plik

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and

incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are

used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any

resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or

persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Betrayed

ISBN: 978-1-77101-035-1

Cover Artist: Victoria Miller

Editor: Mason Lavin

or reproduced electronically or in print without written

permission, except in the case of brief quotations

embodied in reviews.

Breathless Press

www.breathlesspress.com

Chapter One

The scent of food wafting on the wind roused him. Not the

screams and pleadings for mercy from the men to his right and left,

not the shouts and crude insults from the guards, not the plat-plat of

the rain, not the tink-clink of the tiny bits of hail. Those were all com-

monplace. But the smell of cooking food, so close to his cage? Now,

that was new. That was downright abnormal.

Meldrick opened his eyes slowly, blinked away the bleariness,

and tried to focus. Though he’d just as well have stayed asleep; he’d

been dreaming of home. Of Faldor. Not a total loss, he mused to him-

self, eyeing the approaching guard, who carried a platter of some sort

of meat. The guard stopped at his door and kicked out, splashing him

with filthy water, mud, and who knew what else. Meldrick raised a

hand to fend off the muck, but the effort was useless. He wiped it

away from his face as best he could and looked up at the guard.

The guard sneered at him and slung the food between the cage

bars. It landed at Meldrick’s feet with a wet plop. Though his mind

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told him the meat was likely rotten, his guts twisted and gurgled in

noisy anticipation. He wasn’t about to pass up the first meal he’d had

all week, regardless of the state of it.

“Eat up,” the guard instructed. “General wants you full of energy

for tonight.”

Meldrick closed his eyes and turned away from the guard, pressed

his forehead against the bars of the cage. Now the food made sense.

Part of him wanted to refuse to eat, scuff dirt over the rancid mess,

and spit on it. Spit on the guard. But that wasn’t going to happen. He

would eat the food, relish it, savor it, make it last as long as he could,

lick it from his fingers, and wish for more. Because there wasn’t any-

thing else to do.

He went down on his knees, sank into the mud and disgusting

squalor, and reached for the food. As always, crass remarks from the

guards followed. They called him names, kicked more mud at him;

a couple even produced rotten apples from their pockets and hurled

the fruit at him. Unable to resist the opportunity, Meldrick grabbed

up one of the apples and took a bite. He moaned around the mush,

smiled at his guards. “Delicious,” he declared.

Eventually they lost interest and walked away, milled around the

prison camp, or returned to their individual posts.

“Who will it be tonight?” the prisoner to his left asked.

Meldrick peered into the other man’s cage. “Hard to say.” Though

in reality, he’d finally figured out that the ogres had a system to their

choices. Those who had been deprived of food the longest in a particu-

lar week were usually the ones chosen for Meldrick to torture. Lack of

food ensured they’d have little mettle to fight back. He’d only recently

realized that the rations of those men were what he was given. But it

mattered little. If he failed to torture his comrades, the guards would

kill them. And a sore body was fair price to pay for another day alive,

even in the prison camp. At least, by Meldrick’s estimation. A dead

man couldn’t return home. A dead man couldn’t return to Faldor.

He ate his food in silence, slowly, tearing the huge chunk of meat

apart into smaller ones to make it last longer. He picked every scrap

out of the mud at his feet, ate the rotten apples down to their cores,

sucked as much of the juices out of the fruits’ skeletons as possible.

And then, he waited.

Not long, though. He’d barely finished when the guards returned

to his cage, though how much time had passed, he couldn’t say. He’d

long since lost the ability to tell time without some sort of device. Even

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the rising and setting of the sun became unreliable, for he’d no idea

how many cycles he’d managed to sleep through at a time.

The guards unlocked his cage, reached in with the pole, and

looped the chain around his neck, pulled it tight until the metal bit

into his flesh. They tugged him forward, though they needn’t have—

he’d have gone willingly. There was no hope of escape, after all, and

he’d given up on a rescue. Months had gone by, and no one had come

for him. No one. Not even Faldor.

Meldrick stumbled from his cage across the yard to the cage of

one of his fellow knights, Derenat—barely any life left in the old man.

So, tonight wasn’t for sport then but for the sheer enjoyment of Gen-

eral Vintik. As if conjured by the thought, Vintik appeared, that smug,

satisfied look on his face, as always.

Waist-long, wavy hair freshly washed—still wet, even—light

green skin immaculately clean and smelling of amur spice, stunning

dark emerald eyes—in any other situation, Vintik would’ve been at-

tractive. The seven-foot-tall, muscular ogre walked toward Meldrick

with purpose, his wide grin exposing crooked teeth—his only appar-

ent imperfection, and even then, they were cleaner and better kept

than most ogres’.

But then that was why the humans had fared so poorly in the

war—by underestimating their enemy. They’d been warned: shifters,

elves, and dwarves had all counseled the humans, warned that ogres

like Vintik—educated, cunning, civilized—existed. And Meldrick had

been one of the first to dismiss the idea. He chuckled bitterly. So much

for the superiority of humans.

Vintik pointed to the cage, and the guards opened it. They shoved

Meldrick inside and allowed him to loosen the chain so they could

remove the pole. Meldrick jumped as the door slammed shut with a

loud clang, and Derenat cried out.

“Not tonight,” Derenat pleaded, holding his hands out to Mel-

drick and bowing his head in supplication.

“You know I have no say in it,” Meldrick hissed. Why did they

always plead, as if their words would change things? “Turn over and

make it easy on yourself.”

“It’s never easy.” Derenat lowered his hands and looked up to

glare at Meldrick. “You never make it easy.”

Meldrick wanted to recoil at the words, but a show of weakness

in front of Vintik would earn him nothing. Would likely lose him

next week’s food rations if he had any coming. He reached out and

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snatched up a handful of Derenat’s hair, pulled the other man up to

stand; Derenat’s head only came to his shoulder. “Make it easy on

yourself.” He snarled again. “Keep your mouth shut.”

Derenat nodded as much as he could and closed his eyes.

Meldrick slung Derenat against the opposite side of the cage and

reached to untie his breeches. He pushed the present away. Pushed

the future away. All that remained was the past. Faldor. His duties as

First Knight to King Rychal. Training squires. Sharing meals with his

lover. Nothing else existed. Not the body beneath him, surrounding

him, struggling to get away from him. Not the smells and sounds of

prison, not the vomit slowly rising in the back of his throat. None of it.

But as usual, the guards wouldn’t let him stay there in the happy

mental place. Wouldn’t let him stay in the past. Sharp pinpoints of

pain started at his calves and climbed up his spine to his shoulders—

the guards stabbing him with wooden spears through the cage bars.

He grunted in annoyance, tried to keep his mind elsewhere without

success. Meldrick snarled his rage as the guards continued to inflict

wounds, shouting and taunting him.

Vintik stepped closer to the cage, out of arm’s reach, of course. He

always stayed out of arm’s reach, the coward. “Do it like I want, and

the pain will stop.”

Meldrick couldn’t stifle a sardonic laugh. Do it like Vintik wanted,

and the pain would continue, just in a different form. The pain never

stopped.

“Need I remind you what happens when you defy me?” Vintik

drew a dagger from his belt and twirled it around in his hand. “Do

you want him to die? Shall I kill him, because of your high-valued

morals? How much do those morals cost, knight? How much would

you pay to keep them?”

“Let him kill me,” Derenat rasped.

“Nay.” Meldrick shook his head. Death was a worse fate than

anything he could think of. Anything. He changed the angle of his

thrusts, drawing a scream of pain from Derenat.

Vintik’s laughter filled the air. “That’s more like it!”

When he’d finished with Derenat, the guards stuck the pole back

inside the cage and looped the end around Meldrick’s neck again.

They dragged him out, ignoring Derenat’s sobs and pleas for help.

The entire cage rattled with the force of the shutting door, and Mel-

drick wondered briefly if Derenat rattled too.

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The virility potion came next—the guards used the pole to ma-

neuver him against the wall of the cage and pinned him while Vintik

forced the thick, bitter-tasting stuff down his throat. They all stood

there in a circle around him, leering at him, making obscene gestures

and comments as they waited for his cock to spring back to attention.

He always marveled at the magical drink’s powers.

And then the process started all over again. There were six more

in all that night. Six rounds of the potion and six more men. They

ended with a large, burly knight from the east named Korin. That one,

Meldrick hated. Korin enjoyed the pain. Welcomed it. Begged for it.

With Korin, Vintik’s sport wasn’t in the pain itself but in watching

Meldrick try to force himself to continue past fatigue and madness.

But Meldrick hated Korin most because Korin made him like it. Some

small, hidden part of Meldrick enjoyed it.

Afterward, as with most torture nights, the guards took Mel-

drick back to his own cell for Vintik’s personal pleasure. Prone on the

ground, Meldrick made a fist with his left hand, tucking his thumb

around the ring Faldor had given him, clutched his hand tight against

his chest, and rolled over onto his stomach to protect the precious

memento. They’d wrenched it off his hand once, shoved it down his

throat, and made him keep it there while they each filled his mouth

with their seed, then forced him to swallow it all down. Days had

passed on the meager diet before he’d been able to retrieve the ring.

They would get it again, he knew, at some point, but not so easily.

Exhausted, Meldrick endured the torment in silence, his body

long since adjusted to the rough touches and harsh treatment. He

pushed it all away and thought of Faldor. A flash of color and move-

ment near the front of the camp by the gates drew his waning atten-

tion from the corner of his eye. He turned his head to get a better look.

A tall, slender man dressed in a long, hooded red cloak stood talking

with two of the guards. One of them handed him a coin purse—no

question what it was based on the bulge. And then a curious thing

happened—all three faces turned toward him.

Meldrick hissed in a painful breath as Vintik’s cock breached him,

and the darkness of unconsciousness pulled him under at last.

***

A fortnight later, Meldrick coughed and sputtered as an ogre

grabbed his hair and yanked his head back out of the bucket. Wa-

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ter spiked with oil of pura flower cascaded down his face, and he

squeezed his eyes shut against the stinging of the acidic liquid.

Without warning, the guard pushed his head back into the buck-

et, giving no time to take a breath first. He struggled and kicked but

was rewarded only with the guard’s heavy weight on his back, hold-

ing him down. Muffled laughter met his ears as he tried to claw the

ropes that bound his wrists.

The voices became more and more distant, the light from above

less and less bright as the world faded away. So, this was how it

would end. Face-down in a bucket. Not the most honorable of deaths,

but better than some, and really, he’d passed the chance for honorable

a long time ago. He would rather have met his demise on his feet, and

preferably on the battlefield, but at least—

The world came rushing back as his head was pulled from the

bucket again. The cage door opened and closed and the scent of amur

spice filled the air. Vintik.

“Has he said anything?”

The guard by the door shook his head. “Of course not.”

Vintik glared at him. “A bit less insolence, if you please.” He

strode over to Meldrick, grabbed a handful of hair, and yanked the

knight’s head back. “Bring him to my hut.”

Meldrick groaned as the weight shifted off his back and Vintik

dropped his head. He stood slowly, bit down on his tongue as blood

rushed back into his cramped leg muscles, bringing waves of tingling

pain with it.

The guards led him to a side of the camp he’d never seen. Much

cleaner, the area sat far enough away from the caged prisoners that

one might actually forget the wretched men existed. Vintik’s hut was

actually rather quaint from the outside. From its dark brown thatched

roof and light brown outer walls, down to its bright red wooden door.

If he’d been a free man, Meldrick might’ve found it welcoming.

Inside, Vintik sat on one side of a small wooden table at the back.

His bed—an ornately carved wooden monstrosity covered with pil-

lows and blankets—dominated the right side of the hut; a large stone

fireplace with a cauldron hanging in its middle took up the left. In

front of that was a chair and another table, this one adorned with a

small mirror, comb, brush, bottles of oils and perfumes, and a bowl

and ewer. The setup resembled something Meldrick had seen in the

late Queen Lemyura’s chamber, but he refrained from telling Vintik

so.

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“Untie him.” Vintik pointed to a chair on the other side of the

table from him once Meldrick’s bindings had been cut. “Please, sit.”

Meldrick glanced at the guards as he lurched forward and sank

into the chair, rubbing his wrists. He stifled a groan of pain, covered

it with a grunt, and scowled at Vintik. “What do you want of me?”

“The same thing I always want. Your cooperation.” Vintik smiled.

