as clinical as he could as he started lathering Blake's thin, scarred body. The marks on his back had closed, thanks to the blood he had ingested, but they were still red, and far from healed. Trying to distract himself, Marc began talking as his hands stroked and cleaned.

  "If... No, when I catch the bastards who did this to you, I swear they won't have any skin left by the time I'm done with them. Although anything I'd do would be far too fast."

  He did his best to steady his hands as he stroked down Blake's arms. “I always loved your skin. Flawless and pale as the moon. You have no idea how many days I spent just watching you sleep."

  Blake was shivering now, but for the first time in the last few days there was no fear tinting his scent; instead there was nothing but pure, raw need. Tentatively, Marc reached around Blake's body to lather his torso, wincing slightly when his erection came to rest against Blake's ass. Blake didn't seem to mind, though, and if anything he leaned back slightly, his back brushing against Marc's chest.

  "I wish I didn't have to do this, not like this,” Marc murmured as his soapy hand slowly slid down to Blake's cock. He held it tight, the way he knew Blake liked best, and started stroking: fast, even strokes designed to make Blake come as quickly as possible. “And I hope you understand I'm not trying to take advantage of you. I just want you to be able to rest.” A thought occurred to him as Blake seemed to tense against him, as though he were fighting pleasure. “Do you need permission? Because you have it, if you need it. Come whenever you're ready. Knowing you, you'll give me hell about..."

  Marc's voice failed him as Blake's body arched against him, his head coming to rest on Marc's shoulder. Gently, oh so gently, Marc washed off Blake's come before encircling his waist with both arms, relishing the way Blake was now comfortably leaning against him. He knew he should have turned off the water and tucked Blake in bed now that he was as relaxed as a content cat, but somehow he was finding it difficult to break the moment. Blake's constant fear had been unsettling, and he was afraid that things would return to square one as soon as they stepped out of the shower. And yet, they couldn't stay there forever. With some difficulty, he let go of Blake and reached around him to turn the water off.

  "Time for...” he stopped himself before he could say ‘bed.’ Maybe that particular word should be banned, at least for a little while. “Time to dry off and get some sleep."

  As quickly as he could, he ran a towel over Blake before leading him to his bed. Blake looked sleepy and easily slipped between the sheets, his eyes closing as soon as his head touched the pillow. Marc watched him for a moment before shaking himself out of his torpor and glaring at his own still-hard cock. Another shower seemed to be in order.

  His Master had changed the rules—again.

  He did that, sometimes. Whenever Blake became too used to his routine, whenever the reasons for punishment seemed to become less frequent, the rules changed. At times, they were stated clearly, spelled out for Blake along with the punishment for breaking each and every one of them. That was what Blake liked best: knowing exactly where he stood, and how to remain standing. The other option was more frequent but much less pleasant. It involved days of endless beatings as Blake figured out the new rules, one by one, every time he broke one without meaning to or even being aware of it.

  This time, it seemed to be a little of both. His Master had voiced some changes; others, he had only hinted at. Blake was confused. Was it a trick to make him stumble and earn his biggest punishment yet? A test, whose expected outcome was his failure, but how badly he failed would dictate how strongly he was punished?

  All he knew, when he let himself be tucked into bed, was that his Master had not been so gentle with him in years—no, decades. The last thing he wanted was to disappoint him now.

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  Chapter 14

  Three nights after Marc left with Blake, the squad closed the breach near Leawood.

  By midmorning the next day, Kate dragged Simon to Daniel's office. They were both exhausted still—she from a long fight, Simon from the breach-closing spell and what she suspected was too little sleep—but the sooner they informed Daniel about their plans, they had decided, the better. They had also agreed that she would do the talking. Simon stayed back, practically hiding behind her, as though he would rather be elsewhere. Kate could guess why all too easily; she doubted that Daniel would be happy to hear that his second-in-command and his best mage were deserting him, and lately he had been quick to get into shouting matches with whoever displeased him.

