Beloved Captor 

By Jez Morrow 

 

Desdaine has fallen hard for space fighter ace, Jess 

Laren. The trouble is, Laren is a hero on the wrong side 

of the interplanetary war.

 

 

As a senior intelligence officer in the Ilzec Empire, 

Desdaine thinks his attraction to other men is his own 

secret. But when Laren is shot down in Ilzec airspace 

and found guilty of spying, Desdaine receives orders to 

carry out the execution. Desdaine didn’t think his 

outlawed desire was obvious, but apparently someone 

sees through him, and wants to know where Desdaine’s 

loyalty truly lies.

 

 

Shamed and furious, Desdaine makes the only choice 

he can…

 

 

This is a work of fiction. 

Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's 

imagination or are used fictitiously. 

Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, 

is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher. 

 

Beloved Captor 

Copyright 2011 by Jez Morrow 

 

A publication of Torquere Press Publishers 

PO Box 2545 

Round Rock, TX 78680 

www.torquerepress.com

 

 

Cover illustration by Alessia Brio 

Published with permission 
ISBN: 978-1-61040-716-8 

 

All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions 

thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For 

information address Torquere Press. Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680. 

 

First Torquere Press Printing: January 2012 

Printed in the USA

 

Chapter One 

Among the local aristocrats who strutted their fire 

jewels and misa silks down the midnight promenades on 
the Isle of Song, the tall, lean figure dressed in military 
drab stood out. There was no mistaking that one. 

That was Jess Laren, spacefighter ace. 
He was there, right there, on the far side of the square 

from Desdaine. 

Desdaine had seen the war hero in many videos and 

news reports, but of course he had never actually met the 
man. Desdaine never expected to be standing on the 
same planet as Jess Laren. 

Laren appeared now before Desdaine’s eyes like a 

waking dream, built long and lean with a tight waist and 
narrow hips. He was fair, his hair some color between 
brown and blond, shorn military short over his ears. His 
face was beautifully sculpted like a mischievous god’s. 
Longing and lust burned in Desdaine’s midriff and 
welled in his groin for Flight Leader Jess Laren. 

Pity the son of a bitch was a hero on the wrong side 

of the war. 

It was night on the neutral Isle of Song. Light from 

the glow globes lay in watery pools on the glassy 
smooth stones of the city square. Laren gazed around 
like a tourist, completely out of place among the high 
sophistication and stratospheric wealth of this island. 
And it didn’t look like he gave a rip. 

Jess Laren’s head turned. His gaze met Desdaine’s 

and held it. Clear gray eyes and bright white smile made 
Desdaine forget to exhale. 

 

 

 

The sight of Desdaine normally made men shy away. 

Not this man. Jess Laren cut a diagonal path across the 
square, straight toward Desdaine, at a loose-jointed gait 
between a stroll and a strut, an easy set to his wide 
shoulders. 

Desdaine’s universe stood still. The closer Laren 

came, the finer he looked. Desdaine felt bright energy 
emanating from him like a physical force. 

I really need to breathe. 
Laren walked up to Desdaine with that big grin and 

said in his native Raudanese, “You look like you’re here 
for the same party I am.” 

Desdaine guessed Flight Leader Jess Laren had flown 

fighter escort for the ambassadors who travelled here 
from the enemy planet Raudan. 

“Party?” Desdaine echoed faintly, then answered in 

flawless Raudanese. “It’s a funeral.” 

“Really?” Laren said, not sounding disappointed. 

“What chances do you give for a peace treaty?” 

“There are no chances,” Desdaine said. “The peace is 

dead on arrival.” 

“Oh good!” Laren said. No fighter pilot Desdaine 

knew ever loved peace. Fighter pilots lived to fight, and 
there was nothing secretive about this man. “I can get 
back to shooting down ‘Zecs!” Then he thought to add, 
“No offense, mate.” 

Desdaine tilted his head, a small shrug. Laren’s 

apology was unnecessary. “It’s what you do.” 

Jess Laren could say anything and Desdaine wouldn’t 

care, as long as he was here in the flesh, close enough to 
smell. He smelled intoxicatingly male. 

“So if you ‘Zecs don’t want peace, why did you lure 

us here to your planet for peace talks?” 

 

 

 

“We didn’t lure you. Your ambassadors came to 

spy.” 

“Yeah?” Laren said. “And what does your side get 

out of letting us come here?” 

“I don’t know. I know more about your side than I do 

of mine.” 

Laren’s features knotted into confused lines. “How 

does that happen?” 

“It’s what I do.” 
Desdaine was a senior intelligence officer for Ilzec 

Imperial Intelligence. It was his job to know all about 
the Raudaners. 

Ilzec and Raudan were actually a double planet. The 

twin worlds circled each other like rivals in a knife fight 
as they orbited the same yellow sun together. 

And then there was the third nation -- this tiny island. 
The Isle of Song was physically located on the planet 

Ilzec, but Ilzec law didn’t rule here. Rich, decadent Song 
had an easy, live-and-let-live, seize-the-night culture. 
Song was an intoxicating place of indigo skies, velvet-
shadowed alleys, and beguiling scents. The caress of 
warm air off the sea seduced all inhibitions out of a man. 

The only reason the Ilzec government didn’t take 

over the defenseless island was that Song gave the Ilzec 
overlords a place to indulge in the forbidden. One did 
things on Song one never talked about again. 

Desdaine wanted to say to Jess Laren I adore you, but 

that would be beyond inappropriate. Desdaine heard 
himself saying instead, “I know you.” 

Jess Laren gave a small nod. “Yeah. I’ve heard of 

you too, mate.” 

“That can’t be good.” Desdaine hadn’t meant to say 

that aloud. 

Laren assured him blithely, “It all grinds.” 

 

 

 

Desdaine’s reputation was the exact opposite of the 

straight shooting Jess Laren. 

Back as far as the ancient days of legendary Earth, 

there had always been a certain purity about a fighter 
pilot. Air-space battles were clean. The pilots were 
chivalrous. Jess Laren lived in the heavens. Desdaine 
dwelled deep in secrets. 

Laren glanced about the plaza. “You’re getting some 

looks here, mate.” 

Desdaine was aware of the furtive glances. Powerful 

people crossed the boulevards to avoid Desdaine -- and 
not just because he was an intelligence officer, which 
was quite bad enough. Desdaine was also a Savar. 

Refined folk watched him guardedly, stealing glances 

at his reflection in shop windows, their eyes hooded in 
suspicion, a grim set to their mouths, as if to ask how 
dare the authorities let one of those loose among the 
citizenry. As if a Savar was not quite tame and not quite 
human. 

“Do you bite?” Laren asked. 
“Not usually,” Desdaine said. 
Jess Laren’s eyes moved up, down, surveying 

Desdaine full length, officer’s cap to black boots. 
Laren’s gray eyes returned to lock gazes with him. 
“Death Angel,” Laren said. 

“I’ve heard that one,” Desdaine said. “One of the 

nicer names I’ve been called.” 

“You sure?” Laren said. “Death Angel is a kind of 

fungus where I come from.” 

Desdaine gave a quick, bitter imitation of a smile. 

“You are shooting during a truce, Flight Leader Laren?” 

“You’re right,” Laren admitted. “That was a low 

blow. I’ll let you make it up to me. Gimme a smoke.” 

 

 

 

Desdaine could not argue with such well-twisted 

logic. He withdrew a monogrammed, gold cigarette case 
from the breast pocket of his charcoal-gray uniform 
jacket and offered. “Cig?” 

Delight looked breath-taking on Laren. His large eyes 

actually sparkled. He took two cigarettes. He put one 
between his sensuous lips and stowed the other behind 
his right ear for later. Laren said merrily, “You’re all 
right for a soul-sucking fungus.” 

Not your soul I want to suck. Desdaine took a 

cigarette for himself. He lit up first, pocketed his lighter, 
then held the burning end of his own smoke to serve as a 
lighter for Laren. 

Laren leaned in and guided Desdaine’s hand close to 

his lips. The touch of Laren’s palm cupping Desdaine’s 
hand sent a warm rush through Desdaine. He could see 
moisture on Laren’s lips. His lips looked soft. Desdaine 
felt Laren’s breath on his fingers as Laren steadied the 
glowing end of Desdaine’s cig. His cig touched and 
ignited. 

Laren inhaled. He lifted his head and blinked up at 

the dark sky as the forbidden, smoky sensation filled his 
head, a look of pleasure on his face. 

Laren exhaled through narrow nostrils. “Wow. Long 

time since I had one of these.” 

Smoking was a rich man’s vice, very expensive, and 

restricted on Ilzec. It was illegal on Raudan. Laren 
smiled through the smoke. “Gotta love an island of sin.” 

Desdaine only pretended to inhale. He watched Laren 

and drank in his presence. 

The night was magical. Strings of colored lights 

shone over the sidewalk cafes and reflected in the wet 
sheen on the black pavement. It had rained earlier, 

 

 

 

leaving the air clean, making all smells sharper, richer --
the scents of spice and island blooms and Laren. 

“These’ll kill you,” Laren said, gesturing at Desdaine 

with his cigarette. “So you should do this as often as 
possible.” 

“Ah. Again the shots during the peace,” Desdaine 

said softly. He wanted to tell Laren he was beautiful. 

Music carried from several tavernas. The night sky 

was mostly clear, except for a soft haze over the sea. 
The enemy planet Raudan was just now rising, a huge, 
blue-white disk, over the watery horizon. Its planetshine 
threw soft shadows of Laren’s eyelashes across his 
finely carved cheekbones. 

There was a lot more to Laren than his looks. He was 

a brilliant flyer, a dead shot, and a natural leader. He 
cared for the men he commanded. Desdaine could see 
that on the news clips he had studied. Laren’s 
camaraderie with his mates leapt out of all the videos. 
Jess Laren was an extraordinary man. 

Though Desdaine couldn’t have him, he wanted to do 

something for him. He said, “If you want to go upstairs 
at any of the clubs, you may drop my name.” Then he 
thought to clarify, “Desdaine. Not fungus.” 

Laren looked a little confused by the offer. “What’s 

upstairs?” 

“Where you want to be,” Desdaine said. The best of 

the elite haunted the upstairs of establishments on the 
Isle of Song. The beautiful, the famous, the powerful 
were all upstairs. Upstairs cost dearly. 

“I don’t have money,” Laren said. 
“You won’t need it.” 
Laren’s beautiful eyes shifted across him, as if 

reading him, reassessing him. Laren seemed to finally 
realize that Desdaine’s name had power. 

 

 

 

“Are you really the son of the Archdevil?” Laren 

asked. 

Desdaine had heard that one too. “Close kin,” he 

said. 

Nobody loved an intelligence officer. Not even his 

own troops. Intelligence officers were vultures of a sort -
- though some said that was a bit unfair to the vultures. 

Laren asked, “Do you like your job?” 
“Love it. Just love it,” Desdaine said. 
Laren tilted his head, uncertain. “I can’t tell if you 

mean that or you’re just torquing me around.” 

“As it should be,” Desdaine said. 
“Intelligence. Intelligence,” Laren muttered, then 

said, “I don’t mean this as an insult -- nah, okay, maybe 
I do -- I thought your kind were supposed to be stupid. 
The Savar.” 

Desdaine gave a sideways nod, allowing that 

comment. The Savar race was considered marginally 
subhuman. “I am Savar,” he admitted. “We make good 
doorstops.” 

There was a surprised lag. Then Laren gave an 

amazed smile and laughed. “And your government put a 
doorstop in charge of intelligence? How does that 
scan?” 

“We’re not all imbeciles,” Desdaine said. “It’s just 

that the Savar have no theoretical physicists. We never 
harnessed electricity, much less the atom. I’m about as 
smart as ‘my kind’ gets.” 

The Savar were considered cunning animals. They 

were a different race of humanity, though some people 
regarded them as a whole different breed from Homo 
sapiens. Homo brutus some folk called them. The Savar 
were strong, physical, sexually potent, and attractive. 
Sapiens resented them for that. 

 

 

 

“They also say the Savar are supposed to be 

beautiful,” Laren said. 

“Supposedly,” Desdaine said. 
“Well, they got one thing right.” 
You think so? Desdaine couldn’t talk, his insides 

shivering like struck crystal. 

Desdaine knew that people thought him attractive, in 

a dangerous, feral way. He had a Savar’s thick, dark hair 
and dark eyes. His thick fringe of dark lashes, his 
pouting lips, and his powerful build were considered 
beautiful. He moved with the grace and strength of a 
wild animal. He exuded raw beauty, intrigue and real 
danger. He was just tall enough. He held himself aloof 
and pretended not to see all the civilized women’s come-
hither eyes. 

Ilzec society was rigid, contained, controlled, and 

repressed. 

That Desdaine was attracted to other males was his 

own secret. That sort of desire was not acceptable in 
Ilzec society. The attraction wasn’t viewed all that well 
among the Raudaners either, but homosexuality 
wouldn’t get you executed on planet Raudan as it could 
on Desdaine’s homeworld, Ilzec. 

So Jess Laren thought Desdaine was beautiful. 

Desdaine’s hopes soared. 

Laren suddenly asked, as if just realizing he might be 

in trouble talking to an enemy intelligence officer, “Are 
you working here?” 

Desdaine desperately wanted to lie to him, but didn’t. 

Desdaine answered, “I am always working.” The Eyes of 
the Empire never blink. 

Laren regarded his cigarette suspiciously, as if it 

might be drugged. He pushed his cigarette at Desdaine. 
“Switch with me.” 

 

 

 

Desdaine obliged. “As you wish.” 
The brush of Laren’s fingers against his own as they 

traded cigarettes sent a spear of sexual heat through 
Desdaine’s body. 

Desdaine brought Laren’s cigarette to his mouth. He 

was keenly aware that his lips were touching something 
that Laren’s lips had just touched. Desdaine confessed, 
“I’m a fan of yours.” 

Fighter aces had lots of admirers. 
“Can’t say I’m one of yours,” Laren said. He took a 

drag on Desdaine’s cigarette. “But you already figured 
that out.” 

Desdaine nodded. 
Laren’s chin lifted with a backward nod. “That car is 

following us.” 

“Yes,” Desdaine said without looking. He knew the 

car was back there. A long, muscular vehicle, black and 
shiny as the pavement, it lurked at a distance behind 
them. 

“Is that an Intelligence vehicle?” Laren asked. 
“Yes.” 
“Your side or mine?” 
“Mine.” 
“Can we lose the slimy weasel?” 
“It’s my car,” Desdaine said. “That’s my driver. I’m 

the slimy weasel.” He turned around and signaled the 
car to back off. 

“Damn,” Laren said, impressed. “The empire takes 

care of its weasels.” 

Desdaine’s car was a luxury machine. Desdaine 

clarified, “The car is mine like Karena is yours.” 

Laren’s notorious fighter ship, Karena, was Laren’s 

to fly but not his to own. The space-plane was 
government-issue equipment. 

 

 

 

Jess Laren’s Karena was famous and well-feared 

among Ilzec pilots. Her hull bore a picture of a thorny 
rose twisted around a heart, and her tail bore way too 
many kill marks. 

Walking beside Laren filled Desdaine with longing, 

like a pleasant ache. Desdaine liked being with him. 
Laren’s presence soothed his spirit and inflamed his 
body at the same time. 

And, unbelievably, Laren was still here, walking the 

glistening streets of the city at Desdaine’s side. They 
said nothing for a while, just strolling in a 
companionable silence, no compulsion to fill the void 
with awkward noise. Desdaine dared imagine that Laren 
liked being with him too. 

Laren’s baggy, wrinkled flight suit made him look 

free and joyful as an unmade bed. Desdaine was, as 
always, sleek, perfectly groomed, poised, and 
smoldering. 

A gentle wind wafted off the water. Laren’s 

homeworld rose higher over the edge of the world, 
glowing blue-white and immense. Laren waved a salute 
to the planet. 

“Desdaine.” Laren said, as if trying out the sound of 

his name. Desdaine loved how it sounded on this man’s 
tongue. “Is that your first name or your last name? 
Desdaine what? What Desdaine?” 

“The Savar have only one name,” Desdaine said, then 

added before Laren could say it, “Like dogs.” 

“I wasn’t going to say that.” 
“Yes, you were.” 
Laren grinned. His merry, bright smile looked a 

shade guilty. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” 

 

 

 

Blunt though Laren was, nothing he said felt truly 

hostile. That was a funny thing about fighter pilots --
they didn’t hate their opponents. 

This encounter meant more to Desdaine than it ought. 

For once, he was grateful that Ilzec officers’ dress 
uniforms included the requirement of wearing a cup. 
Desdaine was not sure if that requirement was for the 
officer’s protection or because visible arousal was 
considered bad form in Ilzec society. Laren couldn’t see 
that Desdaine was hard as a prison shockstick the whole 
time they walked together. 

Desdaine wanted to touch Laren’s body, but he was 

terrified to propose anything. He didn’t know if he could 
bear a look of revulsion in case he was misreading this 
encounter altogether. 

Still, he would never forgive himself if he let this 

moment pass without taking the chance. 

Laren was taking the last possible drag off his 

cigarette. 

Desdaine blurted before he could think about what he 

was saying and talk himself out of it. “Do you want to 
go down to the docks with me?” He’d used the local 
island expression. 

Laren crushed the bitter end of his cigarette under 

foot, squinted up at the hazy stars. The night breeze 
lifted his short forelock off his brow. Casually, with 
scarcely a blink, he said, “Nah. I really have no interest 
in that.” 

A quivering sickness fluttered inside Desdaine’s 

middle. His mouth burned even as he felt his face go 
bloodless. He kept his voice steady. “Then good night.” 
He was off, stiffly dignified, his boot heels clicking on 
the stones. 

 

 

 

He made it back to his long, glossy black car and let 

himself inside before his driver could get out and open 
the door for him. He curled up in the back seat, his arms 
around his belly, as if holding his guts in, shame and 
embarrassment searing though him in a hot current with 
hideous disappointment. His nerves felt raw. If nerves 
bled, his were bleeding. He winced, then wretched. He 
felt pathetic. 

He had seen addicts crawl, losing every shred of 

pride, restraint -- everything -- to get a fix. He always 
wondered how those abject bastards could surrender 
their dignity, their very selves, to serve a wanting. 

And here I am. 
The only difference between him and an addict was 

that Desdaine never got to taste his obsession. He’d 
gone straight to withdrawal without ever experiencing 
the high. 

What made him ask Jess Laren that question? 

Desdaine had set himself up for this fall. He reached for 
what he wanted, and now he was roadmash -- crushed, 
disgusting, and ridiculous. Something writhed inside his 
middle. 

What made him think? Or not think. He’d asked Jess 

Laren for sex. The man had named his fighter ship 
Karena not Nigel! 

Desdaine’s driver looked back over one burly 

shoulder to his passenger. Desdaine’s driver was a loyal 
beardog of a man, a big hulking slab of meat too stupid 
to feel anything deeply. Thick as he was, even he sensed 
something wrong. “You sick, sir?” 

“Drive,” Desdaine said. 
A sharp mind could carve you up. Desdaine’s mind 

was shredding him from the inside out. His driver would 
never suffer. 

 

 

 

“Where to?” the driver asked. 
“I don’t care.” 
Lying on his side, Desdaine felt a tear cross the 

bridge of his nose. He felt his pride cracking. 

Or was that his heart? 

*** 

Flight Leader Jess Laren and his mates slammed back 

rounds -- upstairs -- in one of Song’s opulent clubs. The 
StarBridge no less. The StarBridge was the place on the 
Isle of Song, and Laren’s squadron had a window table 
overlooking the bay. 

Laren had dropped Desdaine’s name here, a little 

wary, not sure what kind of reception that would get 
him. 

Well. 
He and his mates were instantly swept up here with a 

deference bordering on terror. Now they were in elite 
company with prime-list vid stars, rocket car drivers, 
and musical gods. His mates were giving themselves 
whiplash turning to gawk at the celebrities who strode 
past their table onto the dance floor. The band was the 
Scimitars. 

Laren had guessed that Desdaine’s name might have 

some weight to it, but he didn’t know it was going to 
positively detonate. Apparently, Desdaine was no one 
you ever wanted to piss off. 

Desdaine hadn’t seemed that terrifying to Laren. The 

enemy intelligence officer was a beautiful son of a bitch 
-- if a man could be said to be beautiful. He looked like 
a lonely animal. He was definitely not stupid, never 
mind that he was a Savar. Desdaine was probably 
smarter than Laren. He seemed sad. Well, why wouldn’t 

 

 

 

he be sad? Folks were scared stiff of him. He’d struck 
Laren as remote, reserved, decorous, but not scary. He 
had a young face with ancient eyes. 

Laren should’ve brought Desdaine along here and got 

him bottled. It would do the man good. 

When Laren tuned back into the conversation at the 

table, the boys were sniggering at a joke. One of them 
had just dropped a line about someone “probably gone 
down to the docks.” It sounded like a crude insult the 
way Jaffa said it. 

Laren had heard those words just recently. Did they 

mean something? Something other than going to the 
docks? “What’s that mean?” Laren asked. 

“Standard come on line for that sort,” Nokto told 

him, and popped back a salted qik from the spun glass 
bowl on the table. 

“What sort?” 
“Buggering, mate,” Jaffa said. 
“Oh,” Laren said. Oh. “Wish I’d known that.” 

*** 

The peace talks fell apart. Within days the truce 

dissolved and the war between the twin worlds, Ilzec 
and Raudan, went hot. 

Desdaine received the news with relief. 
There was nothing like a hot war to get your head out 

of your ass. 

*** 

A month into the renewed war, Desdaine reported to 

a military base where an enemy spy awaited 
interrogation. Preliminary questioning had yielded 

 

 

 

nothing. This case needed an expert. That would be 
Desdaine. 

Desdaine checked the log to see what Home Defense 

had brought him this time. 

The sky guard had bagged a Raudaner military space 

ship trespassing in Ilzec air-space. The ship was now in 
impound. The pilot was in Desdaine’s interrogation 
room. The adjutant passed Desdaine the dossier on the 
prisoner. “Do you want a guard in there, sir?” 

Desdaine took the folder. “Is he violent?” 
“No, sir. Playing dumb and innocent.” 
“No guard,” Desdaine said. It was easier to get men 

to confide secrets when you came in alone. He glanced 
inside the file folder as he walked toward the cell. 

He stopped walking. He never expected what he saw 

inside it. 

Jzadah! He felt cold. My god. 
Desdaine snapped the folder shut, but could not erase 

what he’d seen. Fighter pilots never came into 
Desdaine’s interrogation chamber. 

Ever. 
A fighter’s duty was to shoot down enemy 

spaceplanes. No one took it personally. And when either 
side caught an enemy fighter pilot, they locked him 
away in a decent barracks for the duration of the 
hostilities. 

The prisoner beyond that door was Jess Laren. 
The file folder burned in Desdaine’s gloved hand. He 

forced himself to open it again. It was filled with 
reconnaissance photos taken from the air. 

Picture-taking was a whole different kind of warfare. 

It was espionage. If Jess Laren was using his fighter 
craft to fly reconnaissance over Ilzec, he would be re-
classified as a spy. 

 

 

 

Spies were put to death. 

*** 

The room was white -- completely white -- walls, 

floor, ceiling. There were no windows. The door 
blended seamlessly into the wall. Jess Laren paced in the 
confines. He couldn’t find the light source. The room 
was stark. It was silent. It was meant to be unnerving. 
Jess Laren kept hold of all his nerves, thank you very 
much. 

There was a small table in the middle of the room. 

There was a glass of water on the table. Laren wanted it. 
He was very thirsty. But he was not touching it. Just like 
the two chairs at the little table. He badly wanted to sit 
down, but he refused to accept anything from his enemy. 
And he would give them nothing. 

His muscles ached, his split lip stung. The Ilzec 

bastards had taken everything from him -- his flight 
helmet, his boots, his belt, anything he might use as a 
weapon. He ought to feel lucky they didn’t cut off his 
hands and feet. He’d gotten some good kicks in on the 
thugs who dragged him out of the cockpit of his 
shipwreck. But in the end, there was a bunch of them 
and one of him. They’d won. 

They’d emptied out his pockets. The white floor was 

cool under his bare feet. 

They were making him wait a good long while. He 

paced to keep his muscles from tightening. He’d cooled 
down from the fight. Now he felt just how sore he really 
was. 

At last -- at long, long last -- a door appeared in one 

seamless, white wall. It opened. 

 

 

 

The interrogator entered neat and composed as a cat, 

his face expressionless. Laren recognized him. 

Desdaine! 
Things were looking up. This guy had invited him 

down to the docks. Laren ought to be able to work with 
that. How lucky was this? 

But Desdaine was clearly not pleased to see him. 
Laren’s eyes followed Desdaine around the room. 

Eye rather. Laren’s other eye was swollen shut from the 
beating. 

Desdaine was wearing the same long, black boots and 

cropped jacket as he had on Song. Laren could see him 
clearly here in the harsh light, his hard-muscled build, 
his long waist, his amazing face. He looked absolutely 
beautiful. And no one looked good under this kind of 
glare. His thick, dark hair looked soft. His densely 
lashed eyes looked world-weary. 

Laren didn’t move from where he stood. This was 

Desdaine’s gameboard. Desdaine could jolly well come 
to him. 

Desdaine carried a folder tucked under his arm. He 

set that down on the little table, then crossed the space 
between them and lifted one gloved hand to Laren’s 
face. He gave Laren’s swollen eyelid a clinical lift, his 
dark eyes moving back and forth. Laren felt Desdaine’s 
breath. It smelled clean. 

Desdaine’s satisfied look told Laren his eyes must 

not be dilated in concussion. Desdaine then placed his 
gloved hands on Laren’s sides and felt his ribs through 
his flight suit. It was not a rough touch, but it made 
Laren flinch. 

At last Desdaine held up three fingers before Laren’s 

eyes. “How many fingers?” 