Meldrick snorted. “Beating and raping me has earned you noth-

ing. What makes you think I’ll talk now?”

“Meldrick...Meldrick.” Vintik spread his arms and shook his

head. “Have I beaten you?”

Meldrick bared his teeth in a snarl. Though he was loath to admit

it, Vintik was right.

“And the last time I knew, the definition of rape was coupling ini-

tiated without consent. But you’ve never said nay, have you?” Vintik

sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “Your victims, on the

other hand, have all objected, haven’t they?”

Again, Meldrick couldn’t refute the logic. The fact he’d been

forced into what he’d done didn’t make him any better than Vintik.

But his silence didn’t absolve the ogre either. “I know what you did.”

“What you think you know and what the law says are two differ-

ent things, aren’t they?”

Meldrick stood and placed his hands on the table, leaning over

Vintik menacingly. “If you had me brought here for more torture,

then get on with it.”

The guards lunged for Meldrick, but Vintik raised a hand and

waved them off. “So eager for the pain.” He pointed to Meldrick’s

chair. “Sit.”

Meldrick resumed his seat.

“I have a gift for you,” Vintik said. He pulled something from

his pocket, plopped it onto the table with a metallic clink, and slid it

across to Meldrick. He lifted his hand, a cruel smirk on his face.

Meldrick stared at the band of silver before him. They took my

ring again, was his first reaction. But slowly he realized the weight

of his ring still rested on his finger. A different weight—the weight

of dread—began to throb in his heart before settling in the pit of his

stomach. Not his ring. Faldor’s.

“Don’t you want it?” Vintik asked. “I was certain you’d be happy

to see it.”

“How?” Meldrick croaked. Bile rose in his throat. Faldor would

never have willingly parted with the jewelry.

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Vintik grinned. “Quite easily, actually. Did you know healers

are being sent to the front lines of battle now? Indeed.” He nodded.

“Imagine my captain’s surprise when the gods delivered us the king’s

own Honored Healer and—and this is the part that’s even better—

your lover.”

Meldrick swallowed hard, fought to keep his breathing slow and

controlled while his heart pounded. If there was any comfort to be

had, it would be that Faldor had died without knowing how low Mel-

drick had sunk.

“Your healer fought valiantly for his life,” Vintik assured. “Tooth

and nail, as your kind say. Getting that ring was easier.”

“Because you stole it from his cold hand!” Meldrick grabbed for

the ring, but Vintik swiped it up quicker.

“Did you steal it, Captain Chon?” Vintik held the band up and

turned to his left. A large, dark green-skinned ogre stepped forward

out of the shadows. He stood by Vintik’s chair and started talking, his

deep voice rumbling in the ogre language.

Vintik’s grin widened. “I do love this story. You see, Chon here

says he found your precious healer tending a fallen knight. He knew

what Faldor looked like—we’d already given our men specific details

about what to look for when we realized Faldor might be out there

somewhere—and Chon, well, Chon’s rather a bit of an eager soldier.

He couldn’t resist being the one to bring Faldor in. Dead or alive, of

course.”

Meldrick tried to look away, but couldn’t tear his eyes from Chon.

Chon paused, puffed out his chest, and started again.

“Alas, Chon’s also a bit overzealous,” Vintik continued. “Seems

he couldn’t resist a bit of fun either. Chon says fucking Faldor was...

well, our word is chledract. I suppose the closest translation is sub-

lime. Would you like the details? Chon’s very good at remembering

details.”

Meldrick said nothing, continued to stare at Chon, wishing the

very act could bore a hole in the ogre’s heart.

“Nay? Well, in any event, when he’d finished, he ran Faldor

through.” Vintik licked his lips. “I’ll spare you the part about Faldor’s

blood spurting like a fountain, though I think it’s a nice touch.” He

looked at Chon and chuckled, then turned his gaze back to Meldrick,

dark eyes sparkling. “And then he told Faldor what had become of

you. How you had turned on him and your king. How you had given

us all the information we asked for, the first time we asked.” Vintik

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leaned forward. “And how you spent your days enjoying the plea-

sures of my men, and your nights taking what you wanted from your

own.”

“In end”—Chon switched to common, struggling with the

words—”he curse you, and give me ring.”

“Liar!” Meldrick jumped to his feet and hurled himself at Chon,

reaching for the ogre’s throat. “Lies! I’ve told you nothing! Nothing!”

His hands never made contact. Meldrick choked and gasped, clawed

at his throat as a chain tightened around his neck, and the guards

dragged him to his knees.

Vintik knelt beside him, held the ring out. “You will talk now,

won’t you?” He waggled the ring. “Or shall I seek out Faldor’s fam-

ily?”

Meldrick wanted to scream, beat his fists against his chest, and de-

clare his steadfast loyalty to the king. That’s what he should’ve done.

But he didn’t. Instead, he talked. He forced his voice to work around

the searing pain in his chest, past the thick tightness of his throat, past

the vomit quickly bubbling up from his twisted guts. Body shaking,

head throbbing, Meldrick talked. Every secret he knew, every last

piece of information he had about King Rychal, the knights, Castle

Maganuld—all of it. He stared at the tattoo of a sword and shield on

the back of his left hand—the mark that designated him a Knight of

the Realm—and talked.

Broken, defeated, he fell the rest of the way to the ground, curled

himself into a ball, and wept. The ring dropped to the floor with a

clatter, and he snatched it up, held it against his lips, and prayed for

Faldor’s soul and the souls of the men he’d just condemned. But not

his own.

Vintik let out a spine-tingling laugh and stepped over him. “Come,

men. We have a siege to plan.”

“Shall we kill him?” one of the guards asked.

Vintik shook his head. “There’s nothing I can mete out as ghastly

as what he’ll do to himself.”

***

Meldrick awoke, who knew how long later, to an empty camp.

No huts—just piles of burning rubble. No men in cages—just empty

metal husks, their rusty doors squeaking mournfully in the wind. No

ogres. No prisoners. He turned his head to the left, to another heap of

smoldering embers, catching the scent of scorched flesh. He closed his

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eyes tightly and whispered a prayer as the shape of a human skeleton

became clear, a bit of still-attached hair dancing in the breeze. So much

destruction, and somehow—thankfully—he’d slept through all of it.

He opened his eyes and pushed to his feet. He still held Faldor’s

ring in his hand, thank the gods. The metal had made an indention in

his palm; it would fade over time, but he wished it wouldn’t—wished

he could retain the mark as a reminder. He glanced at the back of his

other hand, where he did carry a reminder. The sword and shield tat-

too stood out boldly against his pale skin, mocking him. He didn’t

deserve to wear that badge any longer, though.

Meldrick returned his gaze to the pyres. No flames remained, but

the heat rolling off each made the air above shimmer and wave. Not

the cleanest of removal methods, or the most pleasant, but there’d be

far too many questions if he went to a healer. He walked quickly to-

ward the hottest mound, taking long strides before he could change

his mind. He raised his left arm to shield his face from the nauseating

heat and placed the back of his right hand down on a bright red piece

of wood.

He bit back a cry, eyes watering, balled his hands into fists, and

stood his ground as the fire seared his flesh. The pain spiked and in-

tensified, shooting up his arm and bringing him to his knees. Meldrick

jerked his hand away, wrinkling his nose at the acrid stench. He sur-

veyed the results—a nasty wound, it would surely scar, but he could

no longer see much of the tattoo. There were no buckets of water to

clean up with left anywhere, but he’d been past a river when he’d first

arrived, and he thought he could remember the way.

He gave the camp one last look, spat on the ground for good mea-

sure, and set out to find water. He didn’t have to walk long, thank-

fully. About an hour, mayhaps—he wasn’t sure—of travel brought

him alongside the rushing water. He waded out on shaking legs, un-

accustomed anymore to such exertion, hissed at the temperature as he

wiggled his toes. He swished his right hand around, the cool soothing

away some of the ache.

Loud booms reverberated off the mountains in the distance. Can-

non fire, mayhaps, or wizards’ fireballs, either of them devastating to

an enemy army. Which side they were on, he didn’t know. He must

be near the fighting. He toyed with the idea of trying to find one of the

regiments and rejoining his brothers, but a glance at his hand ruined

that idea. They’d want too many explanations he couldn’t give.

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He crouched low as voices floated over to him. Two men, dozens

of water skins slung over their shoulders, approached, discussing the

war, what it meant for their livelihoods—one apparently owned some

kind of inn, the other a farm. Meldrick stopped listening when the

conversation switched to the new tavern wench and how well they

suspected she could give head. He looked up as the men neared, but

they paid him no mind—acted as if half-naked, scraggly-bearded,

gaunt strangers were commonplace—and went about filling their

skins and postulating on the wench’s talents.

A long, low horn blast filled the air. Far downriver, Meldrick

could just see the outline of several ships. Large, with tall masts sport-

ing sweeping sails, the fleet of vessels sat low in the river, powerful

hulls splitting the water with ease.

“Here, wha’de’ye think them are?” one of the men asked the other.

“’Tis ships.”

The first man rolled his eyes. “Aye. I know tha. Whose are they?”

“Dunno. Elves, mayhap?”

“Minotaurs,” Meldrick whispered. Even if he hadn’t seen the flag

bearing the image of a bovine head, the sound of the horns would’ve

given away their identity.

“’Ow’d’ye know?” the second man asked him.

“The horns they blow are the horns of honored ancestors,” Mel-

drick explained. And the beasts’ presence was a good sign. If the

minotaurs had joined the war, the centaurs and elves would follow

quickly. Rychal and his knights would have a real chance.

“Wha’, ye mean like off their ‘eads?”

Meldrick nodded.

“Must’ve ‘eard ‘bout tha prince,” the first man murmured. “Rest

‘is soul.”

Meldrick looked at the first man, took a step toward him. “What

about the prince?”

“’Aven’t ye ‘eard? Nevyn’s dead.”

“Aye,” the second man chimed in. “Ogres sacked tha castle last

night. Found tha underground entrance, they did.”

“Aye. Nay tellin’ how they found out ‘bout it.”

“Fer sure someone told ‘em. Rychal’s got a traitor in ‘is midst, ‘e

does.”

They continued talking, but Meldrick didn’t hear the words. The

distant rumbles, the horn blasts, it was all too much. He bit down on

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his tongue, covered his ears with his hands, closed his eyes, and fell to

his knees under the weight of what he’d caused.

“Ye all right?”

Meldrick opened his eyes to find the two men standing over him,

peering down with wrinkled brows.

“Tha’s a nasty wound ye got there,” the first man said, reaching

for Meldrick’s hand.

Meldrick curled his upper lip. Like a feral animal, he wanted to

bite into the man’s hand, hear him scream as his bones crunched and

cracked. Sinister ideas swam in his head, ideas of having his way with

the first man while the second was tied up, forced to watch. His cock

leaped, and his guts knotted. What was wrong with him? These men

had done nothing to him to deserve such treatment. He stood quickly,

blinking his eyes and shaking his head to push the thoughts away.

Meldrick ran.

Chapter Two

Meldrick released the sides of the trap with a grunt, pulled the

tarkin off the metal spikes, and held it up. A good-sized bird, it would

give him at least two meals. He shoved the carcass into his bag and

moved to check the next trap. As a child, hunting had never been an

interest of his, but he’d gotten quite good at it in the two years since

his escape—if he could call it that. Though scrawny animals were all

he caught; the larger prey eluded him. Even that seemed right. He

certainly didn’t deserve to live a life of plenty. Not anymore.

Shouting in the distance drew his attention; the sounds of men

on horseback grew louder and louder. He squatted behind a bush as

they neared. Peering out from between the leaves, he couldn’t stifle a

gasp. His cock hardened at once as he realized the identity of the man

on the big brown horse. Faldor. Thoughts raced through his mind;

he wanted to pull Faldor down from that horse and bury his cock

deep anywhere he could—ass, throat, didn’t matter. The need to feel

that soft flesh rose in him like a fever, bringing beads of sweat to his

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forehead. Like a man demented he shoved his hand down into his

breeches and groped for his cock, visions filling his head.

Visions of Faldor naked, hanging inside a cage, wrists chained

above his head, stretching his body out, ankles chained to either cage

wall, spreading his body open. Faldor would be gagged as well, just

like some of the other men had, but unlike them, Faldor wouldn’t

struggle and try in vain to get away. Faldor would take it, welcome it.