  When she explained herself, though, Daniel only gave her a resigned look. Leaning back in his chair, he put down the maps he had been studying and considered Kate. “I was surprised you didn't leave with them, so I can't say this is unexpected. I don't suppose there's anything I can say that would make you change your mind?"

  Kate relaxed a little. “No, there really isn't."

  It was all a formality, really. Anyone who joined the squad was free to leave at any time. In effect, few people ever quit once they enrolled, not unless they were wounded to such an extent that they couldn't fight anymore. Ever since she had made her decision, Kate had been feeling a thread of guilt at the thought of leaving her comrades, but it was only temporary. She would return to fighting. And when she did, Marc and Blake would, as well.

  Daniel passed a hand over his face. He looked tired—even more so than he had the past few weeks. He'd been driving the squad hard, harder than he ever had before being turned, and Kate had needed to remind him, once or twice, that they didn't all recuperate as fast as he did. Lately, though, he had seemed as worn out as he had been when still human.

  "What about you?” he asked, his gaze shifting toward Simon. “How can I convince you to stay? You know the squad needs you."

  Simon let out a tiny sound that sounded like the squeaking of a mouse. Kate glanced back at him. Head ducked and shoulders raised defensively, he looked as though Daniel had yelled at him rather than asked a simple question.

  "The other mages,” he began, but quickly stopped and started again. “I mean, they know how to close breaches. You don't really need me."

  His lips twisted into a grimace at the admission. He had always been proud of what he could accomplish with magic, and his success with breaches was what he was most proud of. It couldn't be easy for him to say that he was replaceable.

  "I suppose they'll be able to make do without you,” Daniel said with a small sigh. “They'll have to."

  Kate looked at him in surprise. “They?” she repeated. “You won't be with the squad?"

  "I won't, no,” Daniel said with a small sigh. “I've decided to take a break."

  Kate's eyes widened and she took a half step closer to his desk before she knew it. She could hardly believe Daniel would abandon the fight. After all, he had asked to be made a vampire just so he could see the end of the demons’ invasion. A slew of questions on her lips, Kate tried to figure out what to ask first—and noticed the wary look Daniel threw at Simon. He had confided in her more than once, and she in him, but neither of them was as close to Simon. She'd ask why, she decided, but later.

  "What are you going to do, then?” she asked instead.

  Daniel shrugged, then stood, turning toward the bookshelves behind him. He had once owned a collection of mismatched items from the time before the demons, collectibles and every day items alike, but ever since his siring he had been giving them away, one at a time, and he now only had a handful of objects left.

  "I'm not sure. I haven't really thought about it."

  Kate didn't have to think twice. “Come with us,” she offered. “Help us."

  He looked up from the glass horse in his hands. His eyebrow was raised questioningly. “Help you do what?"

  Long before she had finished explaining how she
intended to find Jen or why, she knew he would come along. All she had to do, really, was mention Marc's name, and his interest was piqued.

  When all was said and done, driving north through an embattled land to a small, quiet town and arranging to have the butcher deliver blood to them every few days was a piece of cake, especially when compared to the first task Marc tackled once they settled down: getting Blake to feed by himself, and in sufficient quantities.

  It took Marc eight days and successive attempts, using a baby bottle, a sippy cup, a spoon, a large bowl, and a syringe, before he found the miracle instrument that would allow Blake to feed without needing to use his damaged hands.

  He cursed himself at length for not having thought of using a straw right away, even more so when Blake sipped the warm blood without hesitation. His eyes closed as he did so, but the smile Marc expected never came. Worse, Blake didn't finish the mug, drinking only about a third of it.

  "Finish it,” Marc demanded, pushing the mug on the table so it was an inch or so closer to Blake. Blake's eyes remained on the mug for a few instants, flickered very briefly toward Marc on the other side of the table, and he finally bent to the straw and slowly drank the rest of the blood. Again, his eyes closed, but this time they were scrunched tight, as though the blood tasted foul.