“This many.” Laren flipped him one middle finger. 

 

 

 

“Close enough,” Desdaine said, and walked back to 

the little table. The muscles in his contoured buttocks 
moved like heated steel under his tight fitting trousers. 

Desdaine took off his fore-and-aft cap and tucked it 

into his belt. There was no extra flesh at his waist. He 
pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. He kicked out 
the other chair across from him. “Sit.” 

Laren didn’t obey. 
Desdaine tugged off his kid leather gloves from his 

aristocratic hands. “Don’t be an ass. If you’re not a spy 
they’ll just lock you up with the other flyboys. The 
accommodations aren’t hideous. If they think you’re a 
spy -- and they do think you’re a spy -- they can execute 
you. Work with me here.” 

“Jess Laren. Flight Leader. Z124983KD,” Laren gave 

him name, rank, and number. 

Desdaine took out his gold cigarette case from his 

breast pocket along with a very small ashtray equipped 
with a sliding lid. He took out a cigarette and set the 
case on the table, open. He lit his smoke with his gold 
lighter, snapped the lighter shut and pocketed it. 

He took a drag and exhaled long, waving the smoke 

away from his face. He spoke, his dark eyes fixed on 
something interesting on the blank white wall behind 
Laren’s back. “You were flying recon.” 

“You know I’m a fighter pilot,” Laren said. That was 

true. But he hadn’t said no to the question. He could tell 
Desdaine noticed the side-step. 

Irritation leeched into Desdaine’s perfect composure. 

“How well do you know your fighter craft?” 

“Karena?” Laren almost laughed. “Intimately.” 
He watched Desdaine for a reaction. A man who 

invited him down to the docks would not like a 

 

 

 

reference to a beloved woman. Laren imagined he saw a 
twitch break Desdaine’s marble calm. 

“You know her like the back of your hand?” 

Desdaine suggested softly, not looking happy at all. 

“I know Karena a lot better than that. I only have a 

platonic relationship with my hand, thank you.” 

The beautiful Savar looked grim. It was a look almost 

like pain in his lineless face. 

Desdaine asked, “Did you do a pre-flight check?” 
“Always,” Laren said. He would be an incompetent 

and negligent pilot not to have done. 

“You did a walk-around?” Desdaine asked. His deep 

voice sounded almost ill. 

“Naturally,” Laren said. 
“There is a camera on your ship,” Desdaine said. It 

was an accusation, not a question. His eyes visibly 
flashed. His face was hard as a sphinx’s. 

“Yeah?” Laren said carelessly. “That’s how we 

record our kills. Fighters have been taking pictures of 
their kills ever since they got wings.” 

Desdaine pulled a stack of photos from his folder and 

threw them, face up, on the table between them. “This is 
not footage of aerial combat.” 

Laren moved closer to see what Desdaine had. He 

stepped around behind Desdaine’s chair and leaned over 
his shoulder close enough to feel his body heat. 

The photos, laid out on the table, showed a transport 

center, a factory, a communications hub. These shots 
had been taken by a craft flying low under the jammers 
that masked the installations from satellite view. 

“What does this look like?” Desdaine asked. 
“Um, that one looks like a butterfly. That one’s two 

monkeys climbing a pagoda. That’s a crab.” 

Desdaine suggested coldly, “Tourist shots?” 

 

 

 

“Not very good ones,” Laren said. 
Desdaine pulled out one photo and placed it on top of 

the rest. “What do you know about this installation?” 

“Not a damn thing,” Laren said cheerily. And it was 

true. He just flew the course he’d been given. The 
camera recorded whatever the hell was under him. 

“Is this your work?” Desdaine asked, tapping the 

stack of photos. 

“Not that I know of,” Laren said. 
Desdaine seemed agitated. He took a second cig from 

the gold case and lit it with his own. He passed the 
second smoke up over his shoulder to Laren without 
looking at him. 

Laren took it. This interview was going well. He 

walked around the table and allowed himself to sit in the 
chair opposite Desdaine. He stretched out his aching 
legs. “Damn,” he groaned, relaxing. 

“Your dog’s name?” Desdaine asked. 
It was an odd question. “Fritzie,” Laren said. 
“It’s Inga,” Desdaine said back. “I’m not the dumbest 

Savar in the tribe.” 

“Could be,” Laren said. 
“The camera that took these pictures was in your 

fighter craft,” Desdaine said. “The camera was on 
Karena.” 

Laren shrugged. “They hang gear on my spaceplane. 

If it doesn’t help me fly or shoot, I don’t ask.” 

For some reason Desdaine looked as if Laren had 

knifed him. Desdaine’s dark eyes shut and opened. He 
rose, looking dizzy and maybe sick. His chair fell over 
backwards with his rising. Desdaine prowled to the far 
end of the featureless room. His breathing sounded 
volcanic. His voice dropped to the lowest register of his 
sexy baritone. He spoke into the white wall. “You 

 

 

 

should have stuck to name, rank and serial number, you 
ass!” 

Laren rose too, but more slowly. Desdaine presented 

a dramatic figure from the rear, his shoulders straight 
across, his stance noble as a wild predator. Laren asked 
at Desdaine’s back, “Why? I didn’t tell you anything.” 

“You confessed,” Desdaine said in a rumble. “You 

told me you knew they hung equipment on your ship. 
You told me you saw the equipment. You told me you 
did a walk around. You knowingly brought surveillance 
equipment into Ilzec planetary atmosphere. You are a 
spy by definition of the international accord. By 
definition, you are in deep shit! Why did you have to 
start talking!” He sounded pained. 

“You asked!” 
Desdaine turned around and shouted at him, “That’s 

what I do!” 

“Oh bugger,” Laren said. “What’s next? Torture?” 
Desdaine glowered. “No. It’s no use to torture you. I 

know you don’t know a damn thing.” 

“I wouldn’t talk if I did know anything.” 
“Shut. Up.” Desdaine stalked back to the table and 

closed the folder. He snapped his cigarette case shut and 
jammed it into his breast pocket. His deep breaths 
sounded angry. He looked well and truly pissed. 

Laren guessed he’d lost this round. “Okay. Where to 

now? Prisoner of war camp?” 

Desdaine’s face was lineless and alabaster cold. His 

voice sounded as if from far away. “Death most likely.” 

That finally got through Laren’s flip serenity. 

“Whoa! Wait! No. Not really?” 

Desdaine’s dark eyes glittered within the velvet 

fringe of his lashes. Yes, really. 

“Why?” Laren cried. 

 

 

 

“You’re a dangerous man on the wrong side of the 

war.” 

“You could put in a word for me,” Laren said. 
“I told you ‘death most likely,’ because death is what 

I’m recommending. I am working here!” 

Laren heard something else in Desdaine’s anger. It 

sounded like heartbreak. This couldn’t be happening. 
“You’re killing me. You’re really killing me?” 

Desdaine offered Laren his ashtray. Laren only then 

noticed his own cigarette was half gray ash. 

Laren blinked at Desdaine, stunned. He let his 

cigarette drop to the pristine white floor. “Fuck you.” 

Desdaine resumed a look of professional, cold-

blooded calm. Only his voice betrayed bitterness. “That 
would be my first choice, but it’s not going to happen.” 

*** 

Desdaine got the information he’d sought from his 

prisoner. He was beyond angry. 

The stupid simplicity of the true-hearted! Why did 

Laren’s side have to send a white knight to do a weasel’s 
work? Damn them all! 

Desdaine moved like a robot. He went upstairs to 

report to his superior, an angular, hatchet-faced man. He 
was a colonel in the ruling Party. 

The colonel asked silkily from behind his desk, 

“Were you able to extract intelligence from our 
Raudaner hero?” He sounded certain of Desdaine’s 
success. 

“There’s very little intelligence in him,” Desdaine 

said. “He is a flyboy and a shooter, not a strategist. 
Someone hung a camera on him and told him where to 
fly. Raudaner military operations are highly 

 

 

 

compartmentalized. They purposefully kept him clueless 
so that if he fell into our hands he couldn’t tell us 
anything. He truly is clueless.” 

“Then we’re done with him,” the colonel said, like a 

hatchet blade dropping. “A spy without intelligence is 
still a spy.” 

“Yes,” Desdaine said, hollow. He’d been hoping that 

Laren’s cluelessness would save him. He’d known full 
well it wouldn’t. But he had hoped. 

“Recommendation?” the colonel demanded. 
Desdaine struggled to maintain his robotic façade. As 

if speaking from a deep hollow, he gave the only answer 
he could. “Shoot him.” 

There. It was done. Desdaine had discharged his duty 

for honor and country. Now he was going to drink 
himself blind. 

“We accept your recommendation for shooting,” the 

colonel said, rising behind his desk. He drew a pistol 
from the holster at his thigh. Party members regularly 
carried the ancient weapons. Pistols were works of 
brutal art and symbols of exalted status. They also still 
functioned. 

Desdaine thought he was about to be shot. He forced 

himself not to move -- to just take it like a soldier of the 
empire and don’t ask why. 

But the colonel did worse. He turned the pistol and 

held it toward Desdaine, grip first. “That is what you 
will do.” 

Desdaine stared dumbly at the offered pistol. 
Me. 
He was being ordered to shoot Jess Laren. 
He stared at the pistol so long that a glint of suspicion 

crept into the colonel’s gaze. The officer’s skin looked 

 

 

 

hard and waxy. The colonel asked in smooth menace, 
“Is there a problem with that, Desdaine?” 

All the blood felt to be draining out of Desdaine’s 

head. This was a test. He felt deathly cold. Someone 
even higher upstairs was challenging Desdaine’s loyalty. 
The Ilzec were never quite certain about Desdaine’s 
Savar kind. 

“Get someone else,” Desdaine said, a plea. 
The colonel’s eyes and voice were hard. “It is your 

task.” 

There was no mercy to be found here. The Savar’s 

loyalty must be absolute. The powers of the empire 
wanted Desdaine to prove his. 

“Yes, sir.” 
Desdaine took the gun. 

*** 

This room was all gray. It was concrete. 
Laren knelt, bent over on the death chamber floor, 

shaking from the cold. 

His captors had taken his flight suit and his dog tags. 

He was down to his skivvies. The bonds around his 
wrists and ankles were made of some kind of smooth, 
hard polymer that didn’t stretch, didn’t break, and didn’t 
budge. His bare skin roughened at the chill. 

This grinds. Oh shit. Oh damn. Death never scared 

him. But this was not death like death in the air. The 
possibility of dying up here always present. But up there 
it was different. It was clean up there. 

Up there you accepted Death’s presence. It grinned at 

you through the view screen. And you grinned back. 
You dueled with other knights, and you won or lost 
honorably. 

 

 

 

Laren hadn’t even been shot down by another pilot. It 

hadn’t even been a human being who shot Karena down 
on his picture-taking run. A computerized ground gun 
got him. 

Now the Ilzec bastards had him trussed up like roast 

bird. 

Smells of chlorine threaded up his sinuses. Chlorine 

was commonly used to clean up blood. There was no 
blood in here now, but Laren was pretty damn sure there 
had been, and not very long ago. 

This chamber had recently been hosed down. An 

industrial sized drain with an iron grate lay in the center 
of the concrete floor. He heard dripping from under the 
grate. The air was damp and clammy. It was grotesque. 

The door of the death chamber opened. Laren lifted 

his face from the concrete to see his executioner. 

It was the beautiful one -- Desdaine. 
Son of a bitch. Laren glared into his dark, pretty eyes. 

“You.” 

Desdaine carried himself aloof. Sadness bled through 

his reserve. Well jolly good that Desdaine looked sad! 

Desdaine chambered a round into the pistol he 

carried. He asked the ritual question of the executioner 
to his victim, “Do you forgive me?” 

Laren felt his brow tighten. He thought for a moment, 

then answered, “Not really. No.” He hawked up a feeble 
glob of saliva and spat on the concrete. He’d been trying 
for Desdaine’s polished, black boots. 

His executioner’s shadow moved over him. The 

Death Angel was pointing the gun down at his head. 
“Don’t move.” 

Laren lifted his face, defiant. 
Desdaine appeared to waver. “Please look down.” 

 

 

 

Laren growled, his gaze boring into the bastard’s 

beautiful eyes. “Don’t fuck this up.” 

“I won’t.” 
Desdaine pulled the trigger. 

 

 

 

Chapter Two 

A tongue of orange flame flicked out from the barrel 

of Desdaine’s gun with a loud report. The crack banged 
against the concrete walls and hammered at Desdaine’s 
ears. The recoil stung the pad of his thumb. Laren’s face 
jerked away from him -- intact. 

Laren was still there, before him, still whole, alive, a 

burn on his face. His jerking away from the shot had 
been reflex, not impact of any bullet. 

Desdaine stared in a silent, panicked fog. Laren was 

licking his singed lips and blinking up at him in pure 
hatred. Jess Laren hissed. “You bastard.” 

Desdaine couldn’t understand what just happened. 

Misfire? 

Jzadah, this was hideous. The recoil hadn’t felt right 

in Desdaine’s hand. The jolt of firing wasn’t hard 
enough for a weapon of this caliber. 

Quickly, before his nerve could fail entirely, 

Desdaine pulled the trigger again. And again, and felt 
the same effete crack -- each time -- again and again. 

Laren flinched with each report. Then his gaze 

leveled into a steady, furious glare, his gray eyes round 
in rage. 

Desdaine pulled the trigger again -- Bang -- facing a 

look of such hatred as Desdaine had never seen, and he 
had seen a lot. 

I’m the one dying here. 
He pulled the trigger. Click. 
The clip was empty. 
Click. Click. 

 

 

 

Still on his knees, Laren slowly bowed over until his 

forehead touched the concrete floor again, his hands 
bound behind his back. He was shaking. Desdaine felt 
his outrage. It filled the chamber. 

Laren’s fair skin shone with sweat. His back lifted 

and lowered with his deep, shuddering breaths. 

Desdaine beheld the gun in his own hand. A 

quivering set into his muscles, his insides. He looked 
around, bewildered, for watchers. There had to be 
watchers. He searched the gray walls with a silent 
question What is this? His body vibrated. He was too 
scathed to talk, shamed and furious. 

The masters of this show must know how he felt 

about this man or they wouldn’t have set him up for this 
perfect horror. He hadn’t thought his secret desire was 
obvious, but apparently someone had seen through him. 
Desdaine didn’t work for stupid people. 

But they were cruel people. They’d set him up. They 

had to know what it cost him to pull that trigger. They 
wanted to see what they could get him to do for the 
empire. 

Laren was still bowed over, his naked sides moving 

with his panting. He lifted his face from the floor. It was 
wet with sweat, and maybe tears, and contorted with 
rage, a blister on his lip and a red blotch on his brow 
where it had rested against the concrete. “What the hell 
was that! You -- ” Laren cursed him, called him every 
name he knew, and some that Desdaine, who had been 
called everything, had never heard. 

The door opened behind Desdaine. Hard heels rapped 

on concrete, entering. Desdaine turned. 

It was not his colonel this time. It was a higher 

ranking officer. He took the gun from Desdaine’s hand 

 

 

 

and told him, gently stern, “We had to know, sir. We’ll 
take it from here.” 

*** 

Desdaine wretched into a steel basin in a clean, bright 

lavatory upstairs from the kill chamber. He washed 
away his tears and tried to cool the anguished puffiness 
out of his face. He kept listening for the gun crack that 
would tell him someone had finished the job for him. It 
would tell him Jess Laren was dead. 

Behind him, the lavatory door creaked on its hinges. 

An adjutant leaned in. “You have a summons, Desdaine. 
Now.” 

“Whoever it is can goddam well wait,” Desdaine 

snarled into the basin drain. 

“It’s the Blue Whale.” 
Desdaine reared up. 
Blue Whale was everyone’s nickname for the War 

Marshal himself, the second highest ranking man in the 
Ilzec Empire. 

Desdaine dried his face and hands, smoothed back his 

dark hair, and straightened his jacket. He willed the 
redness out of his cheeks. 

When a dignified figure gazed back from the mirror 

with an opaque expression, Desdaine reported to the 
War Marshal. 

War Marshal Tanter Voorg was a vast man. He’d 

designed his own uniform in his favorite color, bright 
parakeet blue. He knew about his nickname. He liked it. 
He was jovial, full of gusto, bravado, and immense 
cruelty. He indulged his every appetite. He spoke in a 
ringing tenor that could make you laugh or make you 
shrink in terror. 

 

 

 

His tiny, porcine eyes were bright aquamarine blue. 
As Desdaine entered the luxurious chamber, the War 

Marshal spoke from behind his enormous, gilded desk 
without greeting or pleasantries or prologue. “Do you 
want him?” 

“What?” Desdaine said, feeling as if he’d been 

thrown out a window, falling, lost. 

“Don’t play naïve with me,” Tanter Voorg said. 

“You’re wasting my time.” 

Desdaine was mortified. So the War Marshal himself 

knew what Desdaine was, what he wanted. The War 
Marshal knew what it cost Desdaine to pull that trigger. 
Yet it wasn’t enough that he obey the order to kill the 
man he was wholly infatuated with. Tanter Voorg had to 
force him to admit to his forbidden passion. “Is this 
another test?” Desdaine asked, his voice thick. He tried 
not to sound resentful. 

“No. You already passed every test.” 
“I obey the law, sir.” 
The War Marshal laughed indulgently. One great, 

hammy hand slapped down on his desktop as he roared, 
“Common laws are for commoners! Rules are for sheep, 
not the shepherds! We are guardians of the realm. 
Trivialities do not apply to us.” 

Us. Desdaine heard himself included in the War 

Marshal’s lofty company. Desdaine spoke, bewildered, 
“By Ilzec law, perversion wants a death sentence.” 

“Normally yes. Yes, it does. But perversity serves 

here. You are Savar. I would rather you not interbreed 
with our women. It’s best if we vent your lust where it 
can do no harm.” 

Astounded, all Desdaine could say was, “Sir?” 
“Perqs of the guardians. Enjoy the privilege, boy!” 

Voorg stood up. He swaggered out from behind the 

 

 

 

desk. “You’re a perv. So what? You are discreet. I don’t 
mind perversion. It gives me a handle on you. You are a 
faithful guard dog. Now, when I throw you a bone, you 
take it.” That had the sound of a command. 

Desdaine searched for words. 
Losing patience, the War Marshal said, “Either take 

him or I’ll have him dispatched. There’s a trench out 
back. Do you want him?” 

Desdaine hadn’t meant to answer the insulting, 

obscene offer -- his hero, his fantasy, his knight, tossed 
to him like piece of meat. It was below vulgar. But the 
alternative was murder and an anonymous grave. 

He couldn’t look directly at Tanter Voorg. The War 

Marshal would see his wrath. Eyes aimed submissively 
down at the man’s big, highly-polished boots, Desdaine 
spoke, hating him. “I want him.” 

He imagined he heard Voorg’s smile. Desdaine had 

just given the War Marshal a firmer grip on his invisible 
leash. The hold choked no less for being unseen. 

The War Marshal chuckled. “Good boy.” 

*** 

What am I doing here? 
Jess Laren didn’t even know where here was. 
He replayed the last things he remembered. He 

remembered the bleached, damp, concrete kill chamber 
with its ominous drain, his mock execution. Anger 
coursed through his veins. After the blank shots, there 
had come the sweet smelling rag over his face. He 
remembered fighting it and losing consciousness. He’d 
thought that was the real death stroke as he went under, 
but no. 

 

 

 

He’d awakened, groggy, here. Whatever the hell here 

was. This place smelled a lot better. 

His keepers had given him back his flight suit, but 

not his boots or his belt. His bonds were gone. He 
wasn’t wearing skivvies, either. He wondered who took 
those off him. He’d been heavily drugged, so he didn’t 
remember the journey here. 

The first step he tried to take landed him on his face. 

So he explored his new confines at a muzzy crawl. 

This had to be the absolutely nicest POW barracks 

Laren had ever seen. In fact, it was one of the nicest 
places of any kind he’d been in ever. It was like a 
vacation cabin for a hunter or a skier -- except that it 
was in the middle of fucking nowhere. Outside was 
black. The only light was what fell out through the 
cabin’s huge windows, which filled one wall. The cabin 
lights shone on a bleak snowfield. Out there, glassy ice 
flecks flew on a hostile wind. 

The window panes were the same crystal polymer 

that they made spaceship viewports out of, clearer than 
glass, harder than tempered steel. It kept the cold out 
there and the heat in here. That was good. It looked cold 
as deep space out there. 

Inside the cabin was warm, almost cheery, kitted out 

with antiqued brass fixtures and leather upholstered 
furniture. It smelled cedar-y. The bed in the single 
bedroom was big enough for him and a couple of 
women, but his Ilzec keepers hadn’t furnished any of 
those. 

The bath was equipped with more luxuries than he 

knew what to do with. He threw up in the bidet, which 
immediately cleaned itself. He crawl-climbed to a spigot 
-- a damned handsome bronze spigot it was too -- and he 
drank water until he couldn’t swallow anymore. Then he 

 

 

 

peed his brains out and did it again, trying to flush out of 
his body whatever they’d put in him to make him lose 
track of how many feet he had. 

Jess Laren wanted to be wide awake for his next 

battle. 

*** 

Desdaine’s flyer set down in spray of ice crystals. He 

shut down the flyer’s engine and stayed seated in his 
cockpit for several moments. 

Before him, tendrils of wood smoke curled up from 

the chimney of the lone cabin on the bleak landscape. 
On one side warm light spilled from the cabin’s large 
windows onto the snowpack. 

A shadow moved across the light. Someone was 

walking inside. 

Desdaine caught in his breath. Quills blossomed 

under his tongue. Fear turned in his gut. Something 
waffled just under his diaphragm, making it hard to 
breathe. Jess Laren was in there. 

Desdaine had to face the man he wanted and 

admired. The man he’d tried to kill. The man locked up 
and offered to him as captive flesh. 

Desdaine didn’t think he could move. It occurred to 

him that Laren might not know why he was in there. 
Desdaine couldn’t explain that to him. For a few 
moments, Desdaine really couldn’t move. He knew he 
had to force himself. 

He wasn’t moving. 
Get this over with. Go in. Get your guts reamed. Get 

out. 

He had never been more horrified in his life. 

 

 

 

At last he opened the canopy of his flyer. The air was 

piercing cold. He descended from his flyer into arctic 
winter. Snow crunched hard under his boot soles. 
Overhead, curtains of ghostly green and red light waved 
across the starfield. The bitterest wind ruffled the fur of 
his coat. The soft edges of his fur hat caressed his 
cheeks and brow. 

Desdaine approached the door on the window-less 

side of the cabin. His hand hesitated on the door handle, 
paralyzed again in fear and shame. 

He inhaled air as sharp as blades and opened the door 

slowly, in case his prisoner attacked him. Desdaine 
expected a roundhouse kick to the head or maybe a 
thrown chair. But the only thing that met him in the 
doorway was a billow of warm air on his cheeks. 

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. 
He was standing in a small foyer of stone and timber. 

Ahead of him, through a narrow archway, he could see a 
warmly lit great room. Tall windows filled one wall. 
And he could see a man’s reflection in the windows --
an unmistakable, tall, lean, wide-shouldered figure, 
facing out to the frozen wasteland. Jess Laren’s back 
was to Desdaine. 

A rush of emotion hit Desdaine in a staggering wave. 

It made him unsteady on his feet. His heart felt like it 
was expanding too big for his chest. It hurt. 

Jess Laren appeared strong, vulnerable, and exquisite 

as a twelve point buck in a woodland glade. 

Desdaine called from the foyer, “Are you all right?” 
Laren spoke without turning. “Nothing that a bullet in 

the brain wouldn’t fix.” 

“You are suicidal?” Desdaine asked. 
“Your brain, not mine,” Laren said. 
“Of course,” Desdaine said. “My mistake.” 

 

 

 

Jess Laren spoke toward the window, his voice cold 

as the view. “What is this?” 

And there was the question. Desdaine thought it 

might actually be possible to die of shame. 

“You don’t want to know,” Desdaine said, amazed at 

how level his voice came out. He advanced to the great 
room, going through casual motions, shaking melting 
ice off his fur hat. He tossed the hat onto a leather divan. 
The place was warm and masculine. “I came to see if 
you need anything.” 

“A way out,” Laren answered. 
“Can’t give you that,” Desdaine said. He let his gaze 

roam around the room, anywhere but at Laren. He 
crossed the wide, hand-woven rug toward the big stone 
hearth. “Is there something I can do for you without 
getting myself executed?” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Laren lift a 

forefinger to signal an objection. “Well, wait a minute. 
Back up. I’m good with that last option.” 

Desdaine started over. “Other than a muzzle for your 

mouth, what do you need?” 

“An answer,” Laren said. “What am I doing here?” 
Of all things his prisoner might have asked for, why 

did he have to ask that? Desdaine tugged off his fur-
lined gloves with all the nonchalance he could muster. 
He took a breath, then, like wrenching a broken bone 
back into place, he met Laren’s eyes and said flatly, 
“Apparently you’re my sex slave.” 

Shock brightened Jess Laren’s face. His clear gray 

eyes flared wide. “Oh really? And you think that’s going 
to happen?” 

Pain and shame stabbed so intensely that Desdaine’s 

senses went into blank white out. He answered, toneless, 
“It just did. Baby, you were great.” 

 

 

 

Laren gave a confused cough. “I don’t get it.” 
“You only live so long as you serve a purpose in the 

empire. So you’re serving. Just in case anyone asks.” 
Desdaine shrugged out of his fur coat. He shook the 
melted ice droplets off it, walked back to the stone-
paved entryway, and hung the coat on a wrought iron 
hook. He strode into the kitchen. He found a highball 
glass, found the bar, and poured himself a stiff one. “I 
am glad you are alive.” 