Meldrick squeezed and stroked his cock, imagining Faldor’s

moans of pleasure, Faldor’s hot, writhing body around his cock, Fal-

dor’s ass grinding against him. Aye, Faldor would want it. Faldor

would take it—all of it, even the pain. Especially the pain. Despite

Faldor’s history, despite the horrible memories the pain would bring

forth, Faldor would still endure it because Meldrick had asked it. He

could be as cruel as he wanted, and it wouldn’t matter. Because Faldor

trusted him.

But he was a traitor, unworthy of anyone’s trust. Especially Fal-

dor’s. His hand spasmed open, and his cock flopped back against his

balls, already softening.

Self-hatred knotting his guts, Meldrick promptly fell to his knees

and vomited. He lingered there on the ground, angled his head in ma-

cabre fascination as the pool of the tarkin’s blood spread and mingled

with his own bodily fluid. Realizing the blood had reached his fingers,

he bolted to his feet, slinging his hand in an attempt to clean it.

Across the forest, the men were moving away, turning back to-

ward the castle. Faldor waved to someone ahead; a flash of bright sil-

ver gleamed. The ring. Meldrick looked down at his own left hand, to

the matching ring, finally understanding what had really happened

nearly two years ago, the extent of the lies his captors had told him.

The ring they’d shown him had been nothing but a copy. A fake. Not

at all like the one that tingled on his finger now.

Meldrick snatched the rope from around his neck, held up the

imposter. Had they copied it when he’d first arrived and bided their

time until they knew the name behind it, or had they seized the op-

portunity later? Didn’t matter. Either way, he’d been a fool to fall for

their tricks.

He swallowed hard. His mouth went suddenly dry, then began to

water with a hunger he’d never known.

Faldor was alive.

This changed everything.

***

DC Juris

“Faldor?”

“Hmm?” Faldor tore his gaze away from the edge of the forest to

look at the man with him.

“Is everything all right?” Nomah slid his hand down to the hilt of

his sword, eyes scanning the area behind Faldor.

“Aye.” Faldor glanced back.

“Did you see something?”

Faldor shook his head. “Nay. I thought...you’ll think me mad, but

I felt like I was being watched.”

Nomah chuckled and raised his hand back to the horse’s reins.

“The forest can play havoc with a man’s mind. It was likely a simple

trick of the light.”

“Aye.” Faldor nodded. A trick of the light. That made sense. But

the tingling of recognition—the spike of adrenaline that had quick-

ened his heart and brought his innate magic zinging through his

veins—had been no trick. He turned his mount in the direction of the

forest. “I’ll take a pass by the edge, to be sure.”

“I’ll go with you. Could be ogres.”

“Nay.” Faldor shook his head, not wanting any interference. “I

sense no danger. Go on ahead. I’ll catch up momentarily.”

Nomah looked back and forth between Faldor and the forest but

relented at last with a nod and a half-bow. “As you wish.”

Faldor kicked the horse’s flank and maneuvered closer to the for-

est. Warmth spread out from the ring on his left hand, growing hot-

ter as he neared the trees. He ran his thumb over the metal absently,

squinting into the dim light filtering down through the thick green

canopy. “Meldrick?”

Nothing stirred. No animal noises, no breeze. Nothing. But the

sense grew stronger; a shiver ran up his spine, raising the hairs on the

back of his neck and sending goose bumps rushing down his arms.

Faldor shivered and urged the horse even closer. He hadn’t been en-

tirely honest when he’d said he sensed no danger. Something lurked

beneath the recognition—something sinister. Meldrick, if it was Mel-

drick—and it couldn’t be, the man had been dead for years—had

changed.

Not entirely understanding, but unable to deny the calling

pounding through him, Faldor slid from the saddle and stepped into

the forest. Behind him, from what seemed like a distance three times

its length, Nomah shouted his name. Forests were dangerous these

days—rebel ogres roamed unchecked since the war, not to mention

Betrayed

the usual worries of animals and marauders. But Faldor took another

step, and another and another, until he stopped, inexplicably, in front

of a bush. Just an ordinary, run-of-the-mill bush.

The band on his finger burned intensely, searing his flesh, and he

rubbed his thumb over it furiously. Breath coming hard and fast, his

pulse pounding in his throat, Faldor reached down and snatched the

branches aside. He gasped.

Nothing.

Faldor stumbled back, the heat on his hand receding. He shook

his head hard and cursed his stupidity as the pounding of hooves

surrounded him.

“Honored healer!” Nomah shouted as he and a dozen other

knights circled Faldor. “What’s happened?”

Faldor shook his head, swallowing down the lump of emotion

lodged in his throat. “Nothing. It was nothing.” He turned and stalked

back toward the field, pushing his way through the mounted knights.

He swung himself back up into the saddle and kicked his mount hard,

clutching his thighs tight against the surge of speed. Faldor swiped

at his eyes, fought the urge to look back—to run back and scour the

forest from top to bottom with his bare hands. Meldrick was dead.

Period.

***

Faldor frowned. What had moved him to invite Yanek to his house

for dinner—and indeed how he’d forgotten the damned invitation—

he didn’t know. But he regretted it. He focused on his food—a fine tar-

kin stew, even if he did say so himself—and tried to make interested

noises at all the appropriate moments while Yanek prattled on.

Not that it would’ve mattered if he hadn’t. Yanek loved nothing

more than the sound of his own voice. The elf was easily the most

vain, self-centered, and singularly annoying person Faldor had ever

had the misfortune to meet. His constant bids for Faldor’s attention

and attempts to win himself a place in Faldor’s bed didn’t endear him

to the healer, either. Still, bad company was better than none on a

lonely night like this. Especially after the forest earlier.

“What happened in the forest today?” Yanek asked, as if reading

his mind.

Faldor glanced up at him. “Nothing.”

DC Juris

“That’s not what Sir Nomah said. I heard he and the men had to

pluck you from the midst of the trees.” Yanek made a grabbing ges-

ture with his right hand and laughed.

“No one plucked me from anywhere,” Faldor growled. “Nothing

happened.”

“What drove you in there in the first place?”

Faldor met the elf’s gaze, raised his eyebrow. “Why does it mat-

ter?”

Yanek shrugged and lifted a forkful of dinner to his mouth. He

chewed and swallowed, then shrugged again. “One of the men said

he thought he heard you call Meldrick’s name.”

Faldor glared, irrationally angry. Yanek had dared to speak his

lover’s name. “Meldrick is dead. Why would I call out his name?”

“You tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” He cut into a piece of meat and stabbed

it up.

“If you suspect—”

“Drop it.”

Yanek stared, mouth agape, for several seconds, then pursed his

lips together into a thin line. “His body was never found,” he said

quietly. “There are prison camps.”

Faldor looked up at him. “What do you know of the camps?”

Ogre camps were rumored to exist, but no one had ever found one.

Yanek paled and shook his head, fumbling with his utensils.

“Nothing. Nothing more than anyone else does.”

How true the elf’s words were, Faldor didn’t know. He suspected,

though, that Yanek had more knowledge than was apparent. Was it

possible Yanek had been withholding information from him all these

years? Faldor sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “Noth-

ing more than anyone else, hmm? That’s good to know. I’d hate to

learn a trusted comrade had kept the secret of the king’s own favored

knight’s whereabouts to himself. For three years. Such would not sit

well with his majesty.”

Yanek coughed and took a sip of his drink. He looked down into

his goblet, swirling its contents around, and smiled. His gaze slid back

to Faldor. “As you say. It’s good to know.”

Anger wrapped around Faldor’s heart and squeezed tight, mak-

ing his breath a wheezing gasp. He’d never suspected Yanek. Never

questioned Yanek. But if there was one thing he’d learned about elves,

he’d learned they were crafty, calculating creatures, with access to

Betrayed

an underground network of information that crossed the width and

breadth of all of Anagon. Elfin spies were everywhere. Mayhaps even

in prison camps? “What do you know?” he managed.

Yanek reached across the table and laid a hand on Faldor’s arm.

“Gods, man, get hold of yourself. I know nothing. I simply hazarded a

guess. The men said you’d called Meldrick’s name. Since no body was

found, and word speaks of prison camps...” He shrugged. “Mayhaps

it’s not outside the realm of possibility. But honestly, I’m stunned

you’d think such a thing of me. That I’d keep such precious knowl-

edge from you.” He shook his head and looked away.

Faldor glanced down at the hand on his arm and back up at Yanek.

The elf sat with slumped shoulders, face even paler than normal, if

that were possible. He did appear contrite. Faldor let out a frustrated

sigh and stood, pulling his arm away from the elf’s all-too-intimate

grasp. “You should go.”

The sound of wood scraping on wood filled the air as Yanek

pushed his chair back and stood as well. He moved to Faldor, his light

footsteps making no noise. He slid his arms around Faldor and pulled

Faldor back against his chest. “I had no intention of upsetting you.”

Yanek nuzzled Faldor’s ear.

Faldor closed his eyes and fought against the urge to turn into

those arms and lose himself in the comfort Yanek offered. Comfort

without love, he reminded himself, at least on his side. Though he

didn’t doubt a part of Yanek’s motivation, he didn’t trust it entire-

ly, either. Faldor pushed the elf’s hands away and stepped free. He

turned to face Yanek. “I’m not upset. Simply tired.”

“Mayhaps I could help you get to sleep.” Yanek rested his hands

on Faldor’s shoulders and squeezed.

“Nay. I thank you for the offer.”

Yanek scowled and pulled his hands back, turned away, and

stalked to the table. He sat down heavily, picked up his fork to re-

sume his meal. “Will that always be your answer? Thank you but nay?

I grow tired of it.”

Faldor smiled as sweetly as he could, hoping to mask the distaste

knotting his guts. “Then mayhaps you should stop asking the ques-

tion.”

Yanek threw his fork down with a snarl and surged to his feet.

Chest heaving, he shook his head and turned with a flourish toward

the door.

DC Juris

Faldor jumped as it slammed shut behind the elf, rattling the win-

dow next to it. He sighed and closed his eyes, leaned back against the

sink, shoulders shaking with the effort to control the churning emo-

tions inside him. A choked sob escaped his lips, and he bit down on

his tongue to keep any more at bay.

***

Later that night, as he did every night, Faldor pulled the small

wooden box out of the wardrobe and placed it reverently in the mid-

dle of the bed. He knelt at the bedside and began to carefully sort

through the box’s contents: letters, poems, notes, cards, a bundle of

dried flowers, souvenirs from trips, a bottle of blue Phrun sand, and

two locks of different colored hair, braided together with a piece of

leather. He lovingly stroked and examined each thing; he opened and

read every piece of parchment, except the one he left for last. When

he had reached the final letter, Faldor sat and put his back against

the side of the bed. He unfolded the letter slowly, drawing in a shaky

breath as he began to read.

My dearest Faldor,

By the time you read this, we will have crested the North Hill and

advanced to ogre-held territory and will be well on our way to end-

ing this butchery. I think of you daily and nightly. I miss the warmth

of your body next to mine on these cold nights. I can scarcely wait to

hold you close, slide my hands down your body, grip the cheeks of your

roundness, and knead your flesh, feel you tremble against me. I long to

taste your manhood, feel it hard and hot along my tongue as you invade

my mouth. I yearn to slide my own manhood inside you, shudder with

my own pleasure as your tight tunnel closes around me and pulls me

home. To hear you call my name, to watch you writhe with the feelings

I give you, to rock our bodies together as we soar as one. My Faldor, my

love, my only. Until we meet again, my soul kisses yours.

Faldor reached into his breeches and took his cock in hand. He

thrust his hips up, seeking more as sweet pleasure radiated out from

his fingers wrapped tight. Bone-liquefying heat spread through him

with each pump, pushing him closer and closer. He imagined Mel-

drick nibbling his earlobe, whispering I love you.

“Meldrick!” Faldor cried out, tears streaming down his cheeks.

One, two, three more strokes, and the hot stream of his release coated

Betrayed

his hand. Panting, he fell back against the bed with a sob. How was

it possible to still be so fiercely in love with a dead man after all this

time?

He got to his feet, gritted his teeth against the cold as he groaned.

His gaze flicked to the window, eyes narrowed. He could go to a

whore—pay for the comfort he so desperately craved. Faldor flinched.