  "You need to feed more,” Marc encouraged him. “So that you'll heal faster. Do you understand?"

  Marc should have been used to not receiving an answer, even a wordless one, but Blake's silence and blank looks continued to frustrate him immensely, even more so because he couldn't show displeasure without causing Blake to instantly drop to his knees. Thankfully, that was the only time Blake did so anymore; repeating over and over that Blake shouldn't be on his knees and glaring at him until he stood had finally convinced him that Marc meant what he said and that whatever prior rule had been in effect was now null and void.

  Finding out what other rules existed was still a big part of what Marc needed to do, but it was hard without feedback from Blake. He still wasn't sure whether or not touching himself was a rule taught to Blake or if it was a consequence of his hands being next to useless.

  Whether it was one or the other, the result was the same, and Marc dreaded to discover that, for whatever reason, Blake had become aroused. He dreaded it because of the ritual that followed: a shower for Blake and relief from Marc's hand, then the same for Marc once Blake was tucked in bed.

  He also dreaded it because, each time, it became a little easier to make Blake come, a little harder not to push things further; each time, he remained with Blake under the spray of burning hot water a bit longer, and with a little less guilt. But the scent of raw fear always came from Blake as strongly as it had the first time Marc had laid eyes on him in Leawood.

  A few days after Blake started feeding with a mug and straw, the realization that Marc was getting too comfortable with their routine was what helped him make up his mind about what the next step would be. It had to be Blake's hands and relearning how to use them in any way he wished, including on himself. Before that, Marc would need to set the bones properly again. Which implied breaking them first.

  Upon convincing Blake that the floor wasn't an option, Marc had given him an alternative. The house was sparsely furnished, but it did have a sofa and armchair arranged by a fireplace in the front room. Marc had taken the habit of lighting a fire there after he noticed Blake shivering from what seemed to be cold, and he had managed to persuade Blake that the sofa was his. After some reticence, Blake had taken a liking to the slightly battered but comfortable cushions, and he now spent his days there, sitting with his bare feet folded under him, eyes lost in contemplation of the fire. His nights too, if Marc didn't send him to bed.

  That was where Marc found him after he had made his decision. He almost sat on the sofa next to Blake, before changing his mind and pulling the armchair closer instead. He wanted Blake to have one thing entirely for him, and sitting without being invited might have been seen as an invasion.

  Sitting on the edge of the armchair, he held out his hand, palm up, toward Blake. “I'd like to see your hands,” he asked, trying not to make it an order. Another thing he was working on: giving Blake as many choices as possible.

  Blake's eyes remained on his outstretched hand for a while, and slowly, haltingly, he offered his own hand in return. For an instant, the two were next to each other, and the comparison was almost grotesque, Blake's fingers sticking out at odd angles while Marc's lay together, perfectly flat. Breaking the moment, Marc took hold of Blake's wrist and pulled it slightly toward him. He examined the bent fingers at first only visually, then very gently touched each one, holding them between thumb and forefinger and searching for the lines of fracture. This much was painful to Blake as the trembling of his body and tightening at the corners of his eyes gave away. It was only the beginning of pain, however. Marc examined Blake's other hand the same way before leaning back in his armchair. All of them. He would need to break all ten fingers, most of them in two places, before he could realign the bones and allow them to heal properly.

  "Would you like to be able to use your hands again?” he asked, a tremor in his voice. “Hold things? Take care of yourself? Get clothed alone? Spar?"

  The last one he added as an afterthought. A few times, he had noticed Blake's eyes on him when he opened the French windows in the living room and stepped onto the patio at night. With his sword in hand, he ran through series of exercises to keep himself in shape. He missed sparring with Blake as they had once done almost daily.

  For a long time, Blake didn't react, to the point that Marc wondered if he had understood. And then, so slowly that the movement seemed involuntary at first, Blake nodded. Marc stifled a relieved sigh.