Laren came to the kitchen archway. He was painfully 

attractive. He leaned forward, his shoulder on the stout 
log pillar, and looked in, watching Desdaine. “Can’t say 
the same about you.” His eyes flicked downward at 
Desdaine’s hands. “Pour two.” 

Desdaine took down a second glass. He poured, 

relieved to see that his hand didn’t shake. He corked the 
decanter, took up both glasses, and offered one to Laren. 

Laren accepted the drink from Desdaine and didn’t 

throw it at him. That was a good start. 

Desdaine clinked his glass to Laren’s. “Salud,” he 

said. 

“Drop dead,” Laren said. 
Desdaine’s first round went down quick. He poured 

another drink and swept past Laren back into the great 
room. Laren moved with him. 

Desdaine looked up and feigned a great interest in the 

strings of tiny, white lights that lined the stout timber 
crossbeams -- anything to avoid looking at Laren. 

Real wooden logs crackled and settled in the 

fieldstone hearth. A robot fire tender remained discreetly 
out of sight. 

Laren dropped backward, letting himself flump into a 

deep, overstuffed, leather chair. He hung one leg over a 
wide, padded chair arm. He was barefoot. Apparently 

 

 

 

his jailors hadn’t given him shoes. “So, what’s the trick 
here?” He licked his hand where he’d sloshed his drink. 
The motion of his tongue caught Desdaine’s eyes. It 
made him hard. 

“Run for it,” Desdaine said, turning his gaze to the 

window. 

“What happens then?” 
Desdaine nodded at the frozen landscape outside. 

“Have you looked out there?” 

Outside was cold and forbidding as all hell. 
Laren gave a quick nod with a tight smile. “Noticed 

that. What do I have to do to stay alive? Really.” 

“Nothing.” 
“Is this some weird way of making me talk?” 
Desdaine shook his head. He gazed fixedly into his 

own drink. “You don’t know anything. You’re only a 
spy by definition. I already know everything about you.” 

“Yeah. About that. How the hell did you know my 

dog’s name?” 

“I told you, I’m a fan.” 
“Uhm.” Laren hedged, as if hesitant to point out the 

obvious. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I happen to 
be a Raudaner?” 

“I am all too aware of that. Admiration does not 

respect national boundaries.” Admiration. There was a 
nice word to use instead of love, lust, craving, or 
obsession. “You cannot imagine the mountains of fan 
mail General Gatalan gets from your country.” 

General Gatalan was the leading fighter ace on the 

Ilzec side. 

“No shit?” Laren said. 
Desdaine nodded. “Every day. Bags of nude photos, 

proposals, propositions, bras, thongs, garters.” 

 

 

 

“Damn,” Laren said, as if feeling cheated. “I only get 

those from Raudaners. I never get bras from Ilzec.” 

“That is because we screen outgoing mail.” 
“Are you allowed to tell me that?” 
“It’s not a secret. And you’re not leaving here to tell 

anyone,” Desdaine said. “At least not until war’s end.” 

“Okay, I’m missing a step here. This place is a 

government setup. I’m supposed your sex slave here. 
That means this arrangement has official blessing. Isn’t 
homosexuality illegal in your country?” 

Heat rose in Desdaine’s face. He willed himself back 

into a hollow calm. “Yes. It is.” 

Laren craned his neck around, making an obvious 

survey of the handsome, comfortable surroundings. “I’m 
thinking someone went way out their way to make you 
happy.” 

Desdaine glanced around too. There was a subtle 

richness and obvious sensuousness to the cabin. It was 
very cozy, except for its desolate location. “It does have 
that appearance,” Desdaine said, bleakly. “But I assume 
nothing anymore.” 

“I’m your sex toy?” 
“That seems to be the intent.” 
“Whose intent? You say it’s not your intent. How 

‘bout I say bull tits?” 

Desdaine felt as if he were being flogged. “I just 

couldn’t let them kill you.” 

“Ha! Mock executions are okay, though! And you’re 

just accepting this sleazy set up only to spare my life. 
That’s so generous of you.” 

Laren’s words hacked Desdaine’s soul out. Desdaine 

could not even try to explain that he had not known his 
gun was loaded with blanks. The rest of the accusation 
was too excruciating to try to answer. He said, “I am 

 

 

 

letting you live because I can afford to. You can’t hurt 
anything here.” 

Like taking up a dare, Laren sat forward, crouched 

for a spring. “You think not?” 

“Except me,” Desdaine added. “And I don’t count.” 
“I don’t believe that,” Laren said. 
“I don’t care.” 
Laren settled back into his chair, half sitting, half 

lying in a sprawl. Clad only in his pilot’s jumpsuit, he 
had an obvious hard-on. That had to be from anger. “Are 
you going to kiss me?” 

“No.” 
Laren threw back his drink in one gulp, like bracing 

for field surgery. “Okay then, straight to the fucking.” 

“Nothing is going to happen.” 
“Then why are you here?” 
“I’m leaving as soon as I finish my drink. I’ll make 

sure they keep the heat on and you have enough food.” 

Laren hesitated, surprised. He went back on the 

offensive. “You really are fucking with me.” 

“I am so not fucking.” Desdaine said. He checked the 

preserver. There was a wide selection of food inside. 

“Stay a while,” Laren said. 
Desdaine asked wearily, “What ever for?” 
“Bad company is better than no company.” 
A man like Jess Laren would not tolerate solitary 

confinement well, even comfortable solitary 
confinement. He was a social animal. On videos he was 
always found in a group. People loved him. He loved 
people. 

Desdaine believed Laren really did want him to stay, 

but it had nothing to do with affection for him. So would 
staying here be “so generous” of him? 

He should go. Now. 

 

 

 

He swallowed the rest of his drink, went to the foyer 

to pull his coat off the hook. When he came back to the 
great room to retrieve his hat, Laren snatched it up like a 
game of keep away. “I mean it. Stay.” 

Desdaine put out a demanding palm. “My hat if you 

please.” 

“I don’t please.” Laren held the fur hat behind his 

back. His eyes flicked toward the chessboard on the 
wide, low table. “You play?” 

“Chess? It makes me sick,” Desdaine said. Moving 

faceless little pieces into traps and erasing them from the 
playing field -- he was rather good at it. He hated it. “I 
do enough of that at work. You?” 

Laren shook his head. “Not my game.” He took a nut 

from an earthenware bowl set out on a side table and 
threw it at the chessboard, knocking over a half a dozen 
red pieces. “No patience for it. Stay.” He moved around 
behind Desdaine to take his coat. 

Desdaine let Laren slide the coat off his shoulders. 

He turned around to stand face to face with Laren, both 
of them holding onto the coat. Their hands brushed as 
Desdaine took his coat back from Laren. He retreated to 
the foyer and hung the coat on its hook. He leaned into 
it, breathing into the fur, until he stopped shuddering. 

He walked into the kitchen and pulled out a river 

pheasant and a couple side dishes from the preserver. 

Laren followed him in. Laren’s barefoot approach 

was nearly silent on the kitchen’s terra cotta tiles. But 
Desdaine was absolutely aware of his every move. 

As Desdaine went through the motions of fixing a 

meal, he felt the dull sickness relaxing its grip on his 
stomach. He realized he was very hungry. He couldn’t 
remember when last he ate anything. 

 

 

 

Laren prowled the kitchen like a curious dog. He 

looked into all the cabinets. He took out a chef’s knife 
from one drawer and held up its long blade. “I know just 
where I could stick this.” 

“Do what you’re going to do,” Desdaine said. “I 

don’t play games.” 

Laren gave an amazed, brittle laugh. “Yeah? And just 

what do you call that mock execution back there?” 

That shot landed like a punch to an already broken 

rib. 

Desdaine shook his head. That again. Of course 

Laren thought Desdaine had been toying with him when 
Desdaine fired blanks at him. How could Laren think 
otherwise? Desdaine could not tell him otherwise. 

It was not Desdaine’s place to express disagreement 

with his superior’s tactics against his enemy. 

His throat tightened in memory. It had been agony, 

the mock execution. And Laren had not been the only 
one mocked, not the only one who died inside. Desdaine 
could not try to explain that to him how much that hurt. 
Laren hated him. With reason. 

Desdaine slapped down a bunch of herbs on a cutting 

board near Laren. “Use that.” He nodded at the knife in 
Laren’s hand. “For whatever you’re going to do.” 

Desdaine turned his back and busied himself 

prepping the bird, intensely aware of the enemy soldier 
behind him poised in a loose, mobile stance, ready with 
a blade. 

Laren hesitated, knife in hand. 
Desdaine sensed no motion behind him. He said 

without turning, “Herbs or my back. What’s it going to 
be?” 

“I don’t stab people in the back.” 

 

 

 

Desdaine turned around, presented himself face 

forward, arms spread. “Have at it. What are you going to 
do?” 

Laren chopped herbs. 
Desdaine set the rough-hewn table with stoneware 

from the cupboards, then sat across from his hottest, 
dearest fantasy. The encounter was unreal, yet every 
detail struck him as intensely real, and he tried to 
memorize all of it -- the sharp curve of Laren’s high 
cheekbones, the strong cords in his neck, the expansion 
of his broad chest with his breaths. Jess Laren was 
absolutely, vividly here. 

Desdaine picked up his fork and tried a bite of the 

pheasant. 

Laren asked, “You’re not going to play with your 

food before you eat it?” 

Hurt, angry, Desdaine couldn’t swallow for several 

moments. 

For his part, Laren ate with the appetite of a man with 

a clear conscience. He ate as if this would be his last 
meal for very long time. 

He thinks he’s going to escape. Either that or Voorg’s 

henchmen had starved him before stranding him here. 

Desdaine couldn’t eat as much as he wanted. His 

nerves gripped and let go and re-gripped by turns. 

Laren eyed up the wall of unbreakable windows in 

the great room and then turned a speculative gaze 
toward the hearth. “How big is that chimney?” He took a 
big bite of herbed potatoes. 

“Looking for a way out?” Desdaine asked. 
“It’s my job,” Laren said, food in his cheek. 
The first duty of any prisoner of war was to escape. 
Desdaine leaned sideways, reaching for an end table. 

He picked up a remote controller and pressed it. A snick 

 

 

 

sounded from out in the foyer. The door lock 
mechanism moved. Laren’s head turned sharply toward 
the sound. 

The bolt had slid into the unlocked position. 
Desdaine set down the controller and lifted his fork. 

“Go.” 

Laren moved to the edge of his seat, eager, then he 

hesitated, suspicious. “Am I going to run into guards out 
there?” 

“We are quite alone,” Desdaine said. 
“Energy fences?” Laren guessed. 
“None.” 
“Mines?” 
“None.” 
“Can I take your flyer?” 
“No.” Desdaine had the key. 
Jess Laren got up from the table. Desdaine forced 

himself to keep eating, small bites. He couldn’t taste 
anything. 

Laren strode to the entryway, took down Desdaine’s 

fur coat from its hook. Then he came back with long, 
fast strides to snatch Desdaine’s fur hat from the couch. 
The coat fit very tight across Laren’s wide shoulders. Its 
hem rode higher on Laren’s calf than when Desdaine 
wore it. 

That left Laren still barefoot. He cast about for 

footwear. The only set in the entire cabin was under the 
table, on Desdaine’s feet. 

Laren nodded down. “Can I have your boots?” 
“No.” Desdaine spoke toward his plate. 
Laren fashioned some foot gear out of towels. Then 

he tried to put on Desdaine’s leather gloves. That was 
almost a laugh. “These are too small,” Laren said. 

“Cut something off,” Desdaine said. 

 

 

 

Laren made do with oven mitts. He stuffed food into 

all the pockets in his flight suit and in the fur coat, as 
much as would fit. “Got a flint?” 

“There’s a lighter in the top drawer next to the 

pantry.” 

Laren went into the kitchen and took the flint from 

the drawer. 

“Map?” 
“You won’t need one.” 
Laren stood over the table. “You don’t think I’m 

going to get very far, do you?” 

Desdaine didn’t look up. He took a drink of water 

and methodically put down his glass. “Go.” He took 
another bite of tasteless food. 

He felt Laren’s absence the moment Laren left the 

table. He heard Laren’s ridiculous, towel-muffled 
footsteps thump to the foyer. The weather seals sucked 
with the door’s opening. Air moaned up the flue, 
sweeping the fire higher and ruffling Desdaine’s hair. 

The door shut with a disheartening bang and 

automatically locked itself. The flames wallowed in the 
hearth as if stomped on. 

The comfortable room felt hollow. 
Desdaine finished eating in a dead calm. He cleared 

the table. He touched his lips to the rim of Laren’s glass, 
because that’s what hopeless fans do. 

Laren ought to come back. It was only sensible. 

Outside was deadly. But Desdaine wasn’t sure Laren 
would come back. The man was pig stubborn, tough, 
daring, and fatally proud. 

Desdaine washed the dishes by hand and put them 

away. 

 

 

 

Then he had nothing to do. He could get into his flyer 

and go home. Or he could search for Laren on the ice 
and force him to come back. 

No. He couldn’t do that. Laren made his own call. 

Did he know it was suicide? Laren must figure that out 
and come back. 

It was taking him a damn long time to figure that out. 
Desdaine grew agitated, waiting. He put on some 

music to drown out the ticking of the old-fashioned 
clock. Time stretched long. He regretted letting Laren 
go. The stubborn ass was going to die out there. 

Desdaine thought angrily, as if he could talk to that 

splendid jerk. If that’s what you want! So be it! 

He should not have given Laren that choice. But it 

was done now. Desdaine went into the bedroom and 
pulled up the down-stuffed comforter to use as a cloak. 
It was going to be a bitter cold dash from the cabin to 
his flyer. He felt sick. Laren was going to die, and 
Desdaine was going home. 

He was bracing himself to face the cold when he 

heard banging on the cabin door. 

He threw the comforter back into the bedroom, then 

posed himself in a chair before the fire. He pulled a 
book off the shelf and opened it to a random page, then 
picked up the controller and signaled the door to unlock. 

The lock clicked. Laren came stomping in with icy 

toweled thuds, cursing the air purple. “It’s fucking 
COLD out there!” He charged into the great room, 
making straight for the hearth. He threw off the cold 
furs, tore off his oven mitts with his teeth, and hunched 
toward the warmth, as if to crawl right into the fireplace. 
He snarled at Desdaine through chattering teeth, “We’re 
at the goddam north pole!” 

 

 

 

“South pole actually,” Desdaine said in his best bored 

voice, not looking up from the printed page. He hadn’t 
read a word. 

Laren sat on the floor, stretching his quaking arms 

out toward the fire. “I swear to God my balls tried to 
crawl right back up where they came from. And I gotta 
tell you, that is not a pleasant feeling!” 

In a moment, Desdaine closed the book and set it 

aside. He got up, walked into the kitchen and fixed a cup 
of hot caffe. He brought the cup out and passed it down 
to Laren. 

Laren gingerly laced his long fingers around the mug. 
Desdaine sat himself on the edge of the chair at the 

hearthside, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Are 
you done now?” he asked, quietly reasonable, like a 
patient adult to a child in the aftermath of an almighty 
tantrum. 

“I think that’ll do it for tonight,” Laren said, his voice 

vibrating with shivers. “Is it still night?” 

“The sun won’t come up for ninety-nine days,” 

Desdaine said. 

The mug was apparently too hot for Laren to hold. 

Even simple warmth would feel burning to frostbitten 
hands. Laren had to set his drink down on the hearth 
stones. “Do I still have lips?” 

“I think you do.” Desdaine slid down from his chair 

to kneel. He unfastened a few buttons of his uniform 
jacket and took Laren’s hands between his own. Laren’s 
long, big jointed fingers felt icy between Desdaine’s 
palms. Desdaine turned Laren’s hands, palms toward 
him, and pressed them to his chest. 

“You’re hot,” Laren said. 
Desdaine felt a dangerous stab of desire and released 

his hands at once. “I need to go.” 

 

 

 

Desdaine stood up. He retrieved his coat from the 

floor where Laren dropped it. A Savar’s sense of smell 
was keen. The smell of Laren’s body clung to the coat 
and filled Desdaine’s head. He wrapped the scent around 
himself. He turned the fragrant collar up around his jaw. 
He spoke with the dull acceptance of the inevitable. 
“You will try again to escape. When I have to pull your 
cold dead carcass off the ice pack is there someone I 
should notify of your demise?” 

“Karena,” Laren said. 
“Karena left you,” Desdaine said back. 
Desdaine may as well have fired another blank at him 

for the look of shock and hatred on his face. 

It wasn’t public knowledge, but Karena -- she for 

whom the champion fighter ace Jess Laren named his 
famous ship -- Karena had gone on and married 
someone else. 

Laren glowered at Desdaine. His voice trembled low. 

“You unbearable man.” 

Desdaine was an intelligence officer. How could 

Laren possibly imagine that Desdaine did not know that 
Jess Laren’s wife left him? She was Karena Stanhope 
now. 

“I shall be going,” Desdaine said. 
“Why?” Laren said. “The night is young -- to say the 

least.” The arctic night would go on for months. “And 
you’re the only mammal in town.” 

“I shan’t be moved by sweet talk,” Desdaine said. 
“I want you to stay.” 
The words reached inside him. They shouldn’t. The 

words meant nothing. 

“You are trying to use me,” Desdaine said, hurt, 

heart-weary. But he could not find anger. He added 
without rancor, “It’s your job to escape any way you 

 

 

 

can. I’m a patriot too, so I understand that you need to 
try.” 

“You want me.” 
A spear of bald shame lanced through Desdaine’s 

body. His face felt hot. He might as well be stark naked 
for all he could hide from Laren. “Yes, I do, damn you 
to hell. It won’t get you anywhere.” 

“Don’t go yet,” Laren said. “I really really hate 

solitary confinement.” 

That much sounded honest. Laren did not want to be 

alone. And Desdaine wanted to be with him, even 
though Laren hurt him. Desdaine heard himself saying, 
before he could think better of it, “I can stay for a few 
hours.” 

“Good,” Laren said, sounding relieved. “I’m going to 

take a shower. I’m cold. Don’t run out on me while I’m 
in there. Promise,” he demanded. 

“I’ll be here,” Desdaine said. 
Laren padded off to the elegant bath. Desdaine 

listened. He heard the rustle of fabric as the flight suit 
dropped to the tiled floor. He heard the water turn on. 

I’m going to take a shower. 
That had the sound of an invitation. Or a snare. 
Desdaine tried to figure out which it was. Desdaine 

played out that scene in his mind. He imagined himself 
taking off his clothes, his stepping into the shower with 
Jess Laren. 

And he imagined Jess Laren’s shocked stare and yell 

of disgust, What the hell are you doing! 

Desdaine cringed at that vision, his stomach lurching. 
He could be passing up a real invitation for sex. Or 

this could be a set up for ridicule. 

Or maybe Jess Laren just meant he was going to take 

a shower. 

 

 

 

It didn’t matter. Desdaine could not take the offer. 

Even if it happened to be a genuine offer, Desdaine 
knew that Laren would only be trying to seduce his way 
out of prison. Jess Laren didn’t know what an inhibition 
was. He would use any weapon he had to escape. 

I can’t go in there. 
Desdaine could only listen to the water. And burn. 

*** 

Laren came out of the bathroom. “They didn’t give 

me any clothes.” 

Desdaine couldn’t talk. Laren’s naked body was 

beautiful. He was all lean muscle hard-wrapped around a 
strapping frame of strong bones, from broad shoulders 
to cobblestone abs to narrow hips to long, strong legs. 
There were blue bruises on his fair skin. A few water 
droplets beaded in the brown-blond hair at his pubis. His 
cock was long, hard, and blatant as his smile. 

Desdaine walked past him, picked up the flight suit 

from the blue-tiled floor of the steamy bath chamber and 
dropped it into the cleaner built into the wall. Within 
seconds the flight suit came back out, fresh, clean, dry 
and warm. Desdaine threw it at Laren in a bunched ball. 

Laren caught it. He stepped into one pant leg, then 

the other. Desdaine tried not to stare at him, but he kept 
glancing. The way Laren’s sinews flowed with the twist 
of his body, the way his chest expanded as he reached 
his long arms into the sleeves, every way the man 
moved made Desdaine harder. 

The gray green flight suit fit loosely except for the 

elastic cinch at Laren’s narrow waist. How a man could 
make a shapeless, baggy garment look like art, Desdaine 

 

 

 

didn’t know. Desdaine could still see the naked man 
within the bag. 

Desdaine looked away. He said thickly, “I’ll bring 

clothes next time I check in on you.” 

“Snow boots,” Laren suggested. He ruffled his wet 

hair, then added to the wish list, “Arctic coat. Thermal 
trousers. Ski mask. Heated gloves. Lap dancer.” 

“Arctic skimmer?” Desdaine suggested. The arctic 

skimmer was a fast transport craft. 

“Would you?” Laren said. 
“Just as soon as I give you the snow boots and the lap 

dancer,” Desdaine promised, which was to say never. 

“Not even the lap dancer?” 
Desdaine collected his coat from the floor and started 

to put it on. 

“Whoa! I can wait for the lap dancer! Stop! Stop! 

Stop! Just talk to me.” 

It was very late by the clock. Outside was changeless, 

perpetual night. The lights in the chalet dimmed 
themselves on a timer. 

“Talk,” Desdaine echoed, unconvinced. 
“Just talk,” Laren promised. 
This is unwise. I should not do this. Talk was 

dangerous. An intelligence officer ought to know that. 

“Come on.” Laren was tugging on Desdaine’s fur. 

“Give this dead animal a rest.” 

Desdaine let Laren take his coat. He followed Laren 

back to the fireside. 

Laren did most of the talking. Desdaine relaxed as 

Laren gaily told war stories. 

“Now you gotta know there’s this small bit of rivalry 

between the fighter units and the bomber units.” 

“Very small,” Desdaine said. 

 

 

 

“Fine. It’s hugimonstrous Well, the bomber boys 

think they win all the wars. They have this overblown 
monument to themselves in the shape of a life-sized 
bomber equipped with racks of life-sized bombs. And 
we over in fighters think, well, would they really miss 
one of those bombs?” 

“You stole a bomb?” 
“We may have relocated one. Mind you, it wasn’t a 

real bomb. Well, we put that monumental bomb where a 
bomb’s got no business being. Off go the alarms. All of 
them. They evacuated the entire Air Space Force Yard. 
Then they took an annihilator beam from on high and 
vaporized our bomb. There was an investigation. Now 
that may have been a fake bomb, but I was in real 
trouble.” 

“No, Flight Leader,” Desdaine said softly. “You are 

in real trouble now.” 

Laren smiled at him. “That’s the angels’ truth, isn’t 

it?” 

They had started out in chairs, then gravitated to the 

floor before the fire. Warm colors from the hearth fire 
caressed Laren's fair skin. Reflections of flames darted 
across his eyes. 

Strings of starry white lights hung up in the rafters 

lent a magical aura to this prison. The door to the 
bedroom hung open, beckoning. The chamber beyond it 
was cloaked in soft darkness. 

An ache lodged in Desdaine’s chest. He yearned for 

Laren’s touch. 

Laren said quietly, “Are you ever going to make your 

move?” 

Time suspended. Firelight moved on Laren’s cheeks. 

His lips were slightly parted, expectant. Desdaine 
wanted to kiss them. “No,” Desdaine said. 

 

 

 

“No?” Laren coaxed. 
“I can’t” Desdaine said, but his cock was making a 

liar out of him. He could. He would not allow himself to 
do anything here. 

Laren stirred from his sitting position and closed the 

distance between them on hands and knees. He knelt 
before Desdaine, who stayed frozen in place. 

Laren lifted his hand to Desdaine’s cheek. Desdaine 

leaned into Laren’s touch without meaning to. His 
eyelids grew heavy, his breaths deepened as Laren’s 
thumb moved across his lips. 

A warm-cold shiver passed through Desdaine’s body. 

“What are you doing?” Desdaine said. He was afraid the 
shiver sounded in his voice. 

Laren leaned in so close Desdaine felt the caress of 

his breath on his face. “Taking you up on an offer from 
five weeks ago.” 

Desdaine knew what Laren meant. That encounter 

was branded on his memory and stayed as a burning 
wound. Do you want to go down to the docks? 

Laren lowered his gaze to Desdaine’s mouth as he 

murmured, “I think I missed a cue back there.” 

All the blood left Desdaine’s face, his world standing 

still. He breathed. “You remember that?” 

He remembered that moment with unbelievable pain. 

His throat tightened. He couldn’t ask again. He could 
only wait for an answer. Do you? Want to go? 

Desdaine’s jacket was half unbuttoned. Laren slid his 

hand inside the stiff collar to fit his palm to the side of 
Desdaine’s neck. The sense of strength, control, and 
warmth of his hand sent Desdaine soaring and dying at 
the same time. Laren would be able to feel his eager 
pulse in his throat. 

 

 

 

“I did miss, didn’t I,” Laren said, not a question this 

time. 

Cold, rational thoughts struggled through Desdaine’s 

storm of sexual need. I am being played. He thinks to 
get something out of this. He’s using me. 

And I so do not give a shit. 
Laren’s face tilted a nose’s width, and he drew in 

close to Desdaine’s face. He paused a bare whisper 
apart, an invitation for Desdaine to respond, to close that 
vast space between their lips. 

Desdaine could not make the move. He felt the heat 

from Laren, Laren’s breath on his lips. Desdaine was 
frozen. He’d been given a go-ahead and he could not 
move. 

In the deepest recesses of his mind, where nightmares 

dwelled, there lurked a suspicion that this was cruel 
revenge. Only kiss Laren and he would get bloody 
laughter. 

Even if it wasn’t revenge, Desdaine, the intelligence 

officer, did not dare let the enemy so close to him. Yet 
he could not bear to back away. 

Laren’s hand slid along Desdaine’s jaw to cradle his 

head and draw him in and kiss him on the lips. Desdaine 
didn’t know how such a simple touch could be so 
sexual. It was incendiary. Passion flared inside him. The 
first touch of his lips to another man’s lips and it was 
Jess Laren. 