He almost considered it. Almost. But meaningless sex without love

was not something he could stomach. He was lost without Meldrick,

adrift in a tumultuous sea of raging emotions with no paddle, no

anchor, and no sight of land. After over two years alone, Faldor still

missed Meldrick. Still needed Meldrick.

Faldor washed his hands in the ewer on the other side of the room

and began the process of placing the items back into the box. He slid

his breeches off, tossed them in a heap onto the floor, and donned his

robe. He headed downstairs to the small kitchen, rummaged through

one of the cabinets, searching for something—anything—to take his

mind off his grief. He moved to another cabinet, where he kept his po-

tions and balms and other healing supplies. He let his gaze rove over

the assorted bottles, each size and color denoting a different elixir. He

could take one of them—or a mix of several for that matter—and end

his suffering permanently. As a healer, he could even make the pro-

cess completely painless.

Instead, dejected, he rambled around the creaky old house for a

few hours, sweeping the floor and wiping down counters in the kitch-

en, dusting off shelves and rearranging furniture in the sitting room,

until finally there was simply nothing left to do. Nothing but climb the

stairs and retreat to his chamber. Reluctant to re-begin the night, he

returned to the kitchen and brewed himself a mug of strong, dark tea.

Faldor sighed and lowered himself into a chair at the kitchen table

with a groan, raised the steaming liquid to his lips. At today’s hunt, Sir

Nomah had told him to get a pet for company, some living obligation

to fill his time, since he had no desire to share his life with another

person. A bird had been the suggestion, and mayhaps Nomah had

been right.

Faldor made a mental note to visit the town pet emporium on his

next supply run. He would get a small bird—a pretty, colorful thing.

Mayhaps one of those kinds that talked. He’d been told they were in-

telligent creatures, and many could even learn to speak complex sen-

tences. Might be nice to finally hear a voice other than his own around

the house. Engrossed in his thoughts, he barely heard the knock at

DC Juris

the door. Faldor went to the door—muttering to himself about the

indecency of after-hours visitors—and opened it, expecting one of the

knights or a fellow healer in need of assistance. He peered narrow-

eyed at the man on his front step. “Can I help you?”

“Don’t you recognize me?” asked a croaking voice.

Faldor’s breathing became labored and shallow; his heart pound-

ed slowly and loudly, and he feared it would shudder to a stop at

any moment. His hands went numb; the mug slipped from his grasp

and crashed to the floor. It surely must have made quite the sound,

but he didn’t hear it. The only thing he heard was that voice echoing

in his head. Echoing from the grave. Faldor stepped forward, ever so

slowly, as his feet and legs seemed to have forgotten how to perform

the maneuver.

Towering tall enough to fill the doorway with his bulk, the man

held out a hand. His long hair—raven-black locks streaked with sil-

ver—was a scraggly, dirty mess, held back from his face by a leather

thong, the tips of which were just visible on either side of his head. A

single, jagged scar ran from the corner of his left eye down to his heav-

ily bearded jaw. Set in a face that held a sickly pallor, bloodshot hazel

eyes ringed with dark circles gazed out from above starkly gaunt, hol-

low cheekbones and thin lips that Faldor knew had once been full and

lush. He looked as if he had wrestled himself from the claws of a de-

mon, but he was alive. Impossibly alive. Meldrick DeBonn was alive!

Faldor closed his eyes briefly, flashes of the past assaulting him—

he remembered pushing through the gathering crowd to the court-

yard where the war dead had been laid out. He remembered pacing

up and down the growing rows of bodies, glancing up every time

to keep track of the line of soldiers still filtering in. Meldrick had

not been among them, and he hadn’t been on the ground. Meldrick

had fallen—his men had seen it, been certain of it. And yet... Yanek’s

words from earlier came back to him. His body was never found. There

are prison camps.

“Fal?”

Faldor snapped his eyes open. His lips moved, his throat worked,

but he could bring forth no sound. At last, just a whisper. “Am I mad?

Are you a figment?”

Meldrick shook his head.

“Then I’m dreaming.”

“Nay, I’m real.”

Betrayed

“Are you sure?” Faldor gaped at Meldrick, unable to believe his

dream had come true. “Because I have dreamed of this...you standing

just there...having come from out of nowhere.”

“May I come in?” Meldrick shifted his weight and gestured to the

door.

“Of course you can.” Faldor stepped back to allow Meldrick in-

side. He fisted his hands at his sides and dug his thumbnails into his

forefingers in an attempt to quell the nervous energy making his heart

pound.

Meldrick entered, looking around as though trying to recall if he

had seen the place before or not. Faldor closed the door behind him,

and Meldrick jumped at the sound.

Faldor moved toward Meldrick but hesitated, not sure how to be-

gin. His hands trembled, butterflies swarmed his stomach. He reached

out and touched Meldrick’s wrist gingerly, cautiously, afraid that his

mind might be tricking him, and Meldrick might dissolve into thin air.

Nevertheless, when his fingers made contact, he found Meldrick—

strong, solid Meldrick. “You’re alive.”

“I’m alive.” His doubtful tone belied his words.

Faldor circled him, looking him up and down. Arms and legs cov-

ered in mud—and various other things, judging by the smell—Mel-

drick was filthy. He was wet, his clothing barely existent, his exposed

skin burned dark brown from the sun. He was thin; clearly he hadn’t

been eating properly. “You look...”

“Horrid, I know.” Meldrick hung his head.

“You look thin.” Yet even in this state, Meldrick was a sight for

sore eyes—the most beautiful thing Faldor had ever beheld. Faldor

yearned for more than just a fleeting touch. His cock stiffened, having

apparently decided that there was no need for any more discussion.

He moved closer still, but Meldrick stepped back, hands held up be-

tween them.

“May I clean up?” He gave a lopsided, sheepish smile that seemed

disarming, but Faldor recognized it as a warning.

A surge of heat flooded Faldor’s neck and cheeks. How could he

think such things at a time like this? “I’m sorry. I’ll show you—”

“I know the way.”

“Right. Of course you do.” Meldrick moved past Faldor, headed

toward the stairs, and Faldor fought off the urge to grab him and pull

him close. “You’ll find your things where you left them.”

Meldrick stopped and turned toward him slowly. “Oh?”

DC Juris

“Did you expect anything different?”

He shrugged, but there was nothing nonchalant about the tense

way he stood there, back straight, jaw clenched. “I feared you’d have

moved on.”

Faldor didn’t respond to the statement—didn’t trust himself not

to launch into a tirade about what a ridiculous notion that was. “Do

you want help?”

“I...” Meldrick frowned. “It’s bad.”

“I’m a healer,” Faldor reminded. “I can take it.”

He looked Faldor up and down then, as if measuring Faldor’s

worth, before his eyes came to rest thoughtfully on Faldor’s face. An

air of worried tension surrounded him, and he seemed to be grap-

pling with some inner dilemma. At length, he nodded.

Chapter Three

Faldor moved to the large iron bathtub and turned the faucets on,

waiting for the water to slowly make its way through the long, wind-

ing pipes.

“This is new.” Meldrick gestured to the waterworks. He walked

around the tub, leaned down stiffly to scrutinize the setup.

“We have the dwarves to thank. Blex set everything up about a

year after...well, a year or so ago.” Faldor smiled at the memory of

the portly little dwarf waddling around the washroom, cursing up a

storm. “It’s fed from a hot spring,” he explained as he splashed his

hand in the flow, still amazed after all this time at the concept of hot

running water. “I’d say it’s ready for you.”

The rustling of clothing announced Meldrick’s nakedness. Faldor

turned and fought down the rush of bile that filled his throat. Dozens

of scars—so many they overlapped themselves—covered Meldrick’s

chest beneath a thick mat of dark curls. Most wide and long—obvi-

ously from a strap—others thin and short—those Faldor deemed from

DC Juris

a whip—the scars crisscrossed every inch of his body. Some still held

a pinkish hue, but the rest were faded almost white, a telltale sign of

their age. There were cuts from knives, marks resembling links of a

chain, along with tooth marks, and Faldor couldn’t say for certain the

bites were all from non-human sources.

Meldrick turned his back to Faldor, and the scars were there as

well. One particularly nasty-looking one ran from the top of his right

shoulder, down to below his waist, and measured nearly half the

width of his back.

“Oh, Meldrick, I—”

“Please. Don’t. Say. You’re. Sorry.” He forced the words out

through clenched teeth.

Questions flooded Faldor’s mind. Who had done this to Mel-

drick? What lesson had these scars been meant to teach? Faldor shook

his head. “Do they hurt?” he asked quietly.

Meldrick chuckled. “Only my spirit every now and then.”

“Wh—” Faldor cleared his throat. “Where have you been?” He

looked away, pretended to be surveying the soap.

There was the slightest quiver in Meldrick’s voice when he spoke

again. “A prison camp. They captured us at the North Hill.”

“Are there others?”

Meldrick shook his head. “There were sixteen of us in the begin-

ning. But the rest are gone. There’s just me.” He clenched his hands

into fists at his sides.

Faldor picked up a bar of soap and flipped it over and over. He

took a harsh breath and gestured to the tub. Meldrick held on to Fal-

dor’s arm as he stepped into the tub and sat slowly, hissing as the

water made contact with his flesh.

Faldor plucked a soft sponge from a nearby shelf, paused as he

caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror hanging beside it,

frowning at the wrinkle of his forehead and the wide, glazed look of

his eyes. No time for uncertainties. Meldrick needed him.

He knelt at the side of the tub, dipped the sponge into the water,

and ran it gently over Meldrick’s torn and battered flesh, tears welling

in his eyes. He forced his mind to other thoughts: the mental list he’d

been keeping for his next market run, how many days were left until

Sir Nomah’s wife gave birth, how much he should charge old lady

Uliana the next time he made a homebound visit to her. But nothing

kept him occupied; nothing took his focus away from the evidence of

brutality under his trembling hands.

Betrayed

Faldor swallowed hard and took a deep breath, mentally telling

himself he’d seen things like this a hundred times over. As a battle-

field healer, he’d treated all sorts of wounds, from minor scrapes and

scratches to missing limbs. None of them, though, had been inflicted

with such obvious purpose. Hacking cuts and jagged slices were the

symbols of war, and could be found on any knight. But precise, even

scars such as Meldrick’s were the symbols of hatred.

“Is it too much to bear?” Meldrick asked, tone flat and defeated,

as if he had already decided the answer.

Faldor shook his head. “Nay,” he lied. “How many times do I

have to remind you of my profession?”

Meldrick chuckled. “You don’t. But mayhaps I don’t have to

remind you of how well I know you.” He glanced up at Faldor but

quickly looked away. “Or knew you, at a least.”

“Know is the correct word. I haven’t changed.”

“I have,” Meldrick whispered.

“Your body will heal with the right care.” Faldor wrung the

sponge out and let the water flow down Meldrick’s back.

“It’s not my body that concerns me.”

“Your mind will heal, as well.” Though Faldor doubted his own

words. He knew such things were possible—he’d seen men come back

from the brink of madness but not under the scope of his abilities.

Faldor was a physical healer—he dealt in wounds and diseases, balms

and potions. Tangible things. Not the ethereal trappings of the mind.

But he owed Meldrick the effort. Owed them both.

“Are you so certain?”

Faldor nodded. “With the right care,” he repeated. He sat back on

his heels and studied his lover. “Tell me.”

Meldrick’s eyes widened, and he bit his lower lip. He looked

around the room, gaze settling on the window behind Faldor as if

contemplating which would be easier—jumping out, or talking. He

sighed. “When we’d first been captured, we were sent to dark rooms,

not large enough to lie down in. They kept us there for days, weeks,

mayhaps. Seemed I would die there, alone in the quiet dark. Odd

thing about silence; if you sit in it long enough, it becomes audible.

It burns your ears and keeps you awake at night. Not that sleep came

easily. But the silence can make you mad. Some men forgot how to

speak...” He trailed off, as if the very memory had indeed robbed him

of the ability.

DC Juris

Faldor took Meldrick’s right hand, touched the scar there. The

heartless bastards had even tried to burn away Meldrick’s tattoo.

Meldrick took a deep breath. He raised his head, tears standing in

his eyes. “I longed for you, so badly. I ached with it. Just to see you—

to know you lived. And yet, at times I couldn’t remember anything

about who I’d been before the prison, where I’d come from, or how

I’d gotten there. I felt I had been someone of importance; I had been

part of something. And I had been happy. I would wake in the dark

from night terrors, but sometimes I would dream of blue-gray eyes,

the color of the coldest skies in winter.”