  "It will hurt a lot,” he thought necessary to add, and almost could have believed that Blake was going to roll his eyes at him. “I think I can get you some human blood. That should help you heal faster."

  Blake remained motionless at that statement, and Marc hesitated. It was nighttime, and he could go right then and see if the butcher who sold him animal blood had been able to procure expired human blood bags from the town's hospital, but if he did it would be the first time he left Blake alone while he was awake. He thought for a moment about telling Blake to go to bed and locking his door, but finally decided against it. Locking Blake up when he was asleep was one thing; doing it while he was still awake and risking his claustrophobia's return was altogether different. Blake was learning to trust him little by little, and this was a good opportunity to show the confidence was returned.

  "I will go now. I should be back in an hour or so. All right?"

  Blake's gaze returned to the fire. Marc didn't insist and quietly left, his mind already on the grim task ahead of him. It wouldn't be the first time he hurt Blake, or the first time he tried to heal his wounds, either.

  His Master was gone.

  Blake used to wish for more time alone, time to think and plot his escape and cling to his own mind, but those wishes were long gone. There was nothing left but his Master and the rules. Whenever his Master left, Blake could only wonder why he had left, where to, and when he would be back. And whether Blake had earned himself a punishment by the time he returned.

  This time, Blake thought he understood where his Master had gone, and why. He held his hands in front of him and observed them as carefully as his Master had. They hurt. They always hurt. He had grown used to the pain, though, and it was nothing more than a dull feeling at the back of his mind. When he had to use his hands for anything, it hurt more. He was used to that, too.

  His Master's hands, on the other hand, were perfect. They had always been. They could be brutal, at times. Lately, they had been gentle. But Blake had learned that they knew just the right way to hold a whip or to curl in a fist to inflict the maximum amount of pain. They knew, also, how to break bones.

  His body started shaking. He wanted to get closer to the fire, close enough to finally feel warm, but he did
n't dare to. The sofa was his. Small and lumpy, but his. At first, it had smelled like his Master and him, both scents mixed together, but now it was only his scent that permeated the cushions. It was comforting, a reminder that his Master had given it to him. Blake wasn't too sure why—he understood punishments, but rewards were foreign to him, always offered in order to trick him. Maybe it was only another test. Maybe if Blake didn't show his appreciation for the gift, it would be taken away from him. And so he remained curled on the sofa, his eyes drinking in the heat of the fire the way his body could only dream of doing, his hands lying inert on the cushions.

  He lay there, immobile and alone, inadequate and broken.

  As promised, Marc returned with bags of human blood, as well as some medical supplies. Having assured himself that Blake was still on the sofa, he warmed one of the blood packs and put the other one in the fridge for the next day.

  "No complaining, now,” he said as he brought the mug to Blake. “You need to drink it all so you'll..."

  The tear tracks down Blake's face were too obvious to miss, even though his cheeks were dry.

  "We don't have to do it today,” he mumbled, faltering. It was the first time since they had left Kate, the first time since he had sobbed after her goodbyes, that Blake had cried, and Marc felt strangely uneasy at the sight of those dried tears. He must have caused them, even if he didn't know how. He did know he would soon cause more.

  Blake's answer, however, was to pointedly lean forward toward the mug until Marc reflexively brought the straw within his reach. He drained the full mug without having to be reminded, although with the same half-aborted grimace after a few mouthfuls.

  As Marc took the mug back to the kitchen, he thought hard and fast. He had tried not to linger on the details so far, but things would undoubtedly be easier if Blake were unconscious.

  He struck from behind, a precisely placed blow that knocked Blake out before he could realize what was happening. Then he set to work, jaw clenched tight enough to hurt as he methodically found each badly healed fracture again, snapped it as cleanly as he knew how, manipulated the bones softly and bound them to metal armatures to keep them straight as they healed.