Desdaine sank into the soft warmth of Laren’s kiss. 

His eyelids drifted low, nearly shut. He moaned and 
opened his mouth. Laren’s tongue penetrated his mouth, 
a feeling so carnal, so sensual, Desdaine’s cock 
hardened to completely rigid. His own tongue responded 
with rising passion to stroke and twine with Laren’s. 
Heat rose between them. Laren’s breath buffeted 

 

 

 

Desdaine’s face, his tongue plunging into Desdaine’s 
willing mouth. 

Pride had gone out the airlock. Desdaine inwardly 

thrashed, yet he did not want to break free. This kiss felt 
too good. Desdaine grasped at Laren’s strong shoulders, 
savoring the feel of his skin and the hardness of Laren’s 
body under his hands. He knew he had to get out of 
here. 

Laren’s arms surrounded him, pulling him in closer, 

sending his body blazing, his hunger deepening. His 
need mounted. 

So too grew the fear. And where will power, 

restraint, duty, pride, and common sense failed, sheer 
terror took up the slack. Desdaine broke away, 
scrambled to his feet, and ran out the door into the deep 
freeze of arctic winter. He climbed into his flyer and 
took off. 

 

 

 

Chapter Three 

Too fast. He’d moved too fast. Laren paced his 

comfortable prison, frustrated and twelve clicks past 
angry at himself. Damn, damn and damn again. 

It was a well known fact that if you got a man by the 

cock you could lead him anywhere. So what just 
happened here? 

Laren could have gone through with the sex. It would 

not have been difficult. Desdaine was an attractive man. 
He had an indefinable allure --  not feminine. Then 
what? A masculine vulnerability. He was an extremely 
sexual being -- an extremely repressed sexual being. I 
could’ve had him. 

Laren could have done it. He caught himself actually 

wanting to do it. 

The kiss had been a surprise. The whispering scuff of 

beard stubble at the edge of Desdaine’s lips aroused an 
unexpected flare of excitement inside him. His cock had 
gone from hard to painfully rigid in a moment. Then 
Desdaine’s utterly male scent filled his head and he was 
ready to come. 

Laren was really too experienced to be knocked 

sideways by a kiss. And he still didn’t know what he’d 
done to make Desdaine run like a virgin. 

Desdaine must have sensed Laren’s anger. That had 

to be it. Laren was suppressing how everlastingly pissed 
he was. His anger bordered on hatred. The intensity of it 
surprised even Laren, who never hated anyone. 

The pain and indignity and sheer mortal insult of the 

mock execution stuck in his side like a piece of a blade 
broken off in there. It made it hard to breathe when he 

 

 

 

thought back on it. He never felt such blinding rage as 
when he relived the blanks flashing at his face as he 
expected to die, the shots banging at his eardrums. 

How could Desdaine toy with another human being 

like that? 

And Laren had liked the son of a bitch too. That was 

what made it so gods awful. It felt like a betrayal. My 
fault for liking him. 

Desdaine was a damned Ilzec intelligence operator 

doing his damned job. Desdaine had used Laren’s trust 
to twist a bogus espionage charge around him, and now 
Desdaine thought he was going to use Laren for 
recreational sex. 

He’s a better actor than you are, Laren. By light 

years. 

Laren had fallen for Desdaine’s act. Desdaine’s 

attraction, his fear, had seemed so real. Of course it had 
to be fake too. Just like the execution. 

Well, even if it was real, Desdaine still had the sense 

to run away from Laren’s seduction. And I really 
thought he was hot on me. 

Stupid me. 
So much for the supposed stupidity of the Savar. This 

Savar made Laren feel dumb. 

Well, Laren had blown the seduction, but he’d got 

Desdaine’s fur coat and hat out of it. Desdaine had 
abandoned them in his headlong dash out of here. 

Laren quickly got to work on his escape. Desdaine 

had left the cabin door unlocked when he ran out. So 
Laren could open the door. Unfortunately, it was the 
door to nowhere. Outside was unimaginably cold and 
dark. He had no means of transportation, and he’d 
already found out he couldn’t get anywhere before he 
froze to death. 

 

 

 

But he still might be able to summon someone here. 
He began pulling down the strings of white lights 

from the cross beams of the great room. Once he had 
them all rolled up, he bundled up in furs and bedding, 
dashed outside, and scrambled up to the roof to spell out 
a white shining distress code for the Raudaner recon 
satellites to see. 

*** 

Sometime in the endless night, a noise and judder 

jarred Laren out of a doze on the couch. Through the 
wall of windows he saw the snow kicked up from the 
frozen landscape. He heard the brittle clatter of ice chips 
blowing against the cabin walls. He couldn’t see it, but a 
flying vehicle was lowering, its engine whining, its 
blades whipping up a glittering storm under its landing 
lights. 

Ha rah! That was quick! Someone had seen his 

signal. A lander was putting down on the windowless 
side of the cabin. Laren quickly pulled on Desdaine’s 
coat and hat. He tied on his makeshift boots and gloves 
and waited at the door for his rescuers. 

Then came the thumping and scraping above him. 

Someone was on the roof. 

Oh crap. 
This was not his squadron flying to the rescue. 
This was a single set of feet overhead -- stomping. 

Not happy. 

Laren retreated to the great room. He took off his 

oven mitts and the rest of his cold weather gear. 

At length, the roof noise silenced. The cabin door 

sucked open and slammed shut. Desdaine stalked inside. 
He was wearing a short, hooded, black fur jacket. He 

 

 

 

carried strings of lights in his black-gloved fist. He 
stalked to the great room and let the light strings drop on 
Laren where he lounged innocently on the couch. 

The lights were really cold. Laren yelped. 
“You misplaced these,” Desdaine said, turned his 

back, and walked to the kitchen. 

Laren called after him, the voice of innocence. 

“Dang, I been looking all over for these. Where’d you 
find them?” 

“Under your pillow,” Desdaine said. 
Laren heard the caffe machine hiss. Desdaine poured 

himself a hot drink. He reappeared in the parlor with his 
hood down. The color was high in his cheeks. His lips 
were red. 

Laren was struck by the unworldly beauty in his face. 

His expression was a perfect mask of loneliness. 

Desdaine caught Laren staring at him. “What?” 
“You’re gorgeous,” Laren said. Now drop dead. 
Desdaine’s form fitting breeches showed off the 

powerful muscles in his thighs below the hem of his fur 
jacket. Desdaine prowled the cabin, apparently 
searching for other escape attempts. 

At length he stalked back to the kitchen, parked his 

empty mug in the sink, put up his hood, and started 
toward the outside door at a pace like a striding wolf. 

Laren twisted around on the couch and called after 

him. “Where are you going?” 

“I’m not staying.” 
Laren scrambled up from his sprawl, clambered over 

the back of the couch, and chased Desdaine to the door. 
“Did you bring me clothes? A lap dancer?” 

Desdaine spoke crisply without looking back at him. 

“No. And no.” He seemed to be checking the door 

 

 

 

mechanism. Laren guessed Desdaine wouldn’t be 
leaving the cabin unlocked this time. 

Laren slipped in between Desdaine and the door. He 

leaned backwards, his weight casually against the door, 
holding it shut. He crossed one ankle over the other, 
facing Desdaine. “You made a special trip just to take 
down my holiday decorations?” 

Desdaine looked sour and short on patience. “Don’t 

imagine your signal lights were working. They weren’t. 
I understand that you had to try it. I just needed to take 
them down so I don’t look negligent in my duty. Move.” 
He made a shooing wave with one gloved hand. 

Laren caught Desdaine’s hand and held it. “Can you 

stay for dinner? Which is to say, can you make dinner?” 

Desdaine seemed about to refuse, then said, as if 

realizing out loud, “You can’t cook, can you?” 

Laren shrugged and gave a smile he hoped was 

winsome. “Anything more than pressing a couple 
buttons, it just doesn’t happen.” 

“You’re trying to manipulate me,” Desdaine said. 
Well yeah. Of course I am. Laren still held 

Desdaine’s hand. “Is it working?” 

“Fuck,” Desdaine said. That was a yes. “Let go of 

me.” He pulled his hand from Laren’s grasp and took a 
step back. He took off his black kid gloves and his black 
fur jacket. Underneath, he was in uniform, all black and 
charcoal gray, brushed, perfectly groomed. 

Desdaine’s wistful longing felt incredibly genuine. 

But then so had his fucking mock execution seemed 
real, right up to the moment it wasn’t. Laren was not 
falling for Desdaine’s manipulation again. Laren was 
controlling the battle this time. 

He followed Desdaine into the kitchen and watched 

him prepare dinner. He noted Desdaine was skilled with 

 

 

 

a knife. Laren asked casually -- he hoped he sounded 
casual anyway --  “Where is Karena?” 

“Your woman or your fighter?” 
“As you reminded me, Karena’s not my woman 

anymore. I mean my fighter ship, of course.” 

“I can’t tell you where she is.” 
“Can’t or won’t?” 
“Can’t. Won’t. In the Empire, it’s all the same,” 

Desdaine said. “You never took Karena’s name off your 
fighter.” It was a statement, not a question. But it 
wanted an answer. 

“No,” Laren acknowledged. “I haven’t. I can’t. I 

can’t let go. I can’t believe it. Okay, I don’t want to 
believe it. That’s kinda why she left me -- I have a real 
talent for not seeing what I don’t want to see.” And here 
I am telling him things! Forgetting that I hate him. 

Desdaine was deft as a pickpocket the way he could 

draw secrets out of a man. 

“What didn’t you see?” Desdaine asked. 
And here I am answering him. Again. “Karena was 

lonely. Then she was angry. There were a whole lotta 
nights when I could have gone straight home instead of 
staying out with the boys 'til oh dark thirty. She got to 
see my unshaven mug in the mornings. I liked having 
her there. She was my anchor. Well, I guess she wasn’t 
satisfied with the anchor gig. She was tired of coming in 
second to my squadron.” His mouth pulled wryly to the 
side. “Tired of getting bras in the mail.” He moved 
closer to Desdaine. “You know, I bet you could get a 
woman if you tried.” 

“You think so?” Desdaine said. 
Laren caught himself before he could assure 

Desdaine it was true. Laren eyed him up and down his 

 

 

 

body. Desdaine was a manly work of art. Laren said 
instead, “You’re under siege, aren’t you?” 

“Women find me attractive,” Desdaine said. “And 

apparently women like to chase what doesn’t chase 
them.” 

“A smile works too,” said Laren, who chased. 
“I don’t do that.” Smile, he meant. 
“I’ve noticed,” Laren said. “You can make jokes, and 

some of them are even funny, but you don’t smile. Is 
that a Savar thing?” 

“It’s an Intelligence officer thing. You and your 

fighter jocks joust knightly duels. While we in 
Intelligence fight like she-wolves. Anything, anyone that 
threatens our pack must die. There are no rules, no 
mercy, no quarter, nothing we won’t do to kill the 
enemy. And when we succeed, we never tell stories 
about it.” 

“I lied,” Laren said. 
Desdaine looked blank. “About what?” 
“Back when I said I couldn’t say the same about you. 

I can say it. I’m glad you’re alive.” 

“No, you’re not." Desdaine dished food on to a plate, 

strode out to the dining area and slapped the meal down 
on the stout wood table. “There.” He returned to the 
kitchen and put the cookware away. 

“You’re not joining me?” Laren asked. 
“No,” Desdaine said, shutting cabinets. 
“But there’s more than enough for two here.” 
“It’s called leftovers,” Desdaine said, swept up his 

jacket and gloves, and he was out the door. 

Laren had not expected that. He felt like he’d been 

sucker punched. 

Damn it. How hard could it be to bed someone who 

desperately wants you? Laren was really a lot worse at 

 

 

 

this game than he’d ever guessed. He was afraid his last 
chance was lifting away with that swirl of ice. 

Once the flyer’s lights were gone, it was hell dark out 

there. Laren could be alone until death or the end of the 
war. 

*** 

Desdaine came back. It had been several days --

Laren supposed he could call them days, though there 
was never a sunrise. The clock had cycled around a few 
times. Desdaine entered the cabin, all business, moving 
efficiently, as if making a mail drop and slopping the 
hogs. He stocked the food preserver with prepared meals 
-- all Laren need do was push a couple buttons. And 
Desdaine brought clothes. They fit well. Desdaine had a 
good eye. Laren already knew Desdaine had been 
studying his body. 

Laren pulled on a pair of socks. “No shoes?” 
“No,” Desdaine said. 
“Radio?” 
“Hell, no.” 
But Desdaine had brought Laren a dart board with 

darts. And he’d brought a shaver. 

“You don’t like my beard?” Laren rubbed his bristled 

jaw. 

“You never had one before. I assumed you didn’t like 

them. Don’t use the shaver if you don’t want it.” 

Laren wanted it. In spite of Desdaine’s frosty 

manner, the razor and the dartboard were actually 
amazingly thoughtful. “Thank you,” Laren said, though 
he shouldn’t have. He was a prisoner. He should not be 
grateful for anything from his captor. 

 

 

 

Desdaine hadn’t taken off his hooded, black fur 

jacket. He prowled the cabin, searching. “Where’s my 
other coat?” He meant the long, crystal fox coat. 

“I sleep with it,” Laren said. 
“Bullshit.” Desdaine reached inside one of his 

jacket’s deep pockets, as if remembering something. “I 
brought you something else.” 

“Lap dancer?” Laren asked. 
“It’s male and it doesn’t dance.” 
“Are you suggesting I want something with balls on 

my lap?” 

“Flight Leader, you are making all the suggestions 

here.” Desdaine brought forth a tattered rag with big 
eyes and a naked tail. 

Laren drew his chin in, repulsed. “What made you 

think I’d want that?” 

The creature was nine times pathetic. 
“You expressed a loathing of being alone.” 
“So you brought me a drowned rat?” 
“It’s a cat.” 
“It’s a rat with a nose job and some dental work.” 
“It is not a rat.” 
“You’re right. Rats have more fur. Hell of a gift.” 

Laren emphasized the word hell. 

“It’s not a gift. It’s a refugee. It wandered into a place 

where it had no business being. They were going to 
exterminate it.” 

“And you thought of me.” 
“How could I not? Its name is Melton.” 
“Stupid name for a cat.” 
“Isn’t it? It doesn’t answer to it.” 
“I don’t want it.” 
“Then put it outside.” 
“You know I can’t do that.” 

 

 

 

“I know this?” Desdaine said. It sounded like pain 

and anger in his voice. “Flight Leader, I don’t know if 
you have any mercy in you at all.” 

“More than you. I’m still not taking care of that 

thing.” 

“As you see fit,” Desdaine said. 
“I hate cats.” 
“I didn’t know that.” 
“I hate things that play with their prey!” 
Laren should not have said that. He’d just told 

Desdaine he hated him. 

Desdaine nodded, his eyes distant, his voice remote. 

“You have everything you need. I shouldn’t have cause 
to intrude on you again.” Desdaine put up the hood of 
his jacket, turned his back, gave a one digit salute over 
his shoulder, and he was out the door again. For good. 

Laren shook with anger. He wanted to grab the ratty 

cat and throw it out the door after him. Instead, Laren 
turned on the little squished vegetable of a creature. 

It was nearly all eyes -- one green, one sort of green 

but really almost yellow -- sunken in an emaciated face. 
It was mostly hairless, wrinkled, and shivering. The tufts 
of hair it did have looked glued on. Its tiny voice was 
razor blades crumpled in sandpaper. The creature 
climbed feebly onto Laren’s stocking foot and huddled 
there. It started to purr weakly. 

Laren let his shoulders drop, his head fall back, and 

he bellowed at the rafters. “Aw bugger bugger bugger!” 

*** 

The lights went out. Not just the lights. The power 

system in the cabin failed. The robotic tenders went 
inert. The fire died in the hearth. 

 

 

 

Hadn’t Desdaine told him? You only live so long as 

you serve a purpose in the empire. Laren wasn’t serving. 

Hell of it was he’d had a revelation. The helpless, 

ugly creature pointed it out to him. As hurt and bitter as 
Desdaine might be, this blackout could not be 
Desdaine’s idea. Desdaine would not give him a slow, 
torturing freeze to death in the dark. This had to be the 
work of the twisted minds who came up with this love 
nest to begin with. 

Did Desdaine even know this was happening? 

Desdaine would not being looking back. Last thing 
Desdaine knew was that he provided Laren with 
everything he would need for a long time. Desdaine was 
done here. 

Cold seeped through the walls. Laren tucked the cat 

thing inside his shirt. He wore all the clothes Desdaine 
had given him. He apologized to the cat. “I think we’re 
gonna die, Melton.” 

*** 

Laren thought the clock had circled around. It hadn’t. 

His timepiece had frozen solid. He had only a vague 
idea of how much time had passed. This was a slow way 
to go. 

Then his flashlight froze. It was cold. It was totally 

black. It was really cold. 

He needed to talk to Desdaine. He did not want to go 

like this. He had to tell Desdaine, I know. 

I know. 

*** 

 

 

 

The cabin down below lay completely dark. Ice 

swirled under Desdaine’s landing lights. 

The Ilzec power satellite serving the southern polar 

region had taken a hit from a Raudaner raid. It had taken 
the techs days to get the power plant functioning, then to 
get it back into its proper orbit, and then to get it back on 
line. No one told Desdaine about it. 

Desdaine had been trying to leave that painful 

episode behind him, but, addict that he was, he just had 
to get an intelligence satellite to give him one last look 
at the place where Jess Laren had kissed him. When the 
satellite view showed nothing but darkness down there, 
every nerve inside him erupted into a jagged buzz. He 
tore out of intelligence headquarters and blazed an 
emergency path to the pole. 

The cabin looked desolate. Desdaine marched 

through brittle snow to the cabin’s service panel. He had 
to hack a thick coat of ice off the master switch to reset 
the power feed. 

Lights came on inside. 
Now Desdaine was afraid to go in there. His eyes 

burned to think of what he would find. 

He shut off his thoughts and went through the 

motions. The door needed several kicks to get the ice off 
the seals. Desdaine shouldered the door open. 

Inside was as cold as outside. Desdaine moved 

zombie-hearted to the great room. The scene in there 
was strange. 

All the furniture and all the bedding was assembled 

into a kind of igloo as a last fortress against the killing 
cold. Desdaine took several painful breaths, gathering up 
courage to open that tomb. 

Something inside the pile shuffled. 
It was probably just a piece of ice falling into place. 

 

 

 

No. That was definitely a shuffle. 
Desdaine peered through a small opening in the 

shelter. He saw a giant bundle in there. Something 
moved. Many layers of fabric parted so that a single 
bright gray eye looked out at him. 

Immediately, Desdaine turned away. He cleared the 

ice out of the flue. He activated the robot tender and 
ordered the robot to build a fire in the hearth. Laren 
waited inside his padded fortress, not saying a word as 
the cabin slowly warmed up. 

Desdaine made some caffe, spiked it with old Earth 

whiskey, and held the steaming cup at the small opening 
in Laren’s shelter. 

An oven mitt reached out to take it. 
There was a squeaky sound, muffled inside the 

massive bundle. It sounded like razor blades in 
sandpaper. 

As the cabin warmed, the bundled man emerged from 

his fortress. Laren lumbered to the bath. Desdaine heard 
many layers of clothes peeling off and dropping to the 
floor, and then water running. Laren took a long, long 
shower. 

Desdaine set the robot housekeeper to clean up the 

cabin, rearrange the furniture, and discard Laren’s 
makeshift crapper. 

When Laren finally stepped out of the bathroom, 

naked, flushed pink, prune-fingered, and freshly shaven, 
he looked surprisingly healthy. He looked damn good. 
He had taken food and water -- or ice -- into his shelter. 
The cat looked like hell, which was an improvement 
from when Desdaine first gave it to Laren. 

“That was not supposed to happen,” Desdaine told 

Laren, and turned his back on him. “Put some clothes 
on.” 

 

 

 

Desdaine expected some crass innuendo from Laren, 

but none came. Laren collected some fresh clothes from 
the cleaner. Desdaine heard him dressing. The voice at 
his back slid into Desdaine’s heart like a gentle knife. 
“You really didn’t know, did you?” 

“No. I didn’t know you’d lost power. I came as soon 

as I knew.” 

“I’m not talking about that.” 
Desdaine felt himself flying into emptiness -- and the 

ground was a long way down. He turned around. “Know 
what?” 

Desdaine hadn’t seen this expression from Laren 

before. Laren was gazing at him -- through him -- with a 
calm knowing. Something had changed. Desdaine 
couldn’t guess what. 

“My execution,” Laren said. “You didn’t load your 

own gun.” 

Desdaine’s eyelids lowered themselves. He gave a 

slight shudder. He shouldn’t tell him. An intelligence 
officer gives no information to the enemy, however 
trivial. This was not trivial. Yet he couldn’t deny what 
Laren said, either. His silence answered. 

Laren said, “You didn’t know you were firing blanks 

at me.” 

Blinking fast, Desdaine couldn’t answer. He turned 

his eyes upward to keep his tears in. 

Laren blurted, “Why didn’t you say?” 
Desdaine spoke thickly. “It is not my place to inform 

an enemy combatant when he has false information.” 

“You could have told me you didn’t know you were 

firing blanks!” 

“What is the difference?” Desdaine said desolately, 

eyes on the rafters. “I was trying to kill you.” 

“But -- ” Laren sputtered. “That’s okay!” 

 

 

 

That jerked Desdaine’s gaze down from the rafters. 

He met a big smile of staggering brightness. Laren was 
near laughter, beaming at Desdaine. 

Desdaine was wholly lost. “It is what?” 
“Trying to kill the enemy,” Laren said. “It’s what 

warriors do.” 

*** 

Jess Laren had had a revelation. It was the pitiable cat 

that opened his eyes in the dark. 

While he had been freezing -- to death, he thought --

he relived his mock execution. It was nothing he hadn’t 
done thirty dozen times before. But this time he could 
envision Desdaine’s face clearly, the way Laren had 
refused to see it at the time. 

He saw it plainly in black memory. Bleeding through 

that composed, lineless face, Desdaine’s shock, 
confusion, horror and despair shone obvious as a 
scream. Desdaine hadn’t known the gun in his hand was 
not loaded with live rounds. 

In Laren’s battles you were supposed to kill your 

enemy. You were not supposed to play with him like a 
cat tossing a mouse around with mock executions. The 
difference was huge. Cats played with their prey, 
because cats were cats. We don’t, Laren thought. 

We didn’t! 
That truth ripped away the barbed wire coiled around 

Laren’s heart. Desdaine had not been playing games. He 
hadn’t known he was shooting blanks. He had honestly 
been trying to kill his enemy. 

And that was okay. 
“How long were you going to let me keep braying at 

you about that?” Laren shouted at him. 

 

 

 

“As long as you are an ass,” Desdaine said. 
“I’m sorry,” Laren said. 
“Are you?” 
“For that?” Laren asked. “Yes.” 
“How? I did my best to make you dead, for honor 

and country!” 

“We do things for honor and country.” 
Desdaine confessed, “I couldn’t do it again.” 
“Good!” Laren said. 
“Maybe,” Desdaine said. And Laren could see how 

not being able to kill the enemy could be a bit of a 
problem for an officer of the empire. 

“What’s next?” Laren asked. 
“You are here for the duration of the war. Dead or 

alive.” 

“Hm. Any docks around here?” 
“No,” Desdaine said, hot. “And you are a glib pig.” 

He hit the door damn near running. It slammed behind 
him. 

Damn it! Shot yourself in the foot again, Laren! And 

he really regretted it this time. 

He didn’t want to hurt Desdaine anymore. They had 

both been shagged by Desdaine’s overlords. The mock 
execution damaged both of them. The Savar was a more 
primal sort of man. His desires ran hotter. And it was 
not just sexual desire now. High emotion was in play. 
The damned Ilzec intelligence officer loved him. 

Desdaine was an isolated, sad, beautiful creature, and 

Laren was feeling strangely tender toward him. Laren 
wasn’t used to dueling with hearts and minds instead of 
guns. No wonder Desdaine never smiled. It was much 
easier to sleep through the night when you shot straight. 
Using people -- that was a tough job. 

 

 

 

Laren didn’t dare let Desdaine get into his heart. So 

he’d put on a jokey mask. Glib pig, Desdaine had called 
him. Laren had scared him away, and Desdaine might 
never come back this time. 

I hurt him. Laren hadn’t meant to. 
He became aware of sound he was not hearing. The 

flyer. When was Desdaine going to take off? 

The door sucked open. Desdaine walked in, red-

faced. Laren saw where he was headed. 

Desdaine had left his flyer key in the kitchen. 
Laren shot him his brightest smile. “You screwed 

your big exit.” 

Desdaine avoided his gaze. Thick lashes shaded his 

downcast eyes. His cheeks were aflame. He nodded with 
an affirmative grunt. 

“Leaving something behind means you don’t want to 

go,” Laren said. 

“What I want has nothing to do with anything.” 

Desdaine turned toward the door. 

Laren stepped in front of him. “It does. To me.” 
“Get out of my way.” 
Laren moved aside. 
As Desdaine reached the door, Laren said at his back, 

“Wait! I mean it, just wait! I’m trying to stick some 
words together, and I don’t have a lot of experience 
speaking my heart. Okay, I got none. I throw up walls 
when someone gets too close.” 

“What heart? Close to what?” Desdaine snarled. 

“This means nothing to you!” 

“I’m real damn afraid it does.” 
The door opened -- barely a crack -- before Desdaine 

blundered against it, shutting it again. He leaned into it, 
his fist to the door, his brow on his fist. He sounded like 
he was struggling not to cry. 