His gaze met Faldor’s, and Faldor stifled an involuntary gasp at

the intensity of fear and longing in the depths of Meldrick’s eyes.

“And I knew that meant something,” Meldrick whispered. “I

knew that meant I’d been yours. And all I wanted was for the dreaded

darkness, the hateful blackness, to lift.”

Meldrick fell silent for a time, and Faldor knew that a part of him

was back in the prison, replaying the memories. Faldor squeezed his

hand, and he finally acknowledged the touch, pulling Faldor’s hand

to his lips and kissing the back. “It’s a fearsome hard thing to accept—

that I survived. There’s no reason why I lived when others didn’t. I

was no stronger or healthier, no wiser or more moral.”

“There must’ve been some difference, else you’d not be here,” Fal-

dor told him. “You are a force to be reckoned with, my love.”

Meldrick chuckled bitterly. “I’m not as strong as you give me

credit for.”

“Aren’t you? A lesser man would have died.” Faldor had heard

of this type of emotional response to such situations—where the sur-

vivors suffered a kind of misplaced guilt for living—and he doubted

Meldrick would reconcile easily.

“What were you told when I”—he cleared his throat and shifted

his gaze down to his lap—”didn’t return?”

“That you had died.” Faldor looked away, blinking rapidly to dis-

miss the tears that rose at the memory. “The men all said they saw

you fall.”

“I never meant to leave you alone.”

“You didn’t do it on purpose.” Faldor leaned forward and re-

sumed the bath, scrubbed gently at the back of Meldrick’s neck with

the sponge.

“Nay, but it hurt all the same, didn’t it? I’d say I’m sorry, but I

doubt it would do any good.”

Betrayed

Faldor cupped his cheek. “Mayhaps the point isn’t what it does,

but the sentiment behind it.” There was a far easier way for them to

share what Meldrick had been through, one that didn’t involve put-

ting Meldrick through an emotional wringer. “I can see. If you let

me.” Faldor reached for him, but Meldrick cringed away.

“There are things that I’m not proud of. Things you won’t under-

stand.”

“I understand that you’ve come back to me. That is all I need.”

Faldor pressed his fingertips to Meldrick’s temples and closed his

eyes. He chanted softly, the words of the spell tumbling from his lips

with practiced ease. His nostrils filled with the horrific, fetid stink of

death and decay, of rotting flesh, of wounds that wouldn’t heal. His

mind filled with images: men starved, beaten, whipped, caged, and

put on public display, the blood still dripping from their wounds.

Guards spit on them, threw things at them, laughed as the men cov-

ered their heads and hunkered down. He saw Meldrick bound to a

thick wooden beam, blood trickling down his back from several lash

marks. Meldrick, beaten, weak, hands tied, bent over at the waist, the

ogre guards behind him, smiling lustily.

And then Faldor understood Meldrick’s warning about what he

would see—as the Meldrick in his vision looked up and grinned. Fal-

dor sucked in a breath in shock as the vision continued and changed:

Meldrick dragged from his cage to another man’s, forced to beat and

rape his fellow captives lest they both be killed. That same image

played out over and over, and there again in the midst of it, from time

to time, lurked Meldrick’s grin. Faldor pulled his hands away and

shook his head hard to dispel the images.

“I can explain,” Meldrick whispered.

“Can you?” Faldor struggled to keep the accusation from his tone.

He looked down quickly and heaved a sigh. “Nay. I suppose I

can’t.”

Faldor turned away, stood and paced to the window. He gazed

out into the night at the woods and streams where he had spent his

youth. Moonlight glinted off Castle Maganuld’s spires far in the dis-

tance. How could a man be expected to handle all of this? His lover

was gone. He had struggled to accept that, struggled to make his life

work again, forced his heart to feel beyond the grief. And then...Mel-

drick was back. Wasn’t he?

It made sense to him in his rational mind that Meldrick had had

no choice in leaving him. But a part of him hated Meldrick for it. Hat-

DC Juris

ed Meldrick for joining the knighthood in the first place and for deny-

ing him that one last chance to say good-bye. And horribly, another

part of him hated Meldrick for returning. That part of him didn’t care

what state Meldrick was in, how hard healing would be for Meldrick.

Or even—the gods forgive him—what Meldrick had endured. That

part of him just wanted a normal life without chaos and pain, wanted

to be whole again. The thoughts brought bile to the back of his throat

and a sheen of cold sweat to his palms. What kind of despicable man

had he become? “Forgive me,” he whispered.

“Remember how I said I wanted the darkness to end? Well, it did.

They moved us to cages. That’s when the worst began. I fought them

at first,” Meldrick whispered. “In the early days, the guards would

force themselves on us. That ended when Sir Rowan bit one of their

ears off.” He paused for a macabre chuckle. “For me, it only occurred

on nights when I’d been beaten during the day. I was too weak to fend

them off and they knew it. They are cowards. The bastards wouldn’t

come after me on even terms. Most of them were wiry little men. I

could’ve taken them had I been healthier. I did fight with them the

first few times. One of the other prisoners suggested that I try and

enjoy it, go along with it. So, I tried that. I tried to find some pleasure

or comfort, anything, in it. I even conjured up an image of you.”

Faldor’s guts twisted at the idea of being in Meldrick’s thoughts

during a torture session, and a shiver ran up his spine. “Did that

work?”

“Nay.” Meldrick shook his head. He picked up the sponge and

squeezed, dipped it back in the water and wrung it out again, repeat-

ed the process half a dozen times. He seemed mesmerized by the ac-

tion, until he spoke again. “One day, General Vintik came to me with

a proposal. He’d grown bored with tormenting the men himself. He

wanted me to do it. At first, I refused. Vintik said he would kill them,

but I didn’t believe him. I don’t know why I didn’t. Vintik was a sick,

sadistic bastard. He killed the first—slit the first man’s throat. Left

him there to bleed to death while everyone watched. The knight was

from a different town. I didn’t know his name. I can’t even put his

memory to rest for his family.”

Meldrick hung his head. “After that I accepted. I was angry and

hopeless, and it turned my stomach to do it, but I suppose a part of me

thought, if my comrades had to be mistreated, mayhaps if I was the

one to do it, I could soften the blow. Make it more bearable for them.”

Betrayed

Faldor finally returned to the tub. He pried the sponge from Mel-

drick’s hands and resumed his ministrations. “But you didn’t, did

you? Make it bearable?”

“In the beginning, I did. But as the days went by, the angrier I

grew.” Meldrick shook his head. “At times I—I enjoyed it.”

Heavy silence stretched out between them, and Faldor could

sense Meldrick mentally and emotionally withdrawing from him.

Meldrick turned his head away, stared at something on the other side

of the room. Faldor tried his best to hide his feelings—disgust at what

Meldrick had done, and horror at his own inability to have stopped it.

King Rychal had sent out search parties for the missing knights;

men had scoured the countryside to no avail. But Faldor knew they

could have done more, knew he could have done more. Should have.

He should have moved mountains, should have walked to the ends

of the lands and found Meldrick himself. And look what had hap-

pened because he hadn’t. “I would’ve given up my life to spare you

this pain. Please know that,” he whispered pleadingly.

“I know.” Meldrick raised a wet hand and stroked Faldor’s hair.

“I swear to you, I know.”

The sizzle of lust that ran through Faldor at Meldrick’s touch

left him momentarily breathless and dazed. He grunted and pushed

away, reaching for more soap. “King Rychal will want to see you,” he

murmured.

“I’ll go to the castle tomorrow.” Meldrick leaned back, rested his

head on the edge of the tub, and let out a long, low groan as Faldor

began to work on his chest and belly.

“By the gods, but you’re thin.”

“There wasn’t much in the way of food.”

“I suppose not.” They finished the bath in silence, Meldrick with

his eyes closed, wincing when Faldor touched a particularly sensitive

or sore spot, and Faldor wondering how either of them would come

to grips with the past two years.

***

Dressed in his robe, Meldrick walked down the hall to the bed-

chamber, his aching body protesting every step. Though he was cer-

tainly relieved to finally be home, in truth only fear propelled him

forward. He didn’t know which he feared more—Faldor not wanting

him or Faldor wanting him.

DC Juris

So much had happened to them both. Agony and confusion, lone-

liness and depression. From the prison camp to living in the woods,

Meldrick had never known such pain, such utter emptiness. He’d

never thought of himself as incomplete, lost, and humble. Until now.

To his surprise, Faldor hadn’t asked him how he had escaped. But

it was only a matter of time before he would have to face questions

he didn’t want to answer. Before Faldor put two and two together,

questioned the fact Meldrick’s scars were healed, questioned why an

enemy would just let a prisoner go. He hated lying to Faldor, even if

they were only lies of omission, but he had to keep the truth a secret

at all costs. If Faldor were to find out...

Meldrick’s palms began to sweat as he neared the bedchamber,

and for a moment, he regretted going home. He flung the door open,

took several paces into the room, and bent at the waist, hands on his

thighs, fighting against the onslaught of nausea. Though he knew he

was back in his home, his mind convinced him that if he turned now,

he would find the prison and the guards there behind him.

A terrifying feeling of a presence loomed around him. His mind’s

eye began to call forth images from his memories in the prison camp.

Whispered voices swirled inside his head—none of them distinct

enough to clearly make out. His hands began to shake, his heart raced.

His breathing became harsh, shuddering gasps. What had started as

an almost faint buzzing in his ears now formed into words and voices.

Joined by agonized screams and pleas for mercy, they grew louder by

the minute. Panic—more than that: sheer terror—claimed him, and he

stumbled to his knees, rocking back and forth, hands clawing at his

ears.

Faldor knelt at once and grabbed for Meldrick’s wrists, securing

them so he couldn’t harm himself.

“Make them be quiet!” Meldrick demanded. In his mind, he was

no longer at home on the floor. He was in a cage. He could feel the

metal biting into his flesh as he pressed back against it, could feel the

heavy drops of rain splashing down onto him from above. And he

could see—quite clearly—the guards approaching him.

“Meldrick, what’s wrong?” Faldor asked. He slid his arm around

Meldrick’s waist.

“He’s here!”

“No one’s here besides me,” Faldor assured.

Betrayed

“Pri—prison.” Meldrick’s voice shook so that he could barely

speak. “I can’t go back there!” he wailed hysterically. “I can’t go back.”

He clutched at Faldor’s robe. “Please don’t send me back!”

“You’re not going back, I swear it.” Faldor moved, and Meldrick

grabbed for him, panicked.

“Don’t leave me!”

“I’m not leaving you.” Sitting down on the floor, Faldor put his

arms around Meldrick’s shoulders and held him close. “I won’t leave

you,” he whispered, stroking Meldrick’s hair. “I’m still here. Look at

me, Mel,” he urged.

Instinct made Meldrick fight back at first; he clawed at Faldor’s

arms in an attempt to get away. He closed his eyes tightly, not want-

ing to see his surroundings any longer.

Faldor shook him hard. “Meldrick, trust me and open your eyes!”

Meldrick opened his eyes and locked his gaze with Faldor’s. He

slowly relaxed; his breathing became regular and calm. After a mo-

ment, Meldrick leaned forward and laid his head on Faldor’s shoul-

der. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Faldor slid his hands into Meldrick’s hair, massaged the base of

Meldrick’s neck. “You’re welcome. It’s all right, truly.” Faldor rubbed

a hand down Meldrick’s back.

Meldrick pushed away and covered his face with his hands. “I’m

sorry.”

“Meldrick, really it’s fine.”

Faldor reached out, but Meldrick flinched back, not wanting the

contact.

“It’s more than fine,” Faldor continued. “It’s normal.”

“Nay, it’s not,” Meldrick growled. His jailers had often speculated

that madness gripped him. The thought they might have been correct

now occurred to him. Not madness in the sense of not being able to

tell right from wrong but in the sense of not being able to control his

feelings and emotions. He had heard voices ever since he’d left the

prison—voices of his fallen comrades, of his captors—and with them

confusion and fury swirled inside him. He could think of nothing oth-

er than lashing out when they whispered in his head.