 

 

 

Laren closed the distance between them and took 

hold of Desdaine’s upper arm from behind. He felt 
Desdaine’s powerful muscles tense through the thick fur 
sleeve. “Truce,” Laren said, his cheek brushing the back 
of Desdaine’s hood. “Both sides are allowed to heal 
their wounds during a truce. Can’t we be two soldiers 
finding solace under a white flag?” 

Desdaine let Laren turn him around so that Desdaine 

was leaning back against the door, breathing heavily. 
His eyes were wet. “Sounds bloody lovely. But I know 
you are devoted soldier of Raudan and will do anything 
to escape. It’s your duty.” 

“Yeah.” Laren held Desdaine’s shoulders. “And I 

will escape. But this isn’t an attempt right here. This is 
not a game.” 

“No. It’s not a game,” Desdaine said. 
“Come back in,” Laren said with a light tug. “Gimme 

your jacket.” 

*** 

Desdaine let Laren take his fur jacket and steer him 

into the great room. Laren sat on the couch and patted 
the cushion next to him. Desdaine sat. The heat and 
hardness of Laren’s thigh against his own aroused him. 
Desdaine wasn’t wearing a cup -- he never did when he 
wasn’t in public. He wondered if his erection was 
obvious. Strange to feel embarrassed even now, as if 
there was any doubt where this encounter was leading. 

Desdaine was flying into an unknown perfect dark. 

And I don’t know how to fly. 

He slipped off his watch. As he reached across Laren 

to place the watch on the side table, he realized what he 

 

 

 

was doing. Such a simple act was suddenly full of 
meaning. He was undressing. 

The watch rattled against the table top with the 

sudden tremor in his hand. A wobble seized his throat. 
He’d made the first move. 

There it is. There it is. 
He felt suddenly naked with his watch off his wrist. 

His face burned. He hadn’t realized how bold a 
declaration it was until he did it. The awareness was 
excruciating now. 

And there was a change in Laren. Desdaine heard 

him exhale a relaxed sigh. Laren shifted on his cushion 
to face Desdaine and lifted his hands to cradle 
Desdaine’s head with a calm, sure touch. This was 
someone who knew how to fly. 

Laren drew Desdaine’s face close to his own. “Don’t 

be afraid of me.” Laren’s thumb rested alongside 
Desdaine’s throat. Laren would be able to feel 
Desdaine’s pulse moving very fast. 

Laren’s smooth-shaven face brushed his cheek. 

Laren’s breath caressed his ear. Desdaine put his palm to 
Laren’s chest and felt his heart’s steady beat. Desdaine 
spoke, resentful. “You didn’t want to go to the docks 
when I asked on Song. What has changed, except that 
now you’re a prisoner hoping to escape?” 

“What changed?” Laren drew back. He sounded as if 

he might laugh. “Back then I didn’t understand the 
question. I would have gone!” 

Desdaine badly wanted to believe that. And so he 

didn’t. 

Laren bowed his head so they were touching 

forehead to forehead. Laren looked into Desdaine’s eyes 
and smiled. He brushed a light kiss under Desdaine’s 
eye. Desdaine’s lashes fluttered against Laren’s lips. 

 

 

 

Desdaine closed his eyes and luxuriated under the 
feather touch of Laren’s lips on his cheek, his jaw, his 
chin, the corner of his mouth. 

Laren’s lips lifted away, and Desdaine leaned 

forward, wanting them back. 

Laren’s mouth moved down to Desdaine’s throat. His 

hot, wet tongue felt like nothing Desdaine ever 
imagined, rasping lightly against the slight stubble under 
Desdaine’s chin. Desdaine uttered an involuntary moan. 

Lust burned inhibition away. Desdaine let his hands 

roam underneath Laren’s sweater, feeling the motion of 
powerful muscles beneath warm skin. 

Laren pulled back and set himself to opening 

Desdaine’s structured uniform jacket. “This has to go,” 
Laren muttered, quickly unfastening the steel buttons. 
Even as Desdaine shrugged out of the jacket, Laren was 
already undoing the top button of Desdaine’s gray 
uniform shirt. Desdaine stiffened. Laren sensed his 
hesitation. “What?” 

Desdaine shook his head. He might have thought 

about this earlier. Laren might not like what he found 
under Desdaine’s clothes. Like any Savar male, 
Desdaine had thick hair across his chest and down his 
abdomen and groin. Laren was a woman’s man. 
Desdaine worried that all his masculine hair was going 
to turn Laren off. 

It didn’t put him off. Laren got Desdaine’s shirt open 

and nuzzled through the hair on Desdaine’s hard 
pectoral muscle to lick Desdaine’s nipple and graze his 
teeth on the nub. 

Desdaine threw his head back, his mouth open as if to 

bite the air, his pleasure as intense as pain. 

Laren pulled Desdaine’s shirt free from his waistband 

and pushed the gray fabric off his shoulders. Laren’s 

 

 

 

hands glided over Desdaine’s shoulders, his chest, his 
sides. Laren’s touch sent Desdaine’s senses soaring, his 
heart pounding, his sex aching. 

Desdaine pushed Laren’s sweater up. Laren bowed 

his head and held his arms out for Desdaine to pull the 
sweater off. It slid from his magnificent frame, crackling 
with static. Laren took Desdaine by the shoulders and 
slid off the couch, dragging Desdaine down with him. 

They knelt before each other by the hearth fire. Laren 

took Desdaine by the hips and pulled. Desdaine spread 
his legs to let Laren draw him in so Desdaine was sitting 
astride Laren’s muscular thighs. Desdaine’s abdomen 
pressed against Laren’s bare chest. Desdaine felt Laren’s 
heated breaths at his breastbone. Desdaine put his arms 
around Laren’s shoulders and kissed his hair. Desdaine 
felt higher than he’d ever been. Imagination didn’t come 
close to this. 

Desdaine rubbed his clothed sex against Laren’s hard 

ridged abdomen. He felt Laren inhaling deeply, as if he 
loved the smell of him. Everything was dazzling. 
Desdaine felt he was something parched that waits in the 
desert for years until it rains. It was raining. He was 
alive. 

The solidity of Laren’s hard abs was fine torment as 

Desdaine moved his sex against him. Laren took hold of 
Desdaine’s ass and helped him hump up and down, 
harder and closer. A sexual burn rose inside Desdaine, 
spreading. He thought he must come. 

Then Laren knelt up, rolling Desdaine off him and 

onto the floor. Desdaine panted, dizzied by the pause, 
bewildered by the air between them. 

Laren lay down on his side to face him. Laren hooked 

his thumb inside Desdaine’s waistband. He leaned in 
and murmured into Desdaine’s ear, so close Desdaine 

 

 

 

felt his lips and his breath. “I want to make love to you. 
I want to touch your naked body. I want to make you 
come.” 

Desdaine groaned low. He wanted that more than he 

could say. 

Laren loosed the button at Desdaine’s waist and 

opened his fly. The incredible sensation of Laren’s 
warm hand sliding into his trousers, the first touch of 
naked skin surrounding his cock, drew a strange cry 
from deep inside him. Desdaine’s cock lifted into 
Laren’s touch. Desdaine breathed in gasps against 
Laren’s chest. 

“You’re going to have to help me here,” Laren said. 

“I’ve never been to this side of the docks.” 

“You have the wrong guide,” Desdaine said raggedly. 

He could scarcely think with Laren’s hand on his sex. “I 
haven’t been there, either.” 

“You’re kidding.” 
Desdaine jerked his head back, his eyes flicked up to 

meet Laren’s with a sharp scowl. He definitely was not 
kidding, and oh, did that feel splendid. 

Laren said cheerily, “Then there’s no one here to tell 

us we’re doing it wrong. What do you want?” 

Desdaine couldn’t answer. I am afraid of what I 

want. 

Was it too much to ask for just not to be destroyed? 
Laren’s hand lifted away from Desdaine’s cock. That 

was not what Desdaine wanted. 

The back of Laren’s finger brushed gently on 

Desdaine’s cheek. “How can you not know what to do 
on the docks?” 

“I’ve never been there,” Desdaine said hotly. “And 

whatever we do here, know that it won’t get you set free. 
You must know that this is going nowhere. You are to 

 

 

 

die for. But you are not worth betraying my country 
for.” 

“So we’re going nowhere,” Laren said. “It’s you and 

me in this night.” 

And wasn’t that everything Desdaine wanted? 

Desdaine needed to surrender to one night of magic with 
Jess Laren. 

Laren’s lips brushed Desdaine’s ear then kissed his 

neck. Desdaine felt Laren’s breath in his hair. “Take off 
your clothes.” 

The point of no return was way back there. Desdaine 

pulled off his boots and dragged down his trousers. 
Laren kicked out of his clothes. 

Naked, on hands and knees, Desdaine stared at Laren. 

Laren was kneeling straight up, his long, hard erection 
curving boldly. 

“Wow,” Laren said, staring back. 
Desdaine was not sure what wow meant. He was 

afraid it was his thick hair. 

“You’re beautiful,” Laren said, in blinking 

amazement. 

Laren dropped forward onto his hands and circled 

around behind Desdaine at a sultry crawl. Desdaine 
stayed very still. He felt Laren’s heat behind him. 
Laren’s arm slid around his middle and pulled Desdaine 
back on his heels so Desdaine was kneeling with his 
hips bracketed between Laren’s iron-corded thighs and 
his back pressed flush against Laren’s hard torso. 
Desdaine felt the hard rod of Laren’s sex against the 
small of his back. Laren’s tongue caressed his shoulder. 

Laren moved, slightly rocking, one hand groping in 

the hair of Desdaine’s chest, his other hand reaching 
downward --

Oh please touch me. Touch me now. 

 

 

 

-- to stroke Desdaine’s rigid cock. Desdaine 

shuddered, the pleasure beyond his most vivid fantasy. 
His pre-come moistened Laren’s hand. 

Laren’s hand glided down Desdaine’s shaft, and 

farther down, to cup his balls and fondle them, then up 
again to the tip of his cock, maddeningly slow. His 
finger circled the rim of Desdaine’s helmet. 

Desdaine had thought this was Laren’s first time with 

a man. Desdaine growled, an accusation. “You’ve done 
this before.” 

“A bazillion times,” Laren said, his breath puffing at 

the back of Desdaine’s ear. “Just not with someone 
else’s cock. I like this.” 

Like was not the word. 
Laren’s hand moved up and down. His mouth 

dragged wet kisses down Desdaine neck. Laren’s cock 
rubbed at Desdaine’s back, getting slicker. His breaths 
came deep and hard in mounting passion. 

Suddenly, he let go, backing up. His hands lifted 

Desdaine’s hips. His hard belly bumped Desdaine’s 
buttocks, pushing Desdaine forward, onto his hands 
again. Laren wedged Desdaine’s legs apart with one 
knee. Laren’s hips came up and under. His cock nestled 
between Desdaine’s hard buttocks, sliding. 

Desdaine flinched. He twisted, dropping over 

sideways onto his hip. “No. Don’t go there.” 

“There’s all kinds of oils in the bathroom,” Laren 

said, making to go fetch one if that was the problem. 

“No.” 
“Why?” 
“Don’t.” 
“You want me,” Laren said. 
Desdaine did want him. Desperately. But he wouldn’t 

take him inside. He needed to hold a line somewhere. I 

 

 

 

am in love with you and I know you want me dead. If 
Desdaine yielded, he was afraid he would deny Laren 
nothing -- even to flying him back to his home planet. 

He needed to hold something back. Everything else 

had crumbled. 

“Don’t,” he said. 
If Laren was very disappointed, he didn’t show it. He 

moved breezily on to his next idea. “Then turn over this 
way. I want to feel your cock on mine.” 

Laren could speak easily what Desdaine had 

difficulty even thinking about. And Desdaine wanted it 
so bad it hurt. 

Moving as if in a dream, Desdaine turned on his side. 

He lay with his head pillowed on his arm, face to face 
with Laren, expectant. Laren’s light gray eyes, his 
mouth, his strong, naked body were so beautiful it was 
painful. Desdaine burned. 

A light touch of fingertips tracing down his side 

made Desdaine shiver. Laren’s fingers trailed over 
Desdaine’s hip bone, into the thick hair of his groin, to 
his cock, lightly up and down. Desdaine’s balls 
hardened. Laren’s fingertip traced around the crown of 
Desdaine’s cock, to the tip, drawing precome. And lifted 
away. 

Laren shifted to close the space between them to 

almost nothing. He took his own cock in his hand and 
guided its tip to Desdaine’s cock. At the touch of 
Laren’s sex to his own, Desdaine thought he was going 
to burn into nothing but vapor and ash. Laren painted 
desire up and down Desdaine’s sex. 

Desdaine pushed his hips closer to bring the full 

length of his cock up against Laren’s. Desdaine closed 
his hand around both of their cocks to keep Laren’s sex 
firmly against his own. Laren’s eyes shut in an 

 

 

 

expression that looked like bliss. Laren thrust his hips, 
his cock sliding against Desdaine’s within the grip of 
Desdaine’s hand. Laren's eyelashes fluttered, and he 
moaned, smiling. Laren murmured the last thing 
Desdaine ever expected. His name. 

Wetness seeped from Desdaine’s erection. 
Laren opened his eyes. He rolled up onto his elbow 

and swung his leg across Desdaine. Desdaine let himself 
roll with him, onto his back to lie underneath Laren. 
Laren planted his forearms on either side of Desdaine’s 
chest. He got his knees between Desdaine’s legs. Their 
cocks lay between their hard bodies, pressed under 
Laren’s weight. And Laren began to thrust, sex against 
sex. 

Desdaine’s voice, already low, dropped in passion. 

He uttered a deep groan and thrust with him. The touch 
of another man’s sex on his was an inexpressible, 
unimaginable sensation. I have died and gone 
somewhere I don’t deserve to go. 

They rubbed together faster, harder. Desdaine 

reached and grabbed at Laren’s ass, feeling his hard 
muscles pumping. Desdaine snarled in need and ecstasy. 

The most primal cry tore from deep inside him. His 

balls clenched like fists, and he came, came hard, in a 
rolling crashing blaze. Laren made a sound like a howl, 
his body straining, his hands grasping at Desdaine’s 
shoulders in dire need. Spurts of Laren’s hot ejaculation 
on Desdaine’s sex shot Desdaine’s passion higher. He 
shuddered and gave, and gave again. 

Laren gave one last straining surge and his strength 

drained out of him. He rested his forehead on the floor. 

Desdaine clung to Laren, a delicious weight on top of 

him, as he caught his breath. Desdaine stroked Laren’s 

 

 

 

damp skin. He licked Laren’s neck. It tasted of salt and a 
man. 

A small spasm in his cock made Desdaine shudder in 

a tingling echo of climax. His eyes misted. The strings 
of white lights above him blurred and sparkled in literal 
rainbows. 

Laren spoke into Desdaine’s hair. “Thank you for 

that.” 

Desdaine grunted. My pleasure. 
He rested, his arms holding Laren rather limply. He 

breathed against Laren’s neck, coming down from the 
intense high. He wanted to stay this way forever. But 
finally, Laren rolled away. He gave Desdaine a playful 
swat on one cheek, put on trousers, and went to the 
kitchen. Desdaine followed his lead. 

Laren poured himself a glass of sana juice. His 

glance asked if Desdaine wanted one. Desdaine nodded. 

Laren passed him a glass. “Is that a smile? I thought I 

might have seen one there.” 

Desdaine didn’t realize how seldom he did it. He let 

himself smile. 

Laren motioned toward him with his glass. “That is 

stunning.” 

Desdaine was feeling a little fragile. He must have 

looked a little fragile, too, because Laren said, “Sorry 
that wasn’t a lot of foreplay. We’re guys. That should be 
all right. Was that all right?” 

Desdaine said, “I don’t think I could have survived 

foreplay.” 

Laren smiled, merry bright. He looked boyish with 

his hair tousled. Now that was stunning. 

The curve of Laren’s long body was mesmerizing, 

half naked as he was, his hip propped against the 
countertop, his weight on one leg. The thin trail of dark 

 

 

 

blond hair that led down from his navel beckoned 
toward his sex. 

Sounds of the fire crackling and settling out in the 

great room took on sensuality. The scent of the burning 
wood would forever belong to this night. 

Desdaine lifted his glass to his lips. As he drank, he 

could smell Laren’s come on his fingers. 

Laren set down his glass with a clack. He took 

Desdaine decisively by the hand and pulled toward the 
bedroom. “Let’s do that again. Not on the floor this 
time.” 

“There was a floor?” Desdaine said. 
Yes, there had been a floor under them. It was wood. 

It was rather hard. He wouldn’t have noticed nails and 
broken glass. 

They lay down on the bed, resting. Reloading, Laren 

called it. Laren’s strong arms enfolded Desdaine. 

They kissed long and deep, a languid joining of 

tongues and lips. Desdaine’s free hand caressed Laren’s 
body, trying to memorize every sinew and cord. His 
head rested on the boulder that was Laren’s upper arm. 

“Am I putting your arm to sleep?” Desdaine asked. 
“I don’t give a shit,” Laren said, and covered 

Desdaine’s mouth with his own. He groped Desdaine’s 
crotch. Desdaine immediately felt the sexual fires 
rekindling. 

“Know what?” Laren said. 
Desdaine gave a guarded look. “What?” 
“It’s tough to stroke off a sticky cock.” 
It wasn’t broken glass, so Desdaine didn’t care. But 

Laren got up, took Desdaine by the hand, and led him 
from the bed into the bath. 

They stood together under the shower. Desdaine ran 

his hands all over Laren’s body. His skin shone 

 

 

 

gloriously under the water. The pinkish brown disks of 
Laren’s nipples, set flat in the muscular plates of his 
chest, were utterly masculine. Laren’s abdomen was 
ridged with sharply defined muscle. His belly was 
perfectly hard and flat, tapering down to his groin. 
Desdaine got down on one knee to take Laren’s 
engorged sex into his mouth and adore him. It was hard 
and proud. Desdained liked the feeling of it on his 
tongue and his lips. He sucked, water streaming down 
his face, his hands gripping behind Laren’s powerful 
thighs. 

Laren’s fingertips at his jaw gently lifted Desdaine’s 

head off his sex. 

They were scarcely dry when Laren led him back to 

the bed. Laren hauled him down backwards, off-balance. 
Desdaine landed with his ass in Laren’s lap and Laren’s 
cock trapped upright against his back. Desdaine felt 
Laren’s balls at the cleavage of his buttocks. Laren’s one 
arm circled Desdaine’s chest. Laren’s other hand played 
with Desdaine’s balls. Laren teased him with feathery 
touches, and Desdaine couldn’t stay still. He bucked and 
thrust and seized Laren’s hand to make him hold his sex 
hard. Desdaine pushed his erection inside the tight 
sheath of Laren’s hand over and over, sexual heat 
building to sweetest agony. Then Laren gripped him 
hard, pulsing wetness against Desdaine’s back. Desdaine 
cried out and came in waves, his semen spilling over 
Laren’s hand. 

As the last ripples of passion ebbed, Desdaine 

blinked up at the timber rafters, surprised that he could 
still see. The rapture had been blinding. 

When they rolled apart, Laren’s hand -- sticky again -

- rested strengthlessly on Desdaine’s hip. Desdaine 
thought Laren was falling asleep. He gave Laren a 

 

 

 

shove. “Move over. I don’t want to sleep in the wet 
spot.” 

“You think you can find a dry spot?” Laren asked. 
“We could clean the sheets,” Desdaine said, making 

to rise. 

“Nah.” Laren threw his arm across him to pin him 

down, suddenly not sleepy at all. “I don’t think I’m done 
messing them up.” 

 

 

 

Chapter Four 

Desdaine had drifted off in Laren’s arms. Desdaine’s 

back fit like a spoon into the curve of Laren’s resting 
body. 

Desdaine woke to something on his face -- something 

walking and pointy. He sleepily brushed his hand at it. 
His palm met fur. He sat up and reached for the light. 

He squinted at the thing, which crawled onto Laren’s 

chest and curled there as if that was its place. Desdaine’s 
voice came out gravelly. “Is that Melton?” 

Laren stirred, his eyes still fast shut. His hand 

brushed over the cat’s fur -- the creature actually had 
some fur now. Laren’s stroke had a habitual air to it. 

Laren opened one eye and regarded the cat against 

his chest. He told it, “Get. You know you’re not 
supposed to be up here. 

“Bullshit,” Desdaine said. He narrowed his eyes at 

Laren. “He sleeps right there.” 

“No, he doesn’t,” Laren said. 
The creature curled up under Laren’s chin. 
“Yes, he does,” Laren confessed. 
“You are a mush heart,” Desdaine said. And that was 

nice to know. 

*** 

Chagrinned, Laren moved the cat to the floor. He 

gave it a shoo. “You’re crowding my act here, mate.” He 
dimmed the light and rolled to face Desdaine. They lay 
huddled together, breath to breath. 

 

 

 

Laren let the back of his finger trail across 

Desdaine’s jaw. Desdaine’s slight beard shadow was too 
soft to be called stubble. “You’re shy,” Laren 
murmured. 

He saw Desdaine’s face color in the low light. 

Desdaine didn’t seem to know what he was supposed to 
say to that. “And?” 

Laren gave a slight one shoulder shrug. “I’ve only 

ever seen that kind of terror in a sixteen-year-old 
virgin.” 

“What were you doing with a sixteen-year-old virgin, 

Flight Leader Laren?” 

“Losing my fifteen-year-old virginity,” Laren said. 
Laren got both arms around Desdaine and snugged 

him close. Desdaine’s arms folded up between them, 
pressed against Laren’s chest. Holding this strong man 
made Laren feel powerful. 

He felt the heated, wet touch of Desdaine’s tongue 

tracing his collarbone. Their bodies began a slow 
rocking. 

*** 

The cabin lights eased into a soft morning setting. 

Laren and Desdaine woke stuck together. They moved 
gingerly, unsticking. Laren sniggered against Desdaine’s 
neck. 

Desdaine asked, “Was that sex?” 
Laren laughed. “I’m pretty sure.” 
“With women -- on Ilzec at least -- they don’t call it 

sex unless you come inside,” Desdaine said. “Lap 
dancing and sucking don’t count as cheating on their 
men.” 

 

 

 

“Still, we can’t have seven orgasms between the two 

of us and pretend we didn’t have sex,” Laren said. 

At breakfast, Desdaine couldn’t seem to chew for 

grinning. And Laren kept provoking grins out of him. It 
was his job to make Desdaine smile. Desdaine had 
amazing smiles. 

They took another shower. Laren held Desdaine from 

behind, one arm across his shoulders, his other hand 
working Desdaine’s cock. Steam rose around them. 
Desdaine moaned in ecstasy, writhing against him. He 
felt Desdaine’s hot come over his hand under the rain of 
warm water. 

On the bed, half wet, Desdaine went down hungrily 

on Laren’s sex. Laren lay back and let himself be 
amazed. His back arched off the mattress, and he howled 
in triumphant surrender. The motion of Desdaine’s 
tongue in swallowing drew out more than Laren thought 
he had to give. 

And then it was time for Desdaine to return to duty. 
As Desdaine put on his uniform, Laren watched from 

the bed -- his lover transforming back into a soldier of 
the hated empire. 

“I don’t want to go,” Desdaine said. He was painfully 

beautiful. 

“Then don’t.” 
A puff of breath between Desdaine’s lips expressed 

the futility of that idea. 

Laren got up from the bed. He drew Desdaine in 

close, bringing Desdaine’s uniform against his own 
naked body. The brushed wool felt harsh and cold. 
Laren’s mouth hovered over Desdaine’s lips, almost 
kissing. “Thanks for the lap dance,” Laren whispered. 

“Glib pig,” Desdaine murmured against his lips. It 

had the sound of You’re welcome. 

 

 

 

*** 

Left alone again in his cushy prison, Jess Laren 

searched for a way out that didn’t involve freezing to 
death. He kept losing his sense of purpose. All thoughts 
kept circling back to Desdaine. 

Desdaine confused him. Laren had never had sex 

with someone who was terrified of him. 

Sex with Desdaine left Laren rattled. He had never 

been shaken by sex. The sex hadn’t been hard to 
manage, not it the least. Even though neither of them 
knew what he was doing. Laren even had to admit he’d 
enjoyed it. A bit. 

Okay, fine, the sex had been world-shaking 

extraordinary, even without penetration. Desdaine had a 
body to set ice on fire. Those velvet fringed, dark eyes 
entranced him. And that voice. Desdaine had a sexy, low 
baritone. But when he was in the heat of it, that low 
voice dove to the subcellar and launched rockets inside 
Laren’s groin. 

Okay, fine, the sex was the best he’d ever had. 
Last night blasted away any idea Laren had of being 

a straight man who just really really enjoyed the 
company of men. He had balled a man -- this man -- and 
loved it. He’d always been more jazzed when he was 
among the guys. Last night kinda answered a question 
that shouldn’t have ever needed asking. You’re gay, you 
idiot. Not bi. Gay. And Desdaine was the sexiest man on 
either planet. 

Making love to Desdaine was life changing. No, he 

couldn’t call it lovemaking. He didn’t dare call it love. 
Their intercourse had been thrilling and touching. Sad 

 

 

 

now. The man was so completely infatuated with him. It 
had stunned Laren when he’d said, “You are to die for.” 

That was a hell of a declaration. Damn. Just damn. 
Laren knew of the syndrome, when prisoners fall for 

their captors. But he’d never heard of what you call it 
when captors fall for their prisoners. 

You are to die for, Desdaine had said. 
How wretched do you have to be to love your enemy 

more than your life? 

Laren had wanted to come back with something flip. 

But his retorts all died before he could speak one. He’d 
said nothing. He’d kissed Desdaine instead. 

Desdaine was emotionally, psychically wide open. 

Laren could’ve destroyed him with a word. He should 
have taken the shot. 

He told himself he didn’t take the shot because it 

wouldn’t serve at the time. 

Truth was he couldn’t do it at all. Somewhere deep 

inside his soul, he already knew. He confessed it now, 
alone in this cozy prison. I like him too much. I like the 
hell out of him. 

I need to get out of here. Now. Before I fall in love 

with him. 

*** 

Desdaine flew back to the cabin at the first 

opportunity. His whole being was singing. He was 
happy. He’d never been happy. He was nearly giddy. 

Actually, he was completely giddy. 
He didn’t feel the cold as he sprinted from the flyer to 

the cabin door. He couldn’t suppress a smile as let 
himself in. The cabin’s warmth surrounded him. He 

 

 

 

shed his coat, letting it drop to the floor as he strode in, 
beaming. “Laren?” 

The great room was empty. The robot tender was 

stoking the merry fire. “Jess?” 

Desdaine turned around to see that the kitchen was 

empty. The bedroom door was open. It was dark within, 
but Desdaine could see the bed was unrumpled. There 
was no one in it. 

Jzadah! 
His soul felt to be dropping out of him, hurtling down 

into something bottomless. Colors faded before his 
staring eyes. Blood left his head. 

No. 
He grasped at the air for something to hold on to. He 

thought he might actually pass out. 

The sound of a door opening jolted him. A slash of 

light fell across the carpet. Desdaine turned around as 
Laren appeared from the bath. Laren sighted Desdaine 
and gave a cheery “Hey.” 

Laren strode straight to him and took him into his 

arms. Desdaine breathed against Laren’s neck and 
closed his fist on the back of the red shirt he’d given to 
Laren “I thought you left me,” Desdaine said, shaky. He 
held tight, feeling Laren’s heart beat against his chest. 

Laren kissed his hair. “I couldn’t leave you.” 
“Bullshit, Flight Leader,” Desdaine said into Laren’s 

shoulder. 

“No, I mean it. I couldn’t leave. There’s no way out 

of here. I confess I may have done a little recon while 
you were gone. My heart wasn’t in it.” 

The confession forced Desdaine to smile. It sounded 

like Laren really meant it. 

 

 

 

Laren tugged at Desdaine’s belt. Desdaine stood still 

as Laren opened his fly. He shivered as he felt the air on 
his naked erection. 

Laren knelt and buried his nose in the dark curls at 

Desdaine’s crotch. He came up, his tongue dragging up 
the standing rod of Desdaine’s sex. Desdaine felt a 
sound like a sob well up from his core. 

Laren’s tongue tip circled Desdaine’s crown, then 

went down with the broadside of his tongue cupping 
Desdaine’s shaft. He burrowed down to suck one ball, 
then the other, Desdaine’s coarse hair rasping under his 
tongue. His mouth came up and surrounded Desdaine’s 
crown. And he went down on Desdaine, taking as much 
of his sex into his mouth as he could. A moan came 
from deep inside Desdaine. His hands moved, lost in 
Laren’s hair. A pulse gripped his balls and surged up his 
stiff shaft. He ejaculated sweet fire. 

Laren came up blinking and spitting. He called foul, 

and he coughed. He spoke, sounding strangled. “You 
surprised me.” He coughed again. 

“I lost it,” Desdaine said, unsteady on his feet. He 

touched Laren’s shoulder for balance. He hadn’t meant 
to come that fast. 

“I’ll let you make it up to me,” Laren said. 
Laren should have known that would not be a 

problem. 

They moved to the bedroom. Laren sat on the edge of 

the bed and took off his shoes and trousers. He didn’t 
get any further than that. Desdaine knelt between 
Laren’s legs and licked his cock. Desdaine gripped and 
stroked Laren’s bare ass and thighs. Laren’s cock stood 
smooth against Desdaine’s cheek, and Desdaine brushed 
his lips up one side and down the other. He lapped at 
Laren’s balls, savoring the taste of him. He brought his 

 

 

 

tongue up Laren’s shaft and took the tip into his mouth. 
He tongued the bulbous end until Laren’s seized 
Desdaine’s head and made him go down on him. 
Desdaine’s tongue moved in waves around Laren’s 
cock. Desdaine heard Laren’s quickening breaths and 
tasted his readiness. He went down deep, his lips 
reaching for more. And Laren fell back on the bed, 
roaring at the rafters, coming hard in Desdaine’s mouth. 
The motion of Desdaine’s tongue with his swallows 
made Laren clench his fists in the sheets. 

When Laren had given his last, Desdaine kissed the 

inside of Laren’s thigh. Laren lay gasping, half 
laughing. The laugh had an impressed sound to it. 

Desdaine left Laren lying content on the bed. 

Desdaine came back and stood in the doorway with a 
pair of shears. 

Laren’s eyes shifted uneasily, his cock limp, naked to 

the open air. “Um. Sweetheart? What are you going to 
do with those?” 

“I’m going to give you a haircut.” 
“This hair?” Laren pointed at his head. 
“That hair.” 
“Oh thank God.” Laren relaxed. “But I already cut it 

myself.” 

“I see that.” 
Laren touched the top of his head. “It’s not that bad.” 
“Your hair looks better than Melton’s,” Desdaine 

allowed. 

“Aw. Low shot. Here I thought you loved me.” 
“I didn’t fall in love with your hair. And not with that 

haircut. Get up and sit down.” 

Laren got up, went to the bath, and came back out, 

clothed. 

“Shirt off,” Desdaine said. 

 

 

 

Laren pulled his shirt over his head and paused 

uneasily, arms still in the sleeves. “What else are you 
gonna cut?” 

“Nothing I value. Just the hair.” Desdaine motioned 

downward with the shears for Laren to sit. 

Laren had a beautifully sculpted head with handsome 

bones. That head really deserved a better frame than 
Laren’s hack job. Desdaine gave him something similar 
to what he had when they met, just not buzzed quite so 
close around the sides. Done, Desdaine blew the cut 
ends off Laren’s broad shoulders with long breaths and 
handed Laren a mirror. Even Laren had to say, “Yeah, 
okay, that looks better.” 

Desdaine went to the kitchen to prepare dinner. Laren 

sat on the countertop watching him. 

After Desdaine put a roast in the oven, he told Laren 

that he was going to take a shower. “Join me?” 

Laren swung his dangling feet and shook his head. 

“I’m gonna make sure nothing burns here.” 

Desdaine should have suspected something right 

then. It hit him when he stepped out of the shower -- the 
cold. The air in the cabin was cold, as if the outer door 
had been opened. Desdaine felt a chill that had nothing 
to do with the air. He dragged on his trousers and came 
out of the bathroom. 

He heard a strange sound, a thump-drag thump-drag. 
Venturing out to the entryway, Desdaine found Laren 

-- cocooned mummy-style, as if a giant spider had got 
him and wrapped him up for a later snack -- inch 
worming his way toward the kitchen. His nose and ears 
were frostbitten red. 

The truth of the scene stung, and it shouldn’t. Laren 

was still duty-bound to escape. He had tried again. 

 

 

 

Desdaine strode past him to shut the door. He came 

back to observe the giant slug. He spoke, keeping all 
expression out of his voice. “You tried to take my flyer.” 

The flyer’s failsafe was set to auto-arrest a pilot, even 

if he had a key, if given the wrong identification. 

Laren answered, boyishly, as if nothing whatsoever 

was wrong with this picture, “No.” It was the baldest of 
lies. 

It was almost funny But it hurt. Shouldn’t. Laren was 

only doing what he must. It was the lie that hurt. 

“Dinner didn’t burn,” Laren assured Desdaine 

innocently. 

Desdaine stepped over him, finished drying and 

dressing, then set the table. 

Laren slithered, bumped, and rolled across the floor 

toward the table. 

Desdaine poured the wine for both of them. 
Laren lumped along like a clumsy slug. He tried to 

chin his way up onto his chair, but only managed to 
drape himself over the seat, face down. The position 
didn’t look at all comfortable. 

Soon enough, he slithered back down to the floor. 
Desdaine dined across from Laren’s place setting, 

saying nothing. Laren’s meal was growing cold, his 
wine growing warm. 

Finally, the voice of surrender sounded from under 

the table. “Okay. You know what? I gotta piss. Get me 
out of this.” 

Desdaine cut him out of his white shroud with a steak 

knife. 

After Laren had done his business, he came back to 

the table, sat, took up his knife and fork, and took a big 
bite of roast. “This is great.” 

“It’s cold.” 

 

 

 

“It’s great.” He chewed. He met Desdaine’s glower. 

Finally, he said apologetically, “You know I had to try.” 

Desdaine said, “I know.” 
“You pissed?” 
“A little.” 
“Was that entertaining?” 
“A little.” 
“Are you too mad to make love?” 
“Do I look like I cut off my own dick?” Desdaine 

answered. 

“I just didn’t want you hacking off mine if you were 

really really mad.” 

They made sweet, gentle love, their bodies twining. 

Only at the end, when passions neared the pinnacle, it 
wasn’t gentle and it wasn’t sweet. Cock rubbed against 
cock as if to start a fire. It was all frenzy, a fist full of 
ass, and hungry, ungentle kisses breaking off in animal 
growls. They climaxed in fierce jets. 

As his breaths slowed, Desdaine murmured, “Jess 

Laren. More than life.” It was only half of what he 
wanted to say. The other half of that was I love you. 

Laren must have heard the unspokenness. He said, 

“Yeah. I think you really do.” 

Desdaine felt a cold draught through his innermost 

soul at the missing declaration in return. He knew he 
should have appreciated Laren’s honesty. It showed 
higher regard for him than a lying I love you, too. A lie 
would have been hollow and hurt worse. And the truth 
would still be there: He does not love you. 

*** 

 

 

 

They lay together, warm. Laren toyed at the tips of 

Desdaine’s soft chest hair. “Just how does a Savar get a 
gig as a highly placed intelligence officer?” Laren asked. 

And he heard the hesitation -- Desdaine shifting into 

suspicious intelligence officer mode. Desdaine must’ve 
decided the question was harmless, because he 
answered. “I used to work as a chief engineer at Ultemia 
Motorworks. We built elite vehicles. Do you remember 
my car?” 

“The one on Song?” Laren asked. Long, black limo, 

smooth moving brute with a big engine quietly purring. 
“Hell yeah, I remember that. Bitchin’ machine.” 

“I designed that. My team built it. Those cars are for 

senior Party members. I never thought I’d actually have 
one. I wasn’t Party then. I was just a working man. Then 
one day the War Marshal Tanter Voorg marched into the 
shop.” 

“The Blue Whale himself?” 
“All of him,” Desdaine said. 
Tanter Voorg was a vast man of stratospheric rank. 
“Someone had tried to sabotage the Imperator’s car. 

There are not a lot of people who know how those cars 
are put together. Tanter Voorg’s agents grilled all of us, 
as if one of us in the factory had done the sabotage. I 
could tell they were shooting in the dark. The real trick 
to get information is knowing what questions to ask. 
You can build traps out of the right questions.” 

“I found that out,” Laren said dryly. 
“Yes, you did. You think the questions are stupid and 

the answers are meaningless, and they’re not. I asked 
questions back. My questions uncovered the saboteur --
and it wasn’t anyone in my shop. Next thing I knew, I 
was a member of the ruling Party. Now I ask questions 
for Tanter Voorg.” 

 

 

 

“Is the Blue Whale as big as his pictures?” 
“Bigger.” 
“The Ilzec people love him,” Laren said, mystified. 

He couldn’t really believe anyone could possibly love 
that monster. 

“Yes, they do,” Desdaine said. 
“Do you?” 
Desdaine said nothing. Silence could speak as loud as 

answers. 

Desdaine did not love his master. Laren could see 

that. He was a caged animal, trapped by his duty. A man 
could not choose which side of a war he was born on. 

Laren said, “Didn’t you tell me homosexuality is 

illegal on Ilzec?” 

“I did. It is. Laws don’t stop people from fucking.” 
“That’s a fact,” Laren said. “But somebody with 

authority set this place up for you.” 

Desdaine went on, saying things he probably 

shouldn’t. “The law is seldom enforced. They only 
prosecute a man for it if they want him for something 
else and don’t have enough evidence to make it stick. 
Sometimes they let him go free because now they have a 
hook in him. They can control him.” 

“That’s a wormy system.” 
“I have obeyed that law -- until now -- because I 

didn’t want my superiors to have that kind of hook in 
me.” 

Laren saw the game now. Tanter Voorg made you 

swallow the hook. 

*** 

When Desdaine made his next appearance in the 

cabin, Laren openly gawked at him. “You look -- wow.” 

 

 

 

Desdaine was in empire dress uniform. He looked 

sleek, scary, incredible -- cock-hardening beautiful. He 
smelled expensive. 

He didn’t undress. “I’ve been summoned,” Desdaine 

said. He strode to Laren, and held him tight, inhaling 
deeply against Laren’s chest, as if it would need to last 
him a while. 

Laren felt Desdaine’s reluctance to let go. The 

intensity of the embrace was unsettling. “What’s going 
on?” 

“It’s New Year’s Eve.” 
“So what? Is Ilzec is planning an assault on Raudan 

on New Year’s?” 

Desdaine gave a graveyard smile. “It’s just a party. 

You can’t know how much I hate these things. This is 
going to be grotesque. I wanted to be here with you at 
the New Year.” 

“I’ll wait up for you,” Laren said. 
Desdaine shook his head. “This could go on for 

days.” 

*** 

The War Marshal’s villa lit up the sky above it in 

vivid scarlets, fiery golds, and peacock greens, so it was 
visible from space. The show was supposed to 
demonstrate the invulnerability of Ilzec might. The 
government news service put out that the Ilzec side was 
winning the war. The War Marshal was not afraid of 
Raudaner bombers. He was celebrating Ilzec’s imminent 
victory over Raudan. 

Only Desdaine knew that the reason Voorg didn’t 

fear Raudaners bombers was that Voorg’s private villa 
was not recognized as a legitimate military target. 

 

 

 

Desdaine was in Intelligence. No one tried to hand 

Desdaine fur-lined bullshit. It wouldn’t serve to have an 
intelligence officer who didn’t know the real situation. 
And Desdaine wouldn’t be in his position if Tanter 
Voorg didn’t trust him to keep his mouth shut about the 
truth. 

Inside the villa was all decadent luxury. There were a 

lot of illegal smells in here and a lot of spaced-out law 
enforcers. 

The War Marshal was in full regalia, complete with 

epaulets and a broad, scarlet sash. There was nothing not 
broad about Tantor Voorg. He welcomed his guests with 
his booming tenor voice. He gave a special welcome for 
his fighting elite -- the aces of the Ilzec air force -- a 
pack of buff, spirited young men. They were Voorg’s 
show pieces. 

“Eat boys! I don’t like lean men! I cannot trust a man 

who won’t indulge his appetites. Skinny, scheming 
ferrets are not for me.” 

The War Marshal didn’t like men with self-control 

because he couldn’t control such people. 

There were several food bars in the great hall. There 

was a voluptuous young woman on one of the bars, 
nestled amid the fruit and pastries and sweets, wearing 
only fruit, honey, and candied flowers in all the usual 
places. There was a cherry up for grabs where a cherry 
might have been at some stage of the young woman’s 
life. She wasn’t waxed. The Marshal liked his women 
raw, natural and lush. 

Desdaine was naturally reserved. But this was not his 

natural environment. It was important for him to blend. 
He was in the lowest social tier in this gathering of 
decorated officers and Party commanders. It wouldn’t 
do to appear disapproving of his betters. 

 

 

 

Desdaine was not going to grope all the available 

nymphs to prove himself a team player. No. There was 
nothing to do but go for the cherry. 

No half measures. Get this done. Desdaine strode to 

the fruit bar as if claiming it, drew in a breath for 
courage, burrowed his face down between the soft thighs 
and the tufted hair, nosed his way between her lips, and 
got the cherry between his teeth. He should have made 
some ravening animal sound to indicate enthusiasm, but 
he was holding his breath. He reared back up. With lips 
drawn back, he flashed the cherry about the room to 
general applause. He wolfed the cherry back and 
downed it with a shot of something hard and burning. 
He hurled the shot glass at the cavernous hearth. It 
shattered against the fireback. The flames crackled. 

That over with, no one could say he wasn’t getting 

into the spirit of the celebration. He should be good for 
the rest of the evening. 

The woman was replacing her cherry with a sugared 

violet for the others to deflower her. Desdaine withdrew 
to the lavatory to wash the honey off his face. 

He let a drink grow warm in his hand for most of the 

evening, wondering if the hands on that overwrought 
antique clock could possibly move any slower. 

He caught pieces of many conversations drifting 

around the room. In one, a balding general wanted to 
charge his hairline with desertion. 

The others chortled and one man came up with the 

obvious suggestion, “Why don’t just have something 
done?” 

“My wife will think I’m having an affair,” the 

general said. 

“Well, if she’s okay with your retreating hairline, 

why do anything?” 

 

 

 

“Because I want to have an affair! Aren’t you 

listening?” 

Male laughter boomed. 
In another corner of the room, Ilzec fighter pilots 

barked laughter and talked with their hands. These were 
not politically high ranking men, but they were national 
heroes. Politically high ranking men liked having fighter 
pilots in their company. 

Desdaine hovered on the fringe of that group, 

listening to their war stories. They put up with him like a 
sinister shadow at the edge of their bright company. 
Desdaine liked their energy, soaring spirit, their 
ferocious love of living. These were the men who traded 
shots with the enemy ace Jess Laren. 

The leader of this pack was General Gatalan. 
Desdaine and Gatalan were not each other’s favorite 

people, though they respected each other. Desdaine 
admired fighters, and the lives of Gatalan’s fighters 
relied on intelligence analyses from Desdaine. 

The ruling Party chiefs were doing lines of starmist. 

The drug was strictly proscribed, but anything went here 
in the War Marshal’s house. What Tantor Voorg gives, 
you damn well better take. 

A clot of sky high men set their sights on Desdaine. 

“Your turn.” 

The cherry episode was hours ago. Desdaine must 

have looked solemn. These revelers were on a sacred 
mission to loosen him back up. 

Surrounded by the gang, Desdaine leaned in, brought 

the tiny glass cylinder to his nostril, and inhaled. 

Ho! 
He felt his eyes go huge. He must’ve been wearing an 

amazing expression because everyone was laughing at 
him. 

 

 

 

“I feel…I feel…” I feel violet-red in the key of D, but 

it’s thicker than that. 

Laughter shattered the star-bright air and sparkled 

around him, his head full of winking bubbles. 

He saw himself as if outside looking in -- high. His 

face had a strange sheen, his eyes were glassy. He wore 
a gushing smile. He had an erection, hard beyond 
endurance, throbbing in splendid pain. 

Gatalan was taking a snort on a line. He jerked back 

as if bitten. “Oh crap, that’s fine!” 

Laughter clattered around Desdaine like hail. Searing 

lights licked him. Everything in the air, the sounds 
themselves stroked him. 

He crouched low before he could fall over. He knelt, 

found the floor. Where had that carpet come from? He 
rolled over onto his back. Oh fuck. 

He was vaguely aware of men cackling at him. 
And there was Gatalan -- way too happy. Gatalan 

crawled near him, swaying, weaving on all fours, patting 
the floor in search. 

An amethyst voice -- Desdaine’s -- asked, “What are 

you looking for?” 

Gatalan mumbled, “Floor.” He mushed down onto 

his face. His voice sounded muffled, “Found it.” 

Someone else, somewhere, was snorting starmist out 

of a woman’s navel. 

Cocooned in a golden cloud, Desdaine writhed on his 

back like a warm cat in sunlight, his prick pushing at his 
trousers to get out. 

The face next to him turned. All Desdaine saw of it 

was thick mustache, heavy, dark eyebrows and huge, 
white teeth. He saw Gatalan’s voice and the words, 
“Damn, you’re pretty.” 

 

 

 

Gatalan’s two eyes fused into three. They’re 

breeding. Someone stop them. 

Lips pressed Desdaine’s. A tongue filled his mouth. 

He drank in the feeling of the tongue’s long, slow 
plunge. His hips arched upward, wanting something not 
there. 

Then the face lifted away from his and hovered over 

him. From some dim recess of awareness Desdaine 
focused on Gatalan. He felt his brow knot, perplexed. 
Had Desdaine just been kissed? In slow motion, 
Desdaine swung his hand across and slapped Gatalan’s 
face. 

The face above him looked rather astonished. The 

caterpillar mustache turned down at the ends. Wide, 
brown eyes gave an enormous slow blink, a bit wounded 
looking. The circle of laughter around them hammered 
off the walls. Something was very funny. Desdaine 
wondered what it was. 

Desdaine rolled over into a crawling escape on his 

elbows and knees. His body had got very heavy. He 
heard himself mumbling, “Go.” It was what he was 
trying to do. 

He made it out of Voorg's chalet under his own 

power, more or less vertical, then got lost. His driver 
pulled him out of the bushes and drove him to his flyer. 
The flyer could pilot itself. Desdaine need only to tell it 
where to go. 

Desdaine mumbled to the craft’s computer pilot, 

“Cabin.” 

*** 

Laren saw the cloud of fine snow rising through the 

window, the pool of light descending. A flyer was 

 

 

 

landing. The tinny clatter of ice crystals peppered the 
building. 

Laren wasn’t expecting Desdaine back for hours or 

days yet. He wondered if this was the Blue Whale’s 
henchmen come to take out the trash while Desdaine 
was at the party. 

He threw on a pair of trousers, took the chef’s knife 

from the kitchen, gathered all the darts from the board, 
and crouched in the bathroom to wait. 

Soon he heard the outer door seals suck open and 

shut again. There came a stumbling clunk, another 
thump, a scrape of furniture legs on wood. Laren re-
gripped his knife. 

Then he heard the voice, Desdaine’s. “Hey, Laren, 

who moved the walls?” 

Laren set the knife aside and stepped out of hiding to 

see Desdaine, handsomely disheveled, his eyes glazed, 
his lips red. 

Laren smiled at him, amazed. “You’re lit!” 
Desdaine advanced, dropped onto his knees before 

Laren, and circled his arms behind Laren’s thighs, his 
nose in Laren’s crotch, inhaling. 

Laren laced his fingers through Desdaine’s hair. 

“Someone is orbiting without a shuttle.” 

Desdaine licked Laren’s balls through the fabric of 

his trousers. He was speaking a language Laren didn’t 
know, a Savar tongue. 

And Desdaine wished Laren an ecstatically happy 

new year. 

*** 

 

 

 

Desdaine sat up, pleased to find Laren lying at his 

side in their bed. Desdaine felt good, clear-headed. He 
just didn’t know how he got here. 

By the time Desdaine came out from the bath, Laren 

was awake, reclining on his side, his head propped up on 
one elbow. His eyes walked down and up Desdaine’s 
body, and he asked, looking smug and satisfied with 
himself, “Uhm. How are you?” 

Desdaine gave a slight shrug. “I’m good.” 
Laren regarded him strangely. After a long pause he 

asked, “Did I hurt you?” 

Desdaine stared at him perplexedly. His puzzlement 

must have shown on his face ,because Laren said, “You 
don’t remember last night, do you?” 

“Not a damn thing,” Desdaine said. “What did we 

do?” 

Laren recited his name, rank, and serial number. 
Desdaine felt cleaner than he should. There had to 

have been a shower in there somewhere last night. 
Maybe they took a shower together? He was sorry if he 
missed that. He would love to get his soapy hands on 
Laren’s body, and Laren’s hands on him. Apparently 
they’d had sex. He hated missing that. He treasured their 
encounters like nothing else in life. He knew their time 
together was limited. This waking dream must end. And 
he had missed one. Probably more than one to judge 
from Laren’s self-satisfied look. 

Laren asked, wryly, “How was the party?” 
“I -- don’t remember half of it. It’s not really my 

venue. They were doing lines. Starmist.” 

“They were?” Laren said, in obvious irony. It was 

pretty clear that someone in this room had also inhaled. 
“That stuff is big time illegal on Raudan.” 

“As it is on Ilzec,” Desdaine said. 

 

 

 

“Yeah, Fascists always play with the confiscated 

toys. You don’t remember what you did?” 

“No.” 
“Trust me, you had a good time.” 
Desdaine’s brows contracted. “Not from what I 

recall. I remember the others doing lines. They wanted 
me to do one. I don’t remember anything after that. If I 
did a line and I liked it, what’s the point if I don’t 
remember?” 

“Most people do remember. And most people are 

pretty well drilled the morning after.” 

“Then I must not have done one,” Desdaine said. 

That was obvious. He felt entirely well. 

“I’m pretty sure you must have done,” Laren told him 

significantly. 

A call came on Desdaine’s link. The ident showed 

the caller was General Gatalan. Desdaine answered 
swiftly, “Sir.” He kept the video part of the link 
switched off. 

“Are you alive?” Gatalan asked. 
“I’m fine,” Desdaine said, puzzled. 
“Fine?” Gatalan did not take that news at all well. 

“I’m heaving up oysters. Where the fuck do you get off 
being fine!” 

“I can’t remember anything.” 
“Oh, you suck pig snouts!” Gatalan roared over the 

link. 

“What, sir?” 
“You were flying without a rocket! Here I am calling 

to make sure we didn’t kill you, and you’re feeling fine? 
Beat yourself with a chair! You need to be in pain!” 
Gatalan cut off the call with an angry slam. 

“What was that?” Laren asked. 

 

 

 

Desdaine blinked into empty air. “Apparently I did a 

line.” 

The Savar had a different metabolism than sapiens. 

Desdaine didn’t even have a sense of time passing, the 
way one had after he’d been asleep. A man may not 
remember his dreams, but he knew he’d spent time 
unconscious. This was just a page torn out of a book. 

Starmist was illegal and deadly addictive. And 

pointless. 

Desdaine turned to Laren. “I’m guessing you and I 

had sex?” 

Laren nodded. 
“Was it good sex?” 
“It was stratospheric.” 
And Desdaine couldn’t remember any of it. “I think 

I’ll go beat myself with a chair.” 