Faldor loved him; he knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt. That

love would keep Faldor with him, and that love would place Faldor

in harm’s way. If Faldor tried to rein Meldrick in and couldn’t, Mel-

drick would surely hurt him. Or worse. Meldrick shook his head. It

wasn’t fair to ask such a thing of the healer, to take such advantage

DC Juris

of Faldor’s love. “I’m not the same as I was before. I’m different.” He

stood abruptly and began to pace, clenching and unclenching his fists

in agitation. “I should go.”

Faldor peered up at him, eyes owlish. “Where would you go, if

you left here?”

Meldrick shrugged. “Mayhaps back to the woods. There is a cer-

tain ease to life there.”

“Is there no ease to us?” Faldor asked, his voice hushed.

Meldrick ignored the question. “You deserve better than caring

for a madman. One day, you’ll realize that.”

“And you think I’ll leave you?” Faldor frowned.

“Nay, you would stay.” Meldrick shook his head. “Out of pity

and obligation, and that is a far more frightening prospect than losing

you.”

“If I stay with you, I stay for love. And because this is my home as

much as it is yours. You’ve only just arrived, my love.” Faldor’s gaze

followed him around the small room. “We’ll get through it, one step

at a time.”

“And you’re forced to play nursemaid to me.” Panic surfaced

again. What had Meldrick been thinking, coming back here, and ex-

pecting things to be normal and commonplace? What had he been

thinking, foisting these problems off on the man he loved?

“I’m not being forced. And in any case, whether or not you live

here affects my life. If nothing else, logic dictates I should have a say

in the matter, aye?” Faldor folded his hands in his lap and quirked an

eyebrow.

Logic. Faldor’s favorite tool, and one he wielded expertly when

he had to. But there was no logic to be had in this situation, was there?

Logically, they shouldn’t even be having this conversation. Logically

Meldrick should be dead and Faldor moving past his grieving. Al-

though the notion did indeed pain him, Meldrick had half-hoped Fal-

dor might have found someone new. He was not the man Faldor had

fallen in love with—he had been skewed from that path. What if he

couldn’t find his way back to it? He shook his head several times to

clear the clouds of confusion rolling in.

Faldor rose and placed his hands on either side of Meldrick’s face.

“Stay with me.” He rubbed Meldrick’s neck with both hands. “Stay in

the here and now.”

Meldrick grabbed hold of Faldor’s forearms, dug his nails in as

tremors started to overtake him again.

Betrayed

“Fight it, Mel. Fight.” Faldor’s words were quiet but spoken with

a heavy tone that demanded Meldrick’s attention. Faldor caressed

Meldrick’s cheeks with his thumbs in slow, soft strokes.

He stared intently into Faldor’s eyes until the fit broke. Meldrick

nodded. He loosened his grip on Faldor and smiled crookedly.

“There you are,” Faldor whispered. “There’s my man.” Meldrick

blushed and looked down, but Faldor tipped his head back up. “Don’t

hide it. I love your smiles.” He stroked Meldrick’s cheeks with his

thumbs again. “Come to bed.”

Meldrick followed to Faldor’s bed—their bed, he reminded him-

self. He pulled the covers back and slid in, letting out a groan. So long

since he’d felt softness of any kind, and it seemed almost wrong some-

how. Like something he didn’t deserve anymore. He stretched care-

fully; though the bath had done much to relax his muscles, the fit of

panic had equally done much to reverse that progress.

Faldor climbed into bed and lay facing Meldrick. “How does it

feel to lie in a bed?”

“Odd. I feel lost,” Meldrick whispered. “As if I don’t truly belong

anywhere.”

“Do you not feel welcome here?”

Meldrick nodded. “I do. I just...I don’t know what is expected of

me.”

“I don’t expect anything.” Faldor shrugged and smiled that dis-

arming smile of his.

“I don’t just mean here. I mean in the world. What am I supposed

to do? I don’t know what I’m good for now. I’m not fit for the knight-

hood anymore.” Not after what he had done.

“Mayhaps the point is to figure that out as you go,” Faldor of-

fered. “You lived through so much, it’s no wonder that life is strange

to you. It’s amazing that you came out of prison alive, but I’m very

glad you did.” He slid closer, laid his arm gently across Meldrick’s

waist.

But the touch only made Meldrick more self-conscious, only

brought more doubts about himself swirling to the surface.

Chapter Four

Meldrick awoke the next morning, confused and bleary. Stiff

armed and legged, his body seemed twice as heavy as it should be,

as if it were weighed down with stones. He sat up slowly, shutting

his eyes tight against the spinning of the room. He had no idea where

he was, but wherever it was, he did have the uncanny suspicion that

he wasn’t supposed to be there. He wasn’t supposed to be anywhere.

He opened his eyes cautiously and looked around, understanding

dawning. He was in his bed, in his chamber, at home. The events of

last night bubbled to the surface of his memory. He was back. Mel-

drick frowned and stared at the far wall for a long, long time, trying

to absorb the word. Back.

He looked to his right, gazing at Faldor’s slumbering form, over-

whelmed by a flood of emotions, tears threatening. Faldor lay on his

stomach, arms wrapped around a pillow that no longer cushioned his

head, the white flesh of his ass peaking out from under one side of the

Betrayed

blanket. Faldor looked so delicate, so fragile, and Meldrick’s fingers

itched to touch him.

Meldrick shook his head. He eased from the bed as carefully and

quietly as he could, tiptoed to the wardrobe, and pulled the door open

slowly. Jumping at the loud creak that resonated through the room,

he glanced back to see if Faldor had heard, but the healer hadn’t even

moved. Meldrick pulled a pair of breeches and a tunic out and held

them up, frowning. He had lost so much weight; he doubted if the

clothing would still fit.

He slid the breeches on, happy that, even if his waist weren’t as

large as it once had been, his hip bones made up for the difference.

The breeches hung loosely but would stay up. He pulled the tunic

over his head and held his arms out to survey the saggy cloth hang-

ing from his body. Well, he was covered, and that was more than he’d

been able to say in a long time.

Meldrick turned and took another long look at Faldor. He couldn’t

deny that lust raged in him just looking at the other man. Their rela-

tionship had always been a solid one, but also always fiery and pas-

sionate. Rarely had a night gone by when they hadn’t made slow,

sweet love or ended up in hours of hard, hot rutting like animals. Life

had been so simple and sweet back then.

In the mornings, they would lie together and discuss plans for the

day. They would wash together, dress, and brush each other’s hair.

Meldrick would make breakfast because Faldor hated to cook. They

never talked much over breakfast, just smiled at each other, touched

hands every now and again.

In the evenings, they would sit on the bench out by the lake. Mel-

drick would lay with his head in Faldor’s lap, and Faldor would read

to him. Poetry, fables, sometimes books of a more serious nature. And

then there were the times when they would sit together at night under

the stars, in the forest. Sometimes they would speak of their troubles;

sometimes they didn’t need to. But always they were there for each

other, in whatever way the other needed. Some nights, they’d make

love out there, in the wide-open wild of the night. What they’d had

was magical.

Meldrick sighed. What did they have now? He wasn’t sure. He

knew what he wanted—for things to go back to normal, back to the

way they were before the war and his imprisonment. Faldor, at least,

deserved that. But Meldrick wasn’t sure if he could go back to normal.

War had changed him. Torture had changed him. He wasn’t the man

DC Juris

Faldor had fallen in love with anymore. He was harder now, rougher,

less concerned with the cares of others, and far more focused on do-

ing what he had to for his own gain. Even his core beliefs had been

shaken.

Meldrick had joined the knighthood with his eyes wide open. He

had known that one day a sacrifice would be asked of him, as it had

been of his father and grandfather before him. He loved the land he

came from: the cities, the towns, the hills and glades, the mountains

and streams. He was as much a patriot now as he had been when he

had departed the castle and headed into battle. Nevertheless, at this

moment, a part of him wished he had been left behind. He would

never be a knight again, never place his life in service to another. Nev-

er give his life for another. Mayhaps not even Faldor. And he didn’t

know if who he had become was a man Faldor could still love. Or

should still love.

“Mel?” Faldor had awoken without Meldrick noticing, had sat up

in bed, blankets clutched around himself, looking at Meldrick with

worry, long, thick hair cascading around his head and over his shoul-

ders in waves of liquid gold, fluffy white nightshirt askew, revealing

one pale shoulder. By the gods, but Faldor was ravishing!

Meldrick moved without even realizing his steps. He crawled

onto the bed and straddled Faldor. Without hesitation, he grabbed

Faldor by the hair, hauled the smaller man up, and kissed Faldor sav-

agely. He pushed Faldor back down into the bed, never taking his lips

away, and clawed at Faldor’s nightshirt, ripping it open even as he bit

and sucked at Faldor’s mouth.

Faldor answered, twining his arms around Meldrick’s neck and

arching his back and hips up, grinding them against Meldrick’s body

with a sweet, low moan.

Meldrick wrapped his arms tight around Faldor, molded their

bodies together in a crushing embrace that wrenched a squeak from

the lips beneath his. But he didn’t care. He held on, kissing Faldor,

squeezing Faldor as though the healer might slip away.

He shook. Meldrick’s entire body—from feet to hands—shook.

With passion for the man he loved. With rage for what his captors

had turned him into. With shame for what he’d let himself become.

What he’d become. Meldrick pulled away with a cry. He should ex-

plain. Apologize. Make an excuse. Something. Anything. But the

words would not come. He bolted from the bed and stood there, star-

Betrayed

ing mutely, unable to meet Faldor’s eyes, unable to speak, but yearn-

ing to somehow make Faldor understand.

“Meldrick?” Faldor held trembling hands out to him.

Faldor’s eyes were wide, and every emotion of his heart could

be read: intense and lingering love for Meldrick, fear over Meldrick’s

current state, eagerness at having Meldrick so near, hope held out that

they might conquer this together. But there was something else there

that made Meldrick cringe with despair: a wariness that Meldrick

might hurt him. Was it too late, Meldrick wondered? And what would

he need to do to redeem himself? What could he do? He had spent the

last two years not caring about anyone but himself. How would he

learn to care? Would that instinct return? “I’ve had nothing to lose for

the past two years,” he whispered.

“And you think that mayhaps life is easier if you’ve nothing to

lose?” Faldor asked softly.

Meldrick recognized the look of hurt and betrayal on Faldor’s

face, wanted badly to reach out, to comfort Faldor, but he held back.

At last, he dared to move a step closer, stopping just short of the bed.

He arched an eyebrow and sighed. “Mayhaps.”

“What do you want, Meldrick?” Faldor lowered his hands but

leaned forward, gaze intense.

What did he want? He wasn’t certain. He knew lying next to

Faldor had made his heart ache with longing and his blood burn for

more. But he wasn’t sure how much more, or if he was ready for more.

And yet there lay Faldor, half-naked, trusting him completely and

still, judging from the look in the healer’s eyes, very much open to the

idea of them.

Meldrick’s body stirred for the healer, and he felt—aye, he re-

alized, he could actually feel—Faldor’s body answer him across the

few feet that separated them. But he didn’t trust himself, not yet. If

he fucked Faldor now—because honestly, he couldn’t call it making

love—he would hurt Faldor. If not emotionally, definitely physically.

And that he couldn’t bear. The thought of using Faldor, of harming

Faldor, made his stomach ache. Faldor wasn’t like the others. Faldor

was special. Meldrick swallowed hard and held onto that feeling of

sick self-loathing. Mayhaps it meant there was hope for him. For them

both.

“What do you want?” Faldor repeated the question, but this time

his voice held a breathless quality, as if he was almost afraid of the

answer, no matter what it might be.

DC Juris

Meldrick strode to the bed, towered over Faldor, looming but

careful not to intimidate—he would never use his size against Fal-

dor—but so that Faldor could appreciate the full ferocity of what he

felt—so that Faldor could see it snake out from his heart and through

his body as many fine tremors. He bent and placed a gentle kiss on

Faldor’s cheek, then straightened. Shaking, terrified of his own de-

sires, Meldrick turned and walked out of the room.

Faldor scrambled from the bed and dressed quickly. He hur-

ried downstairs, intent on continuing the conversation. Instead, he

stopped on the landing, watching as Meldrick moved around the sit-

ting room, examining this thing and that, as though he recognized

nothing. “Does it not look familiar?” Faldor asked.

Meldrick shook his head slowly. “Nay...and...aye. I look around,

and at moments, I don’t recognize anything. I couldn’t tell you from

where or whom these things came, or why. But, when I touch them”—

he picked up a small wooden dragon—”I know that this was mine. I

know that this place was ours. And yet I can’t always remember living

here.”