*** 

Desdaine brought more clothes for Laren, including 

shoes this time, soft ones that would be useless in the 
snow. Desdaine gave him a red sweater of very fine knit. 
It was one of those unforgiving garments that hides no 
flaws. If you didn’t have perfect build, you shouldn’t try 
to wear it. It hung nicely on Laren, draping from his 
broad shoulders, across the broad plates of his chest, 
tripping over his nipples. 

Desdaine surveyed his work. “That looks good on 

you.” He sounded dismayed. “I want it off you. Now.” 

“Come get it,” Laren said. 
Desdaine made a small beckoning motion with his 

hand for Laren to come to him instead. Coming from a 
man in an Ilzec intelligence uniform, the motion could 
have been intimidating. 

 

 

 

Laren strode at him, backing him up. Laren seized 

Desdaine’s wrists and pinned them up against the wall. 
Laren kissed him roughly and pressed his clothed 
erection against Desdaine’s cock. Desdaine was already 
up too. 

Desdaine hooked a heel behind Laren’s knee. Laren 

dropped, rolling onto his back. He took Desdaine down 
with him. 

They wrestled on the cabin floor. At first, it was just 

stripping off each other’s clothes, and neither of them 
put up much resistance. When they were both naked, it 
became a match. 

The Savar was powerful. Desdaine’s muscles were 

thicker, his bones heavier. And for sheer brute strength, 
Laren was outmatched. But Laren was longer, leaner, 
taller, and better trained. Laren also cheated. He need 
only squeeze a nipple or caress Desdaine’s balls or lick 
behind his knee to make Desdaine fumble his hold and 
Laren slipped free. 

Laren got Desdaine wedged down on his knees with 

his cheek pressed the floor, his ass in the air, his arm 
held straight back between his legs like a lever. With 
difficulty, Laren maneuvered his cock to Desdaine’s 
anus. He painted the tight opening with precome. He 
tried to push. 

He felt a real jolt from Desdaine. “Don’t!” 
Laren let go at once. Desdaine spun around, crouched 

like a cornered predator. 

Laren quietly crawled away to the rug in front of the 

hearth. He turned, kneeling up, and put his palm up, 
inviting Desdaine to join him there. 

Desdaine followed at a wary crawl. 
“Lie down,” Laren said softly. “That way. You don’t 

have to trust me. I can’t get in if you’re lying flat down.” 

 

 

 

Desdaine lowered himself to lie face down on the 

rug. Laren kneed Desdaine’s legs apart and covered him. 
Laren slid one hand under Desdaine so his palm lay flat 
against Desdaine’s sex. 

Laren rode him, his cock stroking in the channel 

between Desdaine’s cheeks. The tight passage became 
slick with Laren’s precome. Laren’s rocking weight 
pressed Desdaine’s sex hard against Laren’s palm. Laren 
felt Desdaine’s deep moan resonate through his body. 

Laren pushed rhythmically forward and back, desire 

building inside his cock. He thrilled at the feel of 
Desdaine under him, hard and becoming slippery. 
Desdaine tried to writhe, trapped. Laren heard his 
sounds of rising passion, and he felt his own fires build. 
His thrusts intensified to push and push and push, faster 
and faster. 

Laren came, breathless and blinding, between 

Desdaine’s cheeks. Desdaine’s heated climax splashed 
into Laren’s palm. 

As the waves of Laren’s pleasure subsided, Desdaine 

clenched his cheeks together hard, drawing yet another 
spasm out of Laren’s cock. Laren’s sinews quivered, 
ringing. 

Laren caressed Desdaine’s powerful shoulder with 

his mouth, then buried his face in the thick hair at the 
back of Desdaine’s head. He rested there until his eyes 
uncrossed. 

He spoke into the back of Desdaine’s neck. “Why 

don’t you want me inside you?” 

“It is not a want of wanting,” came the voice from 

underneath him. 

“I figured that much out,” Laren said. Desdaine never 

seemed turned off by the prospect of anal sex. It was 
more like fear. 

 

 

 

Laren guessed he had to feel heavy on top of 

Desdaine. Desdaine didn’t seem to care. Desdaine spoke 
into the floor. “I am the dominant one here.” 

“Really,” Laren said wryly. 
Desdaine turned his head, talking over his shoulder. 

“That’s the point, isn’t it? You are my captive, and it’s 
still not clear who’s on top.” 

“Do we give a shit?” Laren asked. 
“I have to ‘give a shit.’ I must keep something in 

reserve. I cannot completely surrender to the enemy.” 

“You’ve already got your something in reserve,” 

Laren said. “Me. You haven’t let me go.” 

“You’re right. I haven’t. And I won’t. I know which 

lines not to cross, and I’ve already crossed most of 
them.” 

Laren could force Desdaine to submit. No, actually, 

he didn’t think he could, even if he wanted to try. Laren 
was never into forcing sex, and he sensed enormous 
physical power in Desdaine kept under tight rein. 

“So you’re taking one for honor and country,” Laren 

chided. 

Desdaine rested his cheek on his folded hands. “You 

can be a swine, Jess Laren.” 

“I can,” he admitted. “I’ll let you make it up to me.” 
As he kissed Desdaine’s ear, he checked himself 

inwardly. I’m doing it. I’m falling in love with him. I 
gotta get out of here. 

Then he admitted to himself, It’s too fucking late for 

that. He’d already said it. 

Desdaine was a steadfast soldier, loyal as a dog to an 

evil master. But unlike the dog, Desdaine knew exactly 
what a self-serving, tyrannical beast his master was. 
Desdaine had a choice, Laren thought critically. 

 

 

 

Then Laren realized, no. He didn’t. There was no 

choice for Desdaine. The choice would be to turn traitor 
-- which, for a soldier, was no choice at all. Desdaine 
was just plain screwed. 

Laren lifted himself off of Desdaine to lie next to 

him. He turned Desdaine over and held him, smelling 
him. Desdaine’s exotic scent was very male. Laren felt 
Desdaine’s heartbeat against his chest. Desdaine was 
warm. He felt good and right tucked under Laren’s arm, 
lying against Laren’s side. 

There was no future in this. This was going nowhere. 

But today, now, I love him, and he ought to know. He 
would already know if he remembered anything about 
New Year’s Night. “Desdaine -- ” 

Desdaine brought his fingers to touch Laren’s lips to 

stop him. “Don’t,” Desdaine said. “Don’t speak. Don’t 
lie to me. Not about that.” 

Laren kissed his fingers and took them away from his 

mouth. “I got no intention of lying about this.” 

“You might think you believe it, but what you think 

you feel for me is not real." 

“It’s as real as your left ball, you Ilzec jackoff. I 

know my own mind. I love you.” 

“I can’t say that.” 
Desdaine couldn’t say those words -- and Desdaine 

really did love Laren. That was a fact. 

“I know you can’t say it,” Laren said. “And it doesn’t 

matter. I already know you do.” 

More than life. 

*** 

Desdaine blew in unexpectedly. He was always 

unexpected. He announced that he only had seventeen 

 

 

 

minutes. “I need you now.” His coat dropped to the floor 
on his way to the great room and he dragged Laren 
down to the rug. Both of them tried to get completely 
undressed while kissing and never quite got there. Laren 
plunged his tongue into Desdaine’s mouth as he kicked 
off his shoes. Desdaine’s trousers only got pushed down 
to the tops of his riding boots. 

Laren pressed his thighs together hard to trap 

Desdaine’s sex between them. Desdaine thrust between 
Laren’s legs just under Laren’s scrotum. He drove hard 
and fast and came quickly, shuddering. He crawled 
down to take Laren’s erection in his mouth. His uniform 
jacket was rough between Laren’s thighs. Desdaine’s 
hands were underneath him, gripping Laren’s buttocks. 
Laren’s hands moved to Desdaine’s face to feel the 
edges of Desdaine’s mouth going down on his cock. The 
air around him felt to ignite as Desdaine sucked him off. 

After Desdaine squeezed the very last spasm from 

Laren’s balls, Desdaine dragged up his trousers and 
crawled to his coat. 

“Where are you going?” Laren asked from the floor. 
“I only had seventeen minutes.” 
“How many minutes was that?” 
“Wasn’t timing it. Were you?” 
“Not exactly,” Laren said, lying on his back, 

pleasantly dazed. 

Desdaine grabbed his coat, fixed his fly, wiped his 

face on his sleeve, kneeled to plant a quick kiss on 
Laren’s mouth, and ran to the door. Laren stayed where 
he was, on his back, grinning at the roughhewn rafters, 
enjoying the warmth from the fire and the sweet ache in 
his groin. 

He found it funny that Desdaine travelled here for 

seventeen minutes. 

 

 

 

But then it only made sense to seize the moment 

while it was there. In time of war you didn’t know how 
many more moments you’ll get. 

And he and Desdaine were out of moments. 

 

 

 

Chapter Five 

Laren hit a long trough of waiting. It was easier to 

wait if you had a time when. He didn’t have one. His 
anxious anticipation thinned into boredom and 
deteriorated into gnawing dread. He tried not to fill the 
absence with bad imaginings. He gave his dart board a 
spinning swing on its rope. Laren was a dead shot, so his 
target had to be moving to present any challenge at all. 

He slept a lot to kill the time. 
He hadn’t heard Desdaine arrive. He wasn’t even 

sure what woke him. It wasn’t a noise that did it. He was 
just suddenly aware that someone was here other than 
the cat, which was under his chin. He set the cat aside, 
rose, and went to the bedroom door. He felt a quiet jolt. 
He spoke, surprised, “You are here.” 

Desdaine stood in the great room, fully clothed, 

staring out the wall of windows. 

Desdaine looked distant, his eyes fixed on the 

darkness outside. The set of his shoulders was military 
proud. He hadn’t even taken off his coat. His gloved 
hands were clasped at his back. 

Laren asked, “You coming to bed?” 
Desdaine gave the slightest shake of his head, barely 

a brush of his hair against his collar. 

Unspoken words slipped into Laren’s mind. Never 

again. 

This was it. The end. 
Lights streaked the sky. Those weren’t meteors. 

There was a space battle going on up there. 

“What’s happening?” Laren asked. 

 

 

 

Desdaine turned. He couldn’t, wouldn’t tell Laren. 

He said, “I need to go.” 

Of course he needed to go. He always needed to go. 

This was different. Laren heard a ghastly, doomed 
finality to it this time. This was good-bye. 

Desdaine appeared to him as a young beauty, wearing 

a mask of fatal resolve, damned by his duty. “I will not 
come back here,” Desdaine said in an even voice. Then 
he commanded Laren, “Escape.” 

Laren was confused. “You need to escape?” 
“No. I’m telling you to escape.” 
Laren blinked. “I have tried!” 
“It’s time to do it.” 
“How? It’s a hundred and twenty below out there.” 
“Take my flyer.” 
“And turn into a spider’s box lunch?” Laren had 

already met the flyer’s recognition protocol once. 
Desdaine’s flyer had wrapped him up like a mummy. 
“Not again.” 

Desdaine took the poker from the hearthside and 

tossed it to Laren. 

Laren made the catch easily. He regarded the iron 

tool in his hand, not sure what he was meant to do with 
it. Bash Desdaine? 

Desdaine said, “Punch out the control column. That 

will take out the recog computer. The flyer won’t care 
who is at the controls. You’ll need to pilot it manually. 
But it’s nothing you can’t handle.” 

“That’s it?” Laren said, incredulous. He almost 

laughed. “That’s all there is to it?” He could have left 
here any time Desdaine brought his flyer here. 

“It’s a design flaw,” Desdaine said. “Not my design. 

Blow up this place behind you if you don’t want anyone 
to know you were my sex slave.” 

 

 

 

“What about you?” 
“Not your concern.” 
“You are my concern.” 
Desdaine spoke as if he was already gone. “You must 

not worry about me.” 

“You’ll be okay?” Laren asked. 
“I will not survive this.” 
“This? What this? What’s happening?” 
“Your people will make planetfall on Kirik’s End. 

You can join up with them there. Remember you’re 
flying in an Ilzec aircraft. Don’t forget to show a white 
flag.” 

“You don’t want to go back to Voorg and that lot.” 
“Wanting has nothing to do with it.” 
“I love you,” Laren said. 
“No, you don’t.” 
“Oh, drop dead -- I don’t mean that.” 
“Unfortunate that you don’t. You will get over me 

shortly.” 

“Don’t tell me what I feel!” 
Desdaine seized Laren’s head, pulled it down to his, 

and kissed his mouth hard. He drew back and uttered 
words Laren knew Desdaine never meant to say, and 
that scared Laren to death. “I have loved you with all my 
heart.” 

Desdaine walked out into the bitter arctic winter. 
A lighted saucer of a spacecraft appeared over his 

head. Wind whipped the fur from his hood around 
Desdaine’s face. Laren shouted out the cabin door over 
the noise, “Come with me!” 

Desdaine saluted him. A shaft of light came straight 

down. It elevated Desdaine into the belly of the saucer. 
The spaceship rose and became another streak in the 
black sky. 

 

 

 

*** 

Laren was flying an enemy intelligence aircraft out to 

meet Raudan fighter spaceplanes. There was a code in 
place for just such an event, but it didn’t make Laren 
feel any safer flying into a swarm of guys real eager to 
paint another cross on their tails. Already, Laren heard 
their eager chatter on the fighter channel. They’d sighted 
him, each man claiming him as his target. Laren sent the 
proper signal code, flashing his lights and speaking over 
the com on the emergency channel. “Whiskey Tango 
Foxtrot. Say again, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.” 

The Raudaner fighters buzzed around him 

uncertainly and a little disappointed not to have a 
legitimate target. Laren knew what fighters were like. 
They were hoping he really was what he looked like, an 
Ilzec pilot trying to trick his way past them. 

“Identify yourself, Foxtrotter!” one of them 

demanded over the emergency channel. 

“Jess Laren. Flight Leader. Z124983KD.” 
Laren recognized the next voice. It belonged to his 

own wingman, Toma Geryn. Toma snarled at him, way 
past angry, “Jess was executed! Who are you really, you 
Ilzec son of a crabwart!” 

“Toma! Did Chasee have a boy or a girl?” Laren 

replied. “Remember, I got a ten mark on girl.” 

Toma’s wife had been extremely pregnant when 

Laren had been shot down. 

Toma’s snarling turned instantly into astounded joy. 

“You lose! It’s a boy! Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch! 
Jess Laren!” 

“I’d be real happy to pay up if you don’t shoot me all 

to shit,” Laren sent. 

 

 

 

“Deal, mate! Welcome home!” 

*** 

Laren had to watch the fall of Ilzec on the news, far 

away from the action. He was not allowed to fly combat. 
He wasn’t allowed to fly at all. He was grounded on 
Raudan. 

“Why?” Laren demanded, though he already knew 

why. 

“You have been missing in action for months, Flight 

Leader. You were reported executed. Where have you 
been?” 

“Held prisoner as an Ilzec love slave.” 
Right. 
When the officer conducting Laren’s debriefing 

found out that Laren was perfectly serious, the man 
turned alternately flame and chalk. “No no no,” he 
muttered low. “That can’t get out.” 

“I don’t care if it gives you the squirms,” Laren said. 

“If anyone else asks me, I’m sticking with the truth. Can 
I have my wings back?” 

“Sir?” the officer said, he was currently in chalk 

phase. “You’ve been through a horrendous ordeal. Just 
sit back and enjoy the show. We’ll have the Ilzec 
bastards pounded into their place in no time.” 

*** 

The Raudener forces put down troops by the 

thousands on Ilzec soil while the Raudaner land army 
advanced on the Ilzec capital. Ilzec defense troops 
marched out to meet them. 

 

 

 

General Gatalan and Desdaine evacuated citizens out 

of the invaders’ path. The two officers saw to the 
loading of civilians onto a train bound out of the place 
where the two armies would clash. It was a battle Ilzec 
would lose. The Imperator had forbidden surrender. 

Desdaine and Gatalan stood by the general’s 

beautiful car watching the orderly operation. Ilzecs 
understood order. Desdaine had already loaded his own 
limousine with refugees and sent it on its way. 

General Gatalan’s car was furnished with a wet bar in 

the back. Gatalan broke out a bottle of cognac, poured 
two shots, and clinked glasses with Desdaine. “To the 
homeland.” 

They stood behind Gatalan’s car and smoked cigars 

from Gatalan’s private stash. Gatalan poured another 
round of cognac into the cut crystal shot glasses, 
stretching out these last moments of civility and 
refinement at the end of the world. 

Their cigars burned down. 
Desdaine crushed his out. “It is time.” He took off his 

long, fox fur coat, walked out and put it over the 
shoulders of a thin refugee woman, who was shivering 
in a cotton dress as she waited to board the train. Then 
he took a baby from its mother’s arms, tucked the baby 
into his fur hat, and passed the bundle back to the 
mother. He helped her climb onto the train. 

He walked back to Gatalan at the car. Clouds of snow 

and dust on the horizon indicated an approaching army. 

The train was starting out. 
Gatalan still had his heavy wool overcoat on. He 

peered from the depths of his broad, turned-up collar at 
Desdaine with neither coat nor hat. “You don’t feel the 
cold.” 

Desdaine stood impervious as a wild stag. “I feel it.” 

 

 

 

A roaring from the sky trailed vees of enemy aircraft 

splitting the heavens. 

“Here they come,” Desdaine said. 
Gatalan said, “I love this car.” He sounded sad. “I 

hope they don’t destroy it just because it’s one of ours.” 
He straightened his officer’s cap, making himself ready 
to face their conquerors. 

Desdaine took his folded fore-and-aft cap from his 

belt. It bore the insignia of an Imperial Intelligence 
officer on it. He positioned it on his head. 

Gatalan eyed the intelligence badge. “Brother, you do 

not want to wear that.” 

“I do,” Desdaine said. 
“They’ll tear you apart.” 
Desdaine knew that. Desdaine’s hated badge would 

give the enemy something to spend their hate on. 
Desdaine didn’t want that approaching mass of 
Raudaner troops chasing the Ilzec civilian evacuees. The 
train was moving very slowly. 

Gatalan clenched the bitter end of his cigar between 

his teeth, took off one glove and extended his hand to 
Desdaine. “It’s been a privilege.” 

“Same.” Desdaine grasped his hand. 
Gatalan shed his overcoat. “Shit! Shit! Shit! It’s cold! 

How do you stand this?” 

Gatalan left the overcoat in the car, and he walked 

out to meet the enemy troops. His pilot’s wings and his 
medals were on show on his uniform jacket. The 
Raudaner infantry respectfully took the enemy fighter 
hero into custody. 

Desdaine went down in a mob of Raudaner soldiers 

stomping on him. 

*** 

 

 

 

Jess Laren watched the war tribunals on the national 

broadcast. 

The Raudaner medics had restored Desdaine to health 

so he could stand trial with the ruling Party officials and 
high officers of the Ilzec Empire. The trials were for war 
crimes. The sentence was always death. The War 
Marshal got the gallows. Tantor Voorg went smiling 
defiantly, waving to the crowd. 

By the time the prosecutors got down to officers of 

Desdaine’s rank, their venom was largely spent. 

When Laren saw Desdaine on the broadcast his heart 

leapt. Desdaine had a powerful presence. What he 
projected wasn’t fear, but it wasn’t defiance. He held his 
head up, a smoldering beauty quietly waiting. 

Desdaine was a member of a captive race. He was a 

Savar. The prosecutors were afraid they were tipping 
over the edge from justice into blood thirst by going 
after this one. A note in Desdaine’s personnel file made 
it out to the media. The Ilzec authorities had dictated: 
Do not let this creature breed. That won him some pity. 
The tribunal ruled that Desdaine wasn’t entirely in 
control of his own destiny. So he was not sentenced to 
death. 

They sent him to prison for twenty years. 

 

 

 

Chapter Six 

It was such a small news story that Laren missed it. 

Someone asked him what he thought about the war 
criminal called the Death Angel being released from 
prison after serving only one year. 

Laren was stunned. “He’s out?” 
“Can you believe it? The Death Angel! They just let 

him walk!” 

Of course they should have let Desdaine out. What 

shocked Laren was that he didn’t know about it. He said 
vacantly, his thoughts racing ahead, “The Death Angel 
didn’t actually kill anyone. He was an intelligence 
officer.” 

“Whatever. He caused deaths. They let him out. 

That’s a pissing crime.” 

Laren wasn’t listening. He quickly looked up the 

news story. 

Desdaine was here on Raudan. He had been paroled 

almost a month ago. And Desdaine hadn’t contacted 
him. 

For the first time in his life, Desdaine could choose 

whom he kept company with. He could take a lover not 
offered up as a captive sex slave. He could make his 
own decisions. He would contact Laren soon. Laren was 
sure of that. 

Then he was not so sure. 
What if Desdaine was so thoroughly ashamed of the 

whole episode that he wanted to pretend Laren didn’t 
exist? Maybe he was making a new life for himself that 
had nothing to do with his old life on Ilzec. Laren should 

 

 

 

leave him his space and let Desdaine come to him when 
he was ready. 

They were worlds apart, he and Desdaine. Two men 

forced together under pressure might just fly apart once 
set free. 

Laren already knew what he wanted. Desdaine had 

decisions to make. Laren waited for Desdaine to contact 
him. 

Time was longest for those who wait. 
The season dragged. Jess Laren was an easy man to 

find. If Desdaine didn’t call, it wasn’t because he 
couldn’t. 

Well, that was Desdaine’s choice, wasn’t it? 
No. Screw this. I get a say in this relationship. Yeah! 

We had a relationship! I gotta know. 

*** 

Laren navigated halfway around the world to a drab, 

faceless building in a drab, faceless sector of an 
industrial town on Raudan. The plastic door was nicked 
and stained. 

Laren had to double check the address. Yes, this was 

the correct tenement building. Laren hadn’t ever seen 
anything this run down that didn’t just have bombers 
passing over it. 

The outer door latch had fallen off. Laren let himself 

into the building. The lift was broken, so he took the 
steps up and knocked on the thin door to Desdaine’s 
living unit. 

Desdaine opened the door. He gave no smile. His 

expression looked a little bit dead, his eyes hollow. His 
posture was dignified, maybe even guarded, but the 

 

 

 

being inside that proud shell struck Laren as ground 
down and lost. 

Desdaine must have bulked up while in prison. His 

muscles were bigger than when he had been Laren’s 
keeper, his chest broader. Desdaine was a beautiful man, 
so Laren supposed he would need to be tough to survive. 
Desdaine always had a don’t-come-near-me presence. 
Laren would have thought anyone in his right mind 
would not try to force their attention on an unwilling 
Savar. But Laren guessed those hombres in max 
containment weren’t all in their right minds. 

Desdaine looked like he’d dressed out of a recycle 

bin, in a shirt ten years out of style of very thin fabric, 
plain trousers, and cheap shoes with flat soles. 

He showed no joy, no expression at all. He stood in 

the open doorway saying nothing. 

Laren said, “Can I come in? 
Desdaine backed away stiffly, admitting Laren to --

to what the hell was this? 

The walls were bare, their colors ferociously bland, 

faded, and chipped. The floor was nondescript, low-bid, 
industrial shit with foot paths worn through it. The air 
was hot and drippingly humid. The windows were open. 

A rapid pounding came from the far side of one 

tissue-thin wall. A young man’s inarticulate voice 
shouted, “’Daine! You ‘kay in dhere, ‘Daine? You 
‘kay?” 

“Yes,” Desdaine called back patiently, as to a child. 

“Do stop pounding.” 

Laren noted the neighbor’s concern. Desdaine had at 

least one friend. 

“They are a sweet young couple,” Desdaine said. 

“Loud. Cheerful and very very lusty -- which I know 
because they are loud.” 

 

 

 

“I’m glad they let you out of prison.” 
Desdaine’s eyes moved briefly sideways, and he said 

nothing. 

Laren tried again, “Did they bother you in there?” 
“Bother me?” Desdaine said archly. 
Laren revised. “Anyone try to fuck with you?” 
“Only once.” 
Desdaine had the compact power of a police dog. 

Laren always suspected that Desdaine could tear his 
arms off if Desdaine ever unleashed himself. 

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.” 
“That? No.” Desdaine’s dark eyes narrowed, 

focusing through a dusty windowpane to some far point 
on the horizon. “The laws of the jungle are basic. Prison 
was easy. This is not. I prefer the jungle.” 

“So what do you do?” Laren asked. 
Desdaine’s head turned sharply. He stared at Laren 

with a strange expression, looking ill. 

“For a living,” Laren added. 
That made it worse. Desdaine assumed a perfect 

quiet, like the quiet just before you ought to be running 
to the cellar. 

Then Desdaine trembled. He sank to his knees. He 

swallowed down several times hard. 

Laren crouched down before him. “Is it what I said?” 
Desdaine took several gasping breaths. He sniffed. 

His voice sounded thick. “I am going to break parole. I 
want to go back to the house.” 

“You don’t mean that.” 
“I do.” 
“Okay, maybe you do,” Laren said. “What kind of 

job do you have exactly?” 

Desdaine lowered his head. He looked like he was 

swallowing down sick. He stood up with fragile dignity. 

 

 

 

It took him several starts to tell Laren that he was a 
folder. 

Laren didn’t know what being a folder meant. He 

was pretty sure he didn’t want to know. He looked 
around Desdaine’s living unit. “C’mon. I’ll feed you.” 

Desdaine gave a weak smile. “You can’t cook.” 
“That’s why we’re going to a restaurant.” Laren 

didn’t want to see what kind of food-oid substances 
might lurk in the so-called kitchen area of this flat. 
“Let’s get out of here.” 

“I need to let my minder know where I am.” 
“Your what?” 
And Laren learned that part of Desdaine’s probation 

required him to notify his “minder” of his whereabouts 
whenever he was not in his living unit or at work or in 
transit between the two. 