Faldor frowned. Seemed odd that Meldrick’s memory would be

so unreliable after only two years gone. But, Faldor reminded himself,

pain and torture did things to a man. Things that couldn’t always be

predicted or easily fixed, especially when Faldor didn’t know how to

fix them. He didn’t know how to fix any of this. He stepped down into

the room and crossed to Meldrick, laid a hand on Meldrick’s shoulder.

“Give it time. Your memories may still return.”

Meldrick sucked in a shuddering breath at the touch. “And if they

don’t?”

“Then we will make new ones.” Faldor tightened his grip as he

fought the urge to pull Meldrick into his arms.

Meldrick cocked his head and looked Faldor up and down. “What

is it?”

“Nothing.” Faldor released him. “Are you hungry? I’ll make—”

Meldrick grabbed clumsily for his hand and held it tight. His gaze

roved over Faldor’s face, searching. “Tell me.”

Faldor sighed. “I just wish I could help you, comfort you. I see

you struggling with all this. I want to make it easier, but I don’t know

how. I’m not sure how to reach you.”

Meldrick squeezed Faldor’s hand tightly. “Will you accompany

me if I go to the castle today? I’m not sure I want to face King Rychal

on my own.” He frowned. “I’m not sure of much, am I?”

Chapter Five

Though Faldor had sent word and explanation of Meldrick’s re-

turn to the castle, the end of the season came and went before Mel-

drick finally mustered the courage to visit King Rychal. The landscape

flew by in a rush as the carriage rolled and bounced along, Maganuld

Castle coming into view. Looking out his window, Meldrick could see

the black fortress’s towers and spires rising up toward the clouds. The

carriage traveled over the moat, along the one-lane bridge that led to

the castle’s outer gates—already opening for his arrival.

He glanced at Faldor. They had settled into a pleasant routine,

one born more of necessity than will. Though they slept in the same

bed, they still had not made love—indeed, they rarely touched each

other at all. They said things like I’m sorry and excuse me and please

and thank you far more often than a couple who had been together so

long ought to. Their conversations were laced with more pleasantries

than were needed. Meldrick feared they were in a downward spiral—

one he didn’t know how to stop.

Betrayed

He took a deep breath as they came to a stop and the driver

opened the door. Castle Maganuld. Truth be told, the structure fright-

ened him. Gasps and wide-eyed gazes met them as they crossed the

courtyard, and by the time he and Faldor arrived at the castle’s mas-

sive double doors, they had gathered a sizeable crowd of followers.

Some pressed close to Meldrick, praising his return or asking him

questions; others kept their distance, staring at him in disbelief.

Meldrick did his best to stay calm, accept the well wishes, and

field as many queries as he could, while Faldor tried to help ease their

way, staying in front of Meldrick and protecting him against reaching

hands, staving off the more curious onlookers.

In the midst of the chaos, the castle doors opened and a hush fell

over everyone as all eyes turned to the entrance. Meldrick swallowed

hard as the royal guards stepped aside to reveal King Rychal.

The king crossed to them, circled Meldrick, then stopped to look

at Faldor. “If I didn’t know better, healer, I’d swear you’d brought a

ghost to my castle.”

“No ghost, milord,” Faldor assured.

King Rychal grinned and held his arms open wide. “Meldrick, my

boy. Welcome home!”

Meldrick let the aging monarch pull him into a tight embrace, gri-

macing over Rychal’s shoulder. A throng of cheers rose up around

them.

Rychal released Meldrick and stepped back. He turned to the

gathered people and clapped his hands twice. “Tonight we shall mark

this joyous occasion with a feast! But for now”—he turned back to

Meldrick and Faldor—”come, both of you. We must talk.”

Faldor at his side, Meldrick followed the king through Castle

Maganuld’s drafty halls and up the winding stairs to Rychal’s private

meeting chamber, where they took seats in front of his desk. Rychal

paced to the bar on the other side of the room and poured them each

a drink.

“To what do we owe the miracle of your resurrection?” he asked,

handing Meldrick and Faldor each a goblet and going back for his

own.

Meldrick took the drink with a nod of thanks. “Luck, I suppose,

milord. I know of no other explanation.” He took a sip and swallowed

hard, groaning as the fiery liquid washed down his throat.

DC Juris

“It’s a good vintage, nay?” Rychal took a deep gulp and sat down

behind his desk. “I’ve been eager to speak with you, though your lov-

er has kept me at bay.”

“He needed time, milord,” Faldor murmured.

“Indeed.” Rychal eyed Meldrick over the rim of his goblet. “You

must’ve learned much during your time with the enemy.”

Meldrick shifted in his chair, uncomfortable with the predatory

gleam in Rychal’s eyes. “I didn’t have much opportunity for recon-

naissance.”

“Nay?” The king arched his left eyebrow. “Three years is a long

time. Long enough for you to become familiar with their tactics, their

armaments, their defenses. Surely you must have some insight to im-

part.”

Two years and seven months, Meldrick mentally corrected. He

sipped his drink again to hide his scowl. He was definitely familiar

with their tactics. That Rychal was more interested in digging for se-

crets than welcoming him home offended him on so many levels. He

had to be careful, though, lest his emotions make him reveal too much.

“Well?” Rychal prompted.

A knock sounded before Meldrick could respond, and he let out a

breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.

“Enter!” Rychal barked.

The door opened to reveal a tall, slender man with long dark hair

plaited in a thick braid. He moved across the room with a grace only

an elf could possess—his heritage would’ve been obvious even if Mel-

drick hadn’t seen the gently upward-sweeping points of his ears.

The elf approached Rychal, bowed, and began to speak in hushed

tones, but Meldrick didn’t even try to listen. Meldrick’s attention

snapped to Faldor. Faldor, who had let out a little gasp at the elf’s

entrance, who had sat up straighter.

Meldrick tore his gaze away and closed his eyes briefly. When he

opened them again, he noticed the elf casting furtive glances at him.

He took a deep breath, let it puff out his chest, and glared at the elf. The

longer he looked, though, the more certain he became he’d seen the elf

before. Not here, in the castle, but somewhere else...somewhere...Mel-

drick’s eyes narrowed. The prison camp? A memory surfaced in his

mind—a memory of a tall, slender man, dressed in a long, hooded red

robe, speaking with the guards and taking coin from them. The man

in the memory turned his face toward Meldrick. He couldn’t see the

hair—or the ears—but the face looked exactly the same.

Betrayed

“I’m afraid I must cut our reunion short,” Rychal began. “Seems

the duties of a king are never done. You will both join me again to-

night for the feast, aye?”

“Mel has agreed to accompany me on my healing rounds, but we’ll

be back, milord, of course,” Faldor affirmed. He nodded at Rychal and

smiled at the elf.

Meldrick glanced at the elf, back at Faldor, then back again. Some-

thing lay between the two, judging by the crinkles of happiness at the

corners of the elf’s eyes and the slight upcurve of the right side of the

elf’s mouth. He needed to find out more about this man. “Actually, I’d

like to stay here at the castle.”

Faldor frowned. “Are you certain?”

“Of course he is,” Rychal interrupted. He stood and motioned to

the door. “Come, Yanek. Meldrick, walk with us, and we can finish

our conversation.”

Meldrick stood as well. Though he didn’t relish the thought of be-

ing interrogated by the king, he hoped he could use the time to learn

more about the elf. Yanek. Not a name Meldrick remembered.

Faldor shrugged as he, too, rose from his seat. “As you wish.”

He lingered near Meldrick’s side, looking up expectantly at him, as

though waiting for him to say something.

“I’ll see you tonight, then,” Meldrick answered flatly. The last

thing he wanted was for his jealousy over Yanek to show.

“Shall we?” Rychal strode to the door.

Meldrick extended a hand to Yanek as they followed behind. Now

was his chance to discover how the elf knew Faldor. “I’m Meldrick.

Pleased to meet you.”

***

In true royal style, Meldrick’s welcome home feast was a lavish

event, complete with a large band, singers, dancers, and a veritable

mountain of food. How Rychal’s court had managed to pull such a

thing off at such short notice, Faldor didn’t know. He had been search-

ing the crowd of invited guests, trying to find Meldrick for over twen-

ty minutes when Yanek caught up with him. He sighed. Yanek again.

But mayhaps he could press for knowledge. Find out why Meldrick

had seemed to recognize the elf. An elf he should’ve never known, for

Yanek hadn’t entered the king’s service until after the start of the war.

DC Juris

“Your long-lost love has returned like a phoenix rising from the

ashes, some say.” Yanek popped a morsel of cheese into his mouth

and held out his saucer of food toward Faldor.

Faldor waved away the offer. “He has.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I’m happy,” Faldor answered quickly. He sidestepped under the

guise of letting someone pass them, though what he truly wanted was

space between himself and the elf. Quest for information or not, Yanek

didn’t need to stand so damned close.

Yanek arched an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Of course.” But in truth, Faldor wasn’t sure. He had never been

in a situation like this. Coming to grips with the fact Meldrick had

changed was hard, but even harder was coming to grips with the fact

he had changed as well. As lonely as he had been these past years, as

much as he had missed and yearned for Meldrick, there had been a

kind of peace to living on his own. No expectations to meet, no mis-

understandings to smooth over, no matter to what he said or thought,

how he felt, or what his mood was like. But it meant also there had

been no one to hold him to being a better person. No one to make him

strive to see the world through another’s eyes. No one to grow and

share with.

Yanek laid a hand on Faldor’s arm. “It’s all right to have doubts,

you know. To question yourself.” He pulled his hand away and lifted

another piece of cheese to his lips, delicate throat muscles working as

he chewed and swallowed. “Or him.”

“I don’t doubt him.” The need to defend Meldrick surged like fire

through Faldor’s veins. Meldrick had been the best part of him for

over ten years, and he wouldn’t listen to Yanek disparaging his lover.

“Do you not? I would. Where has he been all this time? Prison, so

he says, but why has he escaped now? Why not sooner? Why did they

not stop him? Catch him? Kill him?” Yanek shrugged. “I am an elf.

Suspicion is in my nature. Regardless, he is hiding something. He was

not very forthcoming with King Rychal. He was more concerned with

quizzing me. I believe he thinks you and I are lovers.”

Faldor frowned, focusing on Yanek’s first few questions. Why

hadn’t Meldrick been caught or killed? From the glimpse Faldor had

seen of the prison camp through Meldrick’s eyes, the place had been

heavily guarded and fortified, prisoners kept in locked cages. Mel-

drick’s only opportunity would have been during an escort to another

cell for torture, and even then, there must have been guards. If Mel-

Betrayed

drick had been wounded and weak, how had Meldrick managed to

fight them off and escape?

Unless the ogres had offered no resistance. Unless they had let

Meldrick go. But why? In exchange for what? What information could

have still earned him his freedom after two years? Faldor’s eyes wid-

ened. Meldrick’s scars were not fresh and new, but old and healed.

Why hadn’t he seen that? Why hadn’t he realized the implications?

He had been so overjoyed to have Meldrick home—alive!—he had

overlooked what any novice healer would have spotted immediately.

Booming laughter rose above the din of conversations and music,

and Faldor recognized it as Meldrick’s. The big man certainly seemed

to be enjoying himself, no doubt in large part to the sizeable stein of

ale in his hand. He stood in the middle of a group of people, regaling

them with a story that had them laughing along and clapping.

“He seems to be adjusting well,” Yanek observed. He leaned in

close and brushed his lips across Faldor’s cheek. “Be wary, my friend.

I fear your phoenix may indeed be a snake.”

Yanek bowed and moved away, but Faldor paid the elf no mind.

From across the room, Meldrick stared at him. Meldrick had seen the

kiss, interpreted it in the only way possible.

Anguish played across Meldrick’s face in the wrinkle of his brow,

the questioning tilt of his head, the slight part of his lips, as though a

gasp had just escaped them. And in the space of a second, pain turned

to furious anger. His eyes slitted, hands white-knuckle tight on his

stein, he straightened his head and raised an eyebrow, mouth closing

and jaw clenching. He leaned his head back just so at the impact of

what he thought he knew.

Faldor cursed and started forward, striding with purpose through

the crowd. He feared at first that Meldrick would turn from him, lead

him on a tense chase through the castle, but Meldrick didn’t move.

Meldrick’s gaze did not waver. And mayhaps that was worse. He

reached Meldrick and shook his head. “It’s not what you think. Yanek

and I—”

“Are you sleeping with him?”

Faldor sighed. “Are we to have this conversation here?”

“Answer me.” Though his words were just this side of slurred, the

anger in his tone came through loud and clear. The crowd of people

he’d held spellbound but a moment before quickly dispelled.

Faldor folded his arms across his chest. “You have questions for

me, but I have them for you as well. Let’s go.” He turned away.

DC Juris

“Are you sleeping with him?” Meldrick repeated, louder, draw-

ing attention from the rest of the feasters.

Faldor fisted his hands at his sides and rounded on Meldrick.

“Why did they let you leave the prison? What did you tell them? What

secrets did you share?”

Meldrick staggered back as though he had been struck. He

glanced around, then ducked his head. “I escaped,” he hissed.

“Did you?” Faldor stepped toward Meldrick, lowering his voice.

“Did you indeed?”

Meldrick raised his head, jaw set again in that hard line of defi-

ance. “Not here.”

Faldor nodded. So, he was right. Somehow, that didn’t make him

feel any better or lessen the sick twisting of his guts. “If you want my

honesty, you must give me yours. Come home.”

Meldrick shook his head. “I’m not ready to leave. I’m enjoying

myself. Or at least I was,” he mumbled. He drained the rest of his

drink in one gulp and motioned a serving wench over for another one.

Faldor leaned in and sniffed, wrinkling his nose. “Don’t come

back to my home drunk.”

“Your home?” Meldrick scoffed.

Faldor nodded. He glanced at Yanek as the elf walked by. He had

never considered the elf romantically—never had the will to betray

Meldrick’s love. He wondered if mayhaps he should have. “That’s

what happens when you abandon something. It becomes someone

else’s.”

***

Meldrick hesitated at the door. He glanced up and down the

pitch-black street, but not a soul stirred. Just as well. He’d never done

this before. Shouldn’t be doing it now. But the anger and lust churn-

ing inside him had to be slaked somehow, or he’d go mad with it. He

knocked.

A small plank of wood slid back, and a woman peered out. “Do

you have an appointment?”

He shook his head. “Nay, but I have coin.”

“Sessions are by appointment only.” She slid the door closed, but

Meldrick stuck his hand inside it.

“I’ll pay double.”

The woman looked him up and down and sighed. “Double it is

then.” She shut the small window and opened the door to usher him

Betrayed

inside. She led the way down a long hallway, stopping before a large,

red door. “Double is four coins.” She held her hand out.

Meldrick pulled four gold coins out of his cloak and dropped

them into her hand.

She held the coin up to her mouth and bit down on it. Apparently

satisfied, she pocketed the payment and pushed the door open. “Take

your pick.”

Meldrick wrinkled his nose at the assembled women. “Have you

no men?”

“Ah. Come this way.” He followed her farther down the hallway

to another door, this one blue. She opened it, and they stepped inside.

Meldrick took in his surroundings, his cock going hard. Dozens of

men filled the room, most of them naked, men of all heights and body

builds, all skin tones, long-haired and short-haired. Some lounged on

luxurious-looking couches or chairs, some stood talking, others had

paired—or trioed or quadrupled—off into corners and were engaged

in pleasuring each other while a few looked on, cocks in hand. The

room smelled of sweat and sex. Meldrick licked his lips and savored

the hum of lust in his veins.

“See anything you like?” she prompted.

He didn’t see anything he didn’t like. “Are any of them inclined to

do things outside the norm?”

“How far outside?”

Meldrick wrinkled his brow. “Mayhaps a little rough.”

She grinned. “Taram,” she called out.

A man on the other side of the room responded, standing quickly

and moving toward them. He wore no clothing, except for a leather

ring around his long, thick, erect cock. The man towered well above

the rest of the men, with short hair, broad shoulders, a trim waist, and

hips that Meldrick longed to dig his fingers into.

“You’ve been selected.” The woman gestured to Meldrick.

Taram looked him up and down, smiling. “Indeed I have.” He

held out a hand. “I’m Taram.”

Meldrick glanced down at the man’s hand. He hadn’t expected to

know anything about the person he ended up with. He shook Taram’s

hand, though. “I’m Mel—” he faltered, realizing at last that he likely

shouldn’t use his real name. He’d gone to great lengths to ensure no

one had known his destination after the feast, giving out several dif-

ferent versions of his plans for the evening to those who had asked,

and even stopping to buy a pair of gloves to hide the scar on his hand.

DC Juris

Just in case. By royal edict, knights weren’t permitted in such places.

And such places weren’t permitted to serve knights.

Taram shrugged. “You needn’t share your name. Come.” He took

Meldrick’s hand and began to leave.

Meldrick pulled back. “You can bring someone with you, if you’d

like.” He’d never taken part in anything like that, but the array of

choices had his mouth watering and his inhibitions all but gone.

Taram’s ear-to-ear grin made Meldrick’s cock twitch. “Bizub,”

Taram called out. “Join us.”

The man stood and came to join them immediately. He ran his

hands up and down his body as he approached, toyed with his nip-

ples, and bit his lower lip, his fat cockhead glistening. Much shorter

than Taram, he had an almost feminine beauty to his round face, full

mouth, and doe eyes. He fluttered his long lashes and smiled sweetly

up at Meldrick.

“This is Bizub,” Taram introduced as he slid an arm around Bizub.

Bizub nestled against Taram, ran a hand up Taram’s chest, and

Meldrick groaned softly.

“I assume you chose me for a reason?” Taram asked.

Meldrick gestured to the woman. “She said you don’t mind

rough.”

Taram nodded. “Neither of us does. My only rule is that you don’t

leave any marks on my face.”

Bizub chuckled. “He has to keep his pretty face safe for those who

like him for it. I, on the other hand...” He trailed off and shrugged.

They each took one of Meldrick’s hands, led him through a door

off to the left side of the room and into another, smaller room. Two

torches hung in sconces on each wall, giving just enough light to see.

A large bed stood in the middle of the room, piled high with pillows,

silks, and furs. Beside the bed, an assortment of things—manacles,

several cock-shaped items, bottles of oil, and what appeared to be a

plug of some kind—had been laid out on a table. Though Meldrick

had never seen anything like some of them, there was little guess as

to what they were for. They entered the room, Taram first, then Bizub,

with Meldrick behind them. Just inside the door, Meldrick grabbed

Bizub by the arm, spun him around, and pinned him against the wall.

Bizub collided with a whuff and smiled. “You waste no time.”

“Don’t speak.” Cock straining against his breeches, Meldrick

wrapped one hand around Bizub’s throat and squeezed experimen-

tally, cursing the glove that hampered his ability to feel vulnerable

Betrayed

skin and bone beneath his flesh. Bizub tipped his head back in re-

sponse. Meldrick dipped his other hand to Bizub’s cock, started tug-

ging with sharp, harsh downward motions. He closed his eyes and

tried to imagine Bizub was Faldor.

Bizub spread his legs and moaned, breathing hard through his

nose. At last, Taram stirred. He walked up behind Meldrick and

pressed his hard, wet cock tight against Meldrick, ran a moist finger

along the cleft of Meldrick’s ass. Meldrick jumped, jarred back to real-

ity by the unexpected touch. He opened his eyes, horrified to find Bi-

zub’s face had gone a deep shade of red. Meldrick pulled back, push-

ing Taram away, and stumbled to the other side of the room.

Bizub mewled in protest, and Taram crossed to Meldrick. “What

happened?”

Meldrick shook his head. He couldn’t tell them about himself. “I-I

don’t know.”

Bizub watched him silently, then nodded. “Would you rather

watch us together, first?”

“Mayhaps.” Taram turned back, but Meldrick forestalled him

with a hand on his arm. “Don’t be gentle.”

Taram’s lips curled up into a twisted smile. He went back, took

Bizub by the arm, forced him down to his knees, and pushed him back

against the wall. “Suck my cock!” Taram commanded. He pressed his

cockhead past Bizub’s slightly parted lips and started to fuck Bizub’s

mouth with hard, powerful thrusts.

Meldrick took his own cock in hand and started to stroke in time

with Taram’s movements. In his mind, he pretended he was the one in

Taram’s place. He delved into his memories of the prison camp, of be-

ing begged for mercy, of men bowing before him in fear, the sounds of

flesh on flesh furiously pounding and tearing. He longed to feel that

now, to hold the fragile mentality of a weaker man in his proverbial

hands and rip it apart. The images in his mind were no longer enough.

He needed the real thing. Possessed by the phantoms of his past, Mel-

drick stalked toward the two men, furiously working his cock.

“Shall I share?” Taram asked.

Meldrick ignored the question. He pulled Taram away roughly

from a confused and startled Bizub. Meldrick took Bizub’s face in one

hand, raised his other hand high above his head to deliver the first of

many blows that would bring him release.

DC Juris

Taram stopped Meldrick before he made contact, squeezed Mel-

drick’s arm hard, and shoved Meldrick back. He stood protectively in

front of Bizub, leveling a glare at Meldrick.

“You said rough was acceptable!” Meldrick argued.

“Rough. Not abuse. There’s a difference.” Taram reached back

and laid a hand on Bizub’s head, petting gently.

Rough. Not abuse. There was a difference, but Meldrick wasn’t

sure he knew what that difference was anymore. He took a step to-

ward them, held out his hand in apology.

Taram cocked his head to the side and frowned. “Who are you?”

Meldrick shook his head. “I wish I knew.” He turned and paced

away. “I should go.”

“You paid for the night,” Taram offered.

“It doesn’t matter.” Meldrick ripped the glove off his right hand,

slammed his fist against the wall, and winced at the pain, just as

the heat of a pleasurable blush spread over his cheeks. His cock still

throbbed, begging for release, but he wouldn’t find it here tonight. He

didn’t know if he ever would.

“You’re a knight.”

Meldrick glanced back over his shoulder to find Taram’s gaze riv-

eted to the scar on the back of his hand. Seemed stupid, but he’d for-

gotten he’d revealed his ruined flesh when he’d pulled off the glove.

“I was.”

“Don’t go,” Bizub spoke up. He stood and walked over to Mel-

drick, turned Meldrick around slowly by the shoulder. He took Mel-

drick’s face in his hands. “I don’t know who you are, or what your

story is, but something drove you here tonight. I may not be able to

understand all your motivations, or what you’re looking for entire-

ly”—he slid one hand down to stroke Meldrick’s cock—”but I know

part of why you’re here.” Bizub leaned up on his toes and pressed a

kiss to Meldrick’s neck. “Stay for a while. We’ll send for wine, make

things good for you. Let us help you.”

Meldrick hung his head. “I don’t think you can.”

Taram joined them, adding his hand to Bizub’s efforts. He gave a

slurping lick to one of Meldrick’s nipples, then raised his head with a

grin. “We won’t know unless we try.”

***

Meldrick stumbled through the door of his house late that night—

early the next morning, if he was being realistic—making far more

Betrayed

noise than he had wanted. Though it didn’t matter, as there was no

one to wake.

Faldor sat at the kitchen table, sipping a mug of what smelled like

that stinky tea he liked. “Get your fill of acting like a child, did you?”

Meldrick glared at him, wanting nothing more than to slap that

smug, sanctimonious smile right off Faldor’s face. He raised a hand to

his head to stop his brain from spinning inside it. His stomach heaved

and twisted. He ran to the sink, barely making it in time. His guts

contracted and churned, wracking his body with shudders; liquid fire

scalded his throat as it forced its way out.

“Where have you been?”

Meldrick straightened and shook his head. “You don’t want to

know.” He reached for the ewer by the sink, poured some water out

into his hand and tossed it back, then spit it out.

“Aye, I do.” Faldor sighed and stood. “I’ve been patient with you.

But it’s been months, and we’ve gotten nowhere. You won’t touch me,

won’t let me touch you. And aye, I can understand that, with what

you’ve been through. I honestly can. But you won’t even talk to me.”

His voice broke and he threw up his hands. “You come home to me,

smelling of ale and sex, and I should be angry enough to take a blade

to you. And I am.” He paused and took a deep, heaving breath. “But

all I want is an explanation.”

“A blade, eh? Don’t flatter yourself,” Meldrick snarled. A fight be-

tween them wouldn’t go in Faldor’s favor, and the healer seemed to