The minder balked when Desdaine could not tell her 

exactly where he was going. Laren, who was listening 
in, grabbed the caller from Desdaine and told her, 
“We’re going out.” 

Laren named a list of possible restaurants for 

Desdaine to choose from. “We can go to any of those.” 

Desdaine stood still, hesitant. His eyes flickered 

downward. Laren sensed Desdaine was conscious of his 
cheap, dated clothing. 

“Right after we go shopping,” Laren added. 
Desdaine looked outstanding in fine clothes. Laren 

bought him a crisp, garnet-colored shirt, black trousers, 
black leather shoes, a leather belt, and a bracelet of 
leather and silver. 

Laren bagged Desdaine’s own clothes and asked the 

clerk to atomize them. 

“Yes, sir,” the clerk said, sounding grateful. 

 

 

 

Laren and Desdaine dined in the open air at a 

sidewalk café. 

Desdaine looked at Laren as if reading him. “You’re 

still in the space force,” he said. 

“What? Oh, the hair.” Laren kept his hair buzzed 

short across the back and sides. “No. I’m a civilian test 
pilot now. That’s the most excitement you can have 
without a war. It’s fun when new technology works. 
And it gets real real exciting when it doesn’t work.” 
Laren relished a good danger rush. 

He told stories and watched Desdaine relax by 

degrees. Laren smiled over his dessert caffe. “You look 
better.” 

Desdaine had looked close to actually breaking a 

smile as he listened to Laren’s tales. 

“Don’t wake me,” Desdaine said. 
Laren propped one elbow on the table, his chin on his 

fist. “By the way, I never told you, but I did drop your 
name on Song that night we met.” 

“Did they treat you all right?” 
“They treated us like gods. Really frightening gods. 

Did you, like, kill a lot of people or something?” 

Desdaine shook his head. “I uncover secrets. Men 

fear that more that death.” 

“I don’t.” 
“No.” That was almost a real smile on Desdaine’s 

face. “You are right out there. And you are well loved.” 

“Am I?” Laren said. He set his foot alongside 

Desdaine’s under the table, their ankles touching. 

“Yes,” Desdaine said. 

*** 

 

 

 

This was a dream Desdaine never expected to have --

an open sky, a magnificent man. This magnificent man. 
Right now he would not think about tomorrow. He did 
not want to think about a bleak, soulless job and a stern 
woman who never spoke his name but called him Mister 
D. 

Laren said, “About this so called job of yours -- “ 
“I don’t care to discuss it.” 
“Me neither. Give notice.” 
“I’m not allowed to give notice,” Desdaine said. 
Apparently, a great many rude words came to Laren’s 

mind, and they evidently crashed together in his mouth, 
because all that he managed to blurt out was, “Duck!” 

“Duck?” Desdaine said lightly. 
“And I mean it, too!” Laren declared, then seriously, 

“I’ll take care of everything.” 

That sounded lovely, but Laren didn’t know what he 

was in for. Desdaine explained, “I can’t quit 
employment unless I have another position to go to.” 

Laren flashed that eight magnitude smile of his. 

“That shouldn’t be hard to find.” 

“It is not hard. It is impossible. I am forbidden from 

filling any position a qualified Raudener wants. And the 
position cannot have anything whatsoever to do with 
intelligence.” 

“Let me worry about that. Come home with me.” 
“I cannot. I must return to my living unit.” A buzzing 

sounded at his hip. “This is my minder now. He reached 
for his pager. 

Laren’s hand closed on his before he could answer it. 

“No. You’re in my playground now. I really am 
somebody here, and I’m not doing this crap. Gimme 
that.” 

 

 

 

*** 

Laren’s house was on the daylight side of the world. 

The building was impractical, almost whimsical. It was 
a free spiraling design of wood and glass, three stories 
high, though the second story was not exactly in 
between the first and third. All the rooms were airy, with 
high ceilings and vast windows. It was a place designed 
to contain someone who would not be contained. It was 
the home of an air space pilot who lived in three 
dimensions. Laren’s bedroom was a loft at the very top. 
There was a garden house built in a wide ancient tree in 
the back of the property. 

Stepping inside the front door of the main house, 

Desdaine looked around, his eyes round, his breaths 
coming shallow. 

“That looks like a panic attack,” Laren said. 
“It is.” Desdaine heard his own voice sounding 

surprisingly even. 

The Raudaner authorities had released Desdaine from 

his minder into Laren’s temporary custody. The power 
in the universe had shifted. They had traded places --
captor and captive. Everything was falling up, the 
opposite of what it once was. 

Desdaine supposed he must have looked like a 

cornered animal. 

Laren gave him the tour of the house, showing him 

all the bedrooms. “Stay the night,” he said. “Sleep 
anywhere you want.” 

Desdaine chose the garden house. 
If Laren was offended or disappointed, he didn’t 

show it. Before turning in, they spent the evening in a 
sunroom, drinking. Laren did the talking. The sky turned 

 

 

 

indigo at sunset. The enormous, glowing disk that was 
Ilzec rose over the horizon. The stars were coming out. 

Laren put his hand on Desdaine’s cheek. 
A tear ran down onto Laren’s fingers. “Why?” 

Desdaine said. “Why did you bring me here? What are 
you doing to me?” 

“You are here because I can’t imagine my life 

without you.” 

Desdaine gazed at the floor. Then he nodded toward 

a door. “Is that the path to the garden house?” 

“Yes,” Laren said. 
Desdaine walked toward it. His hand was on the door 

when a motion drew his eyes to the side. Something 
under a chair peered at him with one green eye, one sort 
of yellow. It opened its mouth and uttered a broken 
meow in a ravaged voice. 

“Melton,” Desdaine said, with some surprise. 
“That is still a stupid name for a cat,” Laren said. 
The useless rag of an animal uttered a squeaky 

excuse for a yowl. It still lived. Laren had brought the 
abject, useless animal with him, across space, to another 
planet to live with him. 

There was mercy in the universe after all. 
Desdaine followed Laren up all those stairs to the 

loft. 

*** 

Naked in bed with Desdaine, Laren felt the beating of 

Desdaine’s captive heart. 

Laren didn’t even try to enter him. Not until 

Desdaine had his pride back. Enough that he was here, 
with his body pressed against Laren’s sex. Laren never 
wanted to be without that ever again. 

 

 

 

Laren rolled onto his back, taking Desdaine with him, 

putting Desdaine on top. 

They thrust, body to body, sex to sex. Desdaine’s 

mouth felt sweet on his shoulder. The hard, flowing 
muscles of his ass felt scorching hot thrusting between 
Laren’s hands. Desdaine’s sex moving against his was 
beyond anything under heaven. 

Desdaine’s coming over him sent him to a jubilant 

climax. It was to die for. 

*** 

Desdaine lay with Laren, nose to nose, their heads on 

the same the pillow. Laren smiled at him. 

Desdaine touched his fingertips to Laren’s smile and 

murmured, “I thought you’d be clear by now.” 

Laren’s smile widened. “Clear of what?” He took 

Desdaine’s fingertips into his mouth. He swept his 
tongue across them, lightly sucking. 

Desdaine shivered with delight. “Brainwashing,” 

Desdaine answered. “The thing that happens when a 
prisoner falls for his captor.” 

Laren gave a big grin. Desdaine’s fingers slid out of 

his mouth. Laren took Desdaine’s hand and planted a 
courtly kiss on his knuckles. “I’m a fighter pilot. Our 
brains don’t wash. I didn’t do anything in captivity I 
wouldn’t do in freedom.” 

*** 

In the morning, Laren and Desdaine boarded a 

transcontinental shuttle, which carried them a quarter 
way around the globe in minutes. From the station, they 
took a zip cab to a shop that specialized in custom 

 

 

 

collector transports. “Ilzec transports are in fashion,” the 
floor supervisor told them. “Flyers, cars, hovers, boats. 
We sell ‘em faster than we get them put back together. 
The war wasn’t kind to Ilzec machines, which is a 
damned shame because they’re great vehicles. Just 
‘cause you hated the empire don’t mean you got to take 
it out on works of art.” 

A mechanic called from behind a vehicle, “You 

looking for a new toy, Jess?” 

“No,” Laren called back. “I brought you an expert on 

Ultemia Autoworks products.” 

Another mechanic said, “About time!” 
The shop had a lot of Ilzec cars and flyers in varying 

states of disrepair. One mechanic was trying to put a coil 
into a Caziltin racer. 

Desdaine asked him, “Why are you doing that?” 
The mechanic paused to mop his brow with his 

sleeve. “I think that’s how it’s supposed to go. It looks 
like it was designed that way.” 

Desdaine said, “I promise you that is not how the 

designer intended it.” 

He had everyone’s attention. 
Shop mechanics clustered around Desdaine. They all 

needed an expert’s opinion. “Like this,” a mechanic 
named Norro said nonchalantly. “What would this be 
worth at auction?” 

This was a 930 Tomahawk. “I have no idea what goes 

for what at auction, but I can tell you a Tomahawk is not 
a collector vehicle,” Desdaine said. “It’s an egg carton 
with hubcaps.” 

“Ha!” said orange-haired Sassy, who had apparently 

told someone so. 

Norro said defensively, “These’re very rare.” 

 

 

 

“Not rare enough,” Desdaine assured him. “It’s a 

scam out of the hindervarg.” 

“Well, what can be done with it?” Norro said. 
“Case it in concrete and bury it eight feet under so it 

can’t chuck itself back up and continue to feed on 
human misery,” Desdaine said. 

“You’re saying you don’t like it,” Rog, the shop 

owner, said. 

Desdaine answered with damning silence. 
“Anything worth anything on it?” Norro asked. 
“The hubcaps,” Desdaine said. 
Sassy clapped her hands. “Oh Rog! He’s au-then-tic. 

I want him. I want him.” 

Desdaine went on to diagnose all the problems on the 

mechanics’ various projects. 

Laren took Desdaine aside in the employee break 

room. “What do you think?” 

“I’m glad I could help your friends,” Desdaine said. 
“You’re not getting it,” Laren said. 
Desdaine blinked, not sure what he was supposed to 

get. 

“That was a job interview. Empire staff cars and 

flyers bring in big money. The thing is no one here 
knows how to fix them. You said yourself, not many 
people know how those things are put together. It’s a 
job a Raudener can’t do.” 

Desdaine stared. 
Laren went on happily, “These guys are killing 

themselves trying to put these machines back together. 
They’re ready to hire the Archdevil. If you want the job, 
it’s yours.” 

A tremor started in Desdaine’s chin. It moved to his 

lower lip. 

 

 

 

Laren pulled back. “Whoa. I didn’t mean to insult 

you. I’m sorry it’s not like your old job in the 
Imperium.” 

“Jess. I hated my old job.” 
Desdaine could not begin to express how very much 

he hated his old job. His nose felt thick, his eyes became 
wet. Desdaine, who never smiled, had to tell Laren, 
“This is the face of a very happy man.” 

When Laren and Desdaine stepped back out of the 

breakroom, Rog and his employees didn’t just want to 
hire him, the shop foreman was ready to sacrifice at 
Desdaine’s altar, and orange-haired Sassy asked 
Desdaine for his dick in marriage. 

“Don’t you mean hand?” Desdaine asked, thinking 

he’d misunderstood the Raudaner word. 

“Nah, I got two of those,” Sass said. “Dick. 

Definitely. I want the dick.” 

Desdaine politely declined. Sass took it well. 

*** 

Desdaine was limber as cat. It was easy for him lie 

under Laren with his knees hooked over Laren’s wide 
shoulders. Laren bent down, nose to nose, as his cock 
slid in Desdaine’s ass cleavage, wanting inside. 
Desdaine trembled. 

“What’s wrong, babe?” 
“Nothing.” Desdaine gave a thick sniff, sounding 

dangerously close to tears. 

Laren thought Desdaine would relax now that he was 

free of his degrading job. But even now he feared being 
dominated. Laren wondered if Desdaine thought a fuck 
up the ass would be an act of revenge. Did Desdaine 
really think Laren needed to humiliate his captor to get 

 

 

 

his manhood back? Some part of the man apparently 
thought so. 

Laren stroked him like he would a spooked stallion. 

“It’s okay. Never mind. We’ll do something else. We’ll 
get there. Just not tonight.” 

*** 

The shop where Desdaine worked won a bid on a big 

project. A zillionaire collector had got hold of Tantor 
Voorg’s sky yacht at auction. He wanted to use the 
spacecraft, but he couldn’t get past the security controls, 
and no one else could get past them either without 
ripping things apart. 

Desdaine had installed the security system in Voorg’s 

yacht. 

Not only could he bypass the safeguards, he could 

recode the yacht to obey its new owner without doing 
any violence to it. He was also able to show the owner 
all the secret storage places, which turned out to house 
priceless artifacts from ancient Earth, like the Koh-I-
Noor diamond, Rodin’s Kiss, and the Apollo Belvedere. 
There was enough starmist in one hidden compartment 
to sniff an entire state into orbit, but that got confiscated 
by Raudaner law enforcement officers. 

That won Desdaine a hugish bonus from his 

workplace and a personal gift from the yacht’s owner --
a trip for two to the Isle of Song. 

As Desdaine and Laren were packing, Laren took a 

call from Desdaine’s former supervisor. “I got three no 
shows and I’m up against quota. Can I get Mister D for 
third shift?” 

After Laren figured out who she was and what she 

was saying, he told her to fold herself. 

 

 

 

*** 

On the Isle of Song, Desdaine and Laren were shown 

upstairs to the kind of suite given to just-married 
royalty. They dined on delicacies and danced on the 
rooftop. They got naked on their pillowy bed and tasted 
each other’s bodies. 

Laren slid his rigid cock within Desdaine’s sweet ass 

cleavage. He guided his cock to Desdaine’s anus. 
Immediately, he felt Desdaine’s buttocks tighten. Up 
went the psychic walls. Desdaine’s whole body 
stiffened. 

Desdaine turned his head to look up over his 

shoulder. Laren could see his eyes, the fear in them --
that this was somehow an act of domination, 
humiliation, and revenge. “I can’t,” Desdaine said. “I 
can’t even explain why. I just can’t. I. It.” 

Laren saw in his eyes something sticking inside the 

deepest darkest recess of his mind, the place where 
nightmares hid during the day. 

“I can’t.” 
“Um.” Laren laid his palm against Desdaine’s 

quivering side. “You have.” 

Desdaine’s face showed blank incomprehension. 

“What?” 

Laren asked, “Do you remember New Year’s Night?” 
“No. You know I don’t,” Desdaine said. He looked 

like he was searching the gap in his memory where the 
night of Tanter Voorg’s New Year’s rout should have 
been. He looked like he was still finding nothing but 
blanks. He blinked at Laren and frowned. “How was I?” 

*** 

Laren remembered the night. Vividly. 

 

 

 

He hadn’t expected Desdaine back so soon. Laren 

woke to Desdaine’s stumbling entrance, “Hey Laren? 
Who moved the walls?” 

Laren got up from the bed, naked. Desdaine fell into 

his arms, his eyes glistening at Laren. Desdaine’s deep 
voice was not slurred, but slow and dreamlike. “You are 
so beautiful. Take me. Fuck me.” His irises were solid 
black disks. 

Laren took him into the shower, trying to sober him 

up. But Desdaine wasn’t drunk. He was in orbit. 

Desdaine glided caresses over Laren’s body under the 

warm water. He licked water droplets from Laren’s 
throat, then from his cock. 

Laren guided Desdaine back to the bed, intending to 

let him sleep, but Desdaine pulled him down between 
his spread legs and lifted his knees around Laren’s body. 

“In! In!” 
“You’re sure?” Laren asked, knowing full well 

Desdaine wasn’t sure. He was flying in hyperspace. 

“Come inside me now,” Desdaine said. 
“You’ve never done this before.” 
“Do it now.” Desdaine licked Laren’s neck from 

shoulder to ear and sucked on his earlobe. 

Laren fetched a bottle of oil from the bath. 
Laren smoothed oil on his cock, then Desdaine’s --

his because he had to, Desdaine’s because he wanted to. 
Desdaine writhed under his touch like a cat in heat. 
“That feels…that feels.” He lost whatever he was 
thinking. “Feels like this.” He moved down and put his 
mouth on Laren’s sex. 

Laren saw stars exploding. 
Desdaine pulled back and stared at Laren’s cock as if 

seeing it for the first time and wondering why it was 
there. “Put this in me.” 

 

 

 

“Yours to command,” Laren said, not sure he ought 

to, but what the hell. A better man would’ve said no. 
Laren was a fighter hero, not a saint. He oiled his cock. 

Desdaine’s hands were all over Laren’s chest as 

Laren crawled over him. Desdaine’s tongue dragged up 
the shallow furrow between Laren’s pecs. “Need you.” 

“Yeah. I’m getting that read,” Laren murmured. 

Laren held him, smelled him. He felt Desdaine against 
his body, pliant and more than willing. 

Desdaine wrapped his powerful legs around Laren’s 

narrow waist, his hips tilted far forward, inviting him. 

In. 
Laren knew enough of the Izec language to know that 

Desdaine wasn’t speaking Ilzec. This had to be a Savar 
tongue. It was a raw, pure sound. A tongue that could 
not tell lies, saying things Laren couldn’t express, the 
feeling of Laren’s cock inside Desdaine. 

Laren moved slowly in and out. He heard Desdaine’s 

groans of relief and flaring passion. Desdaine’s hips 
thrust up to meet Laren’s strokes, spurring his need. 
Laren’s sex moved in and out. Each stroke demanded 
the next. Desdaine’s body took him in willingly and 
caressed his retreat, then begged for him to come in 
again. 

Laren rode him, harder, faster, his flesh ablaze. He 

thought he was hurting Desdaine, but Desdaine urged 
him on, gasping with passion’s breaths. 

The sound of Desdaine’s deep, raw growls reached 

inside Laren, sending him higher. 

At the point near pain, Laren gave a savage cry with 

a rapturous release. Desdaine was coming against him, 
hot and urgent. A raw snarl tore free from the depth of 
Desdaine’s being. It sounded like absolute joy. 

A cry, “I love you. I love you. I love you.” 

 

 

 

That had been Laren. 

*** 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Desdaine cried, feeling his 

cheeks coloring. He turned around to sit down on the 
vast mattress of their bed on Song. 

“I wasn’t sure you wanted to know,” Laren said. 
Things had been different between them then. They 

were captor and captive. Apparently Laren suspected it 
would have shaken Desdaine to know. And he’d been 
right. It hadn’t been a good idea to disturb the balance of 
power at the time. Not while Laren had been trying to 
escape. 

Desdaine should have known he’d submitted. He had 

noticed he was a little tender back there the morning 
after. He’d dismissed it as some side effect of the exotic 
food at the party. 

It had been absurd not to let Laren take him before 

that. It was completely useless now. He had me. And he 
was still here. He wasn’t walking out, and he wasn’t 
laughing at him. 

“I -- ”  He stopped. 
“What?” Laren coaxed. 
“I want to surrender, and I don’t know how.” 

Desdaine held a fist against his midriff, as if there was 
something stuck there. If he could just pull it out 
everything would be fine. “Maybe I should try voodoo, 
witchcraft. Anything.” He’d thought that being at war 
with oneself was just an expression. But something deep 
inside him was fighting him for what he wanted most --
to be completely one with the man he loved. 

“Take me.” 
“You don’t want to,” Laren said. 

 

 

 

“No, I do,” Desdaine said solemnly. “The part of me 

that doesn’t want to doesn’t get a say here.” 

Laren paused, not at all sure. “You’re frightened.” 
“I don’t care.” 
“I care.” 
“Please take me. Please.” 
Laren could not turn down a plea for sex from 

Desdaine, even though he expected Desdaine to balk as 
always when it came down to it. 

When Laren penetrated him, Desdaine struggled, but 

it was a token struggle, wanting to be overpowered. 
Laren took him, carefully. The physical blaze was 
incandescent. He felt the terror looming at edges of their 
joining. The depth of Desdaine’s breaths and the 
hammering of his heart was not all passion. 

Desdaine ejaculated against Laren’s abdomen. It 

filled Laren with a depth of emotion he’d never felt in 
sex. 

Laren wanted to say something light to comfort 

Desdaine, but decided to keep his inner glib pig shut up. 

Desdaine fell asleep, exhausted. He looked 

vulnerable in sleep. Song’s soft starlight gave his eyelids 
a bluish tinge. 

Laren didn’t think whatever haunted him had been 

exorcized. 

He went up to the roof, brooding under the stars. He 

couldn’t say he didn’t like the sex. The sex was 
phenomenal. Laren only wished Desdaine had come 
freely with joy. 

Laren caught himself considering witchcraft. Well, 

maybe not witchcraft. But once they got home, he would 
try another form of ancient Earth magic. 

*** 

 

 

 

Desdaine trembled on all fours on the floor in Laren’s 

sunroom, Laren’s cock slid between his cheeks, Laren’s 
hand reached around him to fondle his cock. 

Desdaine let Laren enter him. It was an enthralling 

sensation, but once again the unbidden fear welled. 
Rationally, Desdaine knew he was safe. Tears formed in 
his eyes anyway, blurring the sight of his own hands on 
the floor, even while the physical pleasure was sending 
his flesh soaring. 

Larens strokes slowed, then stopped, his sex deep 

inside Desdaine’s body. Laren let go of Desdaine’s sex 
to reach for something up on a table. 

Desdaine froze up, close to panic. “What?” 
Laren brought something down from the table and 

slid it on the floor in between Desdaine’s hands. 

It was an open ring box. It held a matched pair of 

plain gold bands, his and his -- ancient symbols of love 
and commitment. 

“Marry me.” 

*** 

Desdaine coughed an astonished kind of laugh. Laren 

felt a palpable thaw beneath him -- a yielding that felt 
joyful and trusting. Desdaine moved under him, his hips 
rolling at a willing canter, taking Laren’s erection for a 
sensuous ride. 

Desdaine’s flesh surrounded and held him. Laren was 

melting and burning and flying. There ought to be a 
word for the swelling in his heart. 

Laren moved with him and reached around his body 

to hold Desdaine’s sex. Desdaine’s cock was hard and 
smooth in his hand. Laren’s sex was on fire inside 

 

 

 

Desdaine’s magnificent body. It was nothing but 
beautiful. He felt Desdaine’s hard buttocks against his 
balls with his thrusts. Desdaine’s heat and his motion 
were irresistible. There was no way to hold on. Laren 
released passion in exultant waves inside his beloved, 
his hand closed around Desdaine’s cock, coming. 

After the last tremor, Laren put both arms around 

Desdaine and kissed his shoulder blade. 

Finally, Laren rolled off him. They lay side by side 

on the soft, tawny carpet, panting, just the backs of their 
fingers touching. The room was warm and filled with 
sunlight. 

Laren turned his head toward the ring box. “You 

haven’t answered.” 

“You didn’t ask a question,” Desdaine said. 
Marry me. It had been a command, not a question. 

“Will you marry me?” Laren asked. 

“Do I have a choice?” 
“I sure hope not,” Laren said. “Do you? Have a 

choice?” 

“Can you ever forgive me for holding you captive?” 
Laren rolled onto his side and propped his head up on 

his hand to face Desdaine. “Ah hell, you captivated me 
from the moment I saw you, Desdaine. Now answer the 
fucking question. The words. I want the words.” 

Desdaine smiling was a miraculous vision. The 

breath caught in Laren’s chest. 

Desdaine said, “Jess Laren. More than life. Yes, I 

will marry you.” 

Laren leaned his face over Desdaine’s and kissed 

him, slow and tender. Desdaine’s lips were soft in 
surrender. 

Laren reached across Desdaine for the ring box and 

held it toward him, offering. The rings were nearly the 

 

 

 

same size, but Laren had those big knuckles to get over. 
Desdaine took the smaller ring and tried it on. “Does it 
fit?” Laren asked. 

Desdaine had the most beautiful smile in both worlds. 

“Jess? It’s perfect.” 

“Well, it had better be,” Laren said. 
“Pig,” Desdaine said. 
“Glib one,” Laren agreed. He tried on his own band. 

He already knew it fit. He lifted a leg over Desdaine and 
lay atop him, weight on his knees and elbows, and took 
Desdaine’s face in his hands. He gazed down at 
Desdaine, his beloved captor, and marveled. “Damn, 
you were hard to win.” 

Desdaine’s smile became playful, something 

Desdaine had never been. And he told Laren, “I’ll let 
you make it up to me.” 

The End 

 

 

 

If  you  enjoyed  this,  try  these  other  Jez  Morrow  stories 
from Torquere Press! 

Force of Law 

When a Lamborghini Diablo car pulls into the quick 

oil change shop on Cleveland’s west side, Tom Russell 
work immediately assumes this is his old lover, Wells, a 
beautiful, wealthy, east side snob, come back to torment 
him. But it’s worse. 

The driver is Wells’ arrogant, obscenely rich cousin 

Law Castille, who invites Tom on a little subtle revenge, 
accompanying Law as his guest to Wells’ wedding. But 
dance with the devil, and there's hell to pay. Tom thinks 
Law is toying with him, but Law’s visit to the poor side 
of a rustbelt town was never about revenge. It was never 
about cousin Wells at all. Law has come for Tom. 

Touch of a Wolf 

On a rebound from his cheating lover, Matt Winter 

has sex in a Philadelphia alley with a man packing a gun 
and sniffing like a coke addict. When Matt’s stranger 
from the alley lets himself into Matt’s apartment through 
the window, Matt learns that the man has a badge to go 
with that gun. Detective John Channing of the Philly PD 
has been passing as a dirty cop. 

Channing needs a safe place to get himself clean and 

sober so he can be a credible witness in court against a 
murderer. And he wants sex. The anonymous encounter 
was not enough for either of them. As Channing goes 
into withdrawal the hallucinations start, but it’s Matt 
who wakes up in bed with a wolf. Matt doesn’t believe 
in werewolves. But then, he doesn’t believe in love at 
first sight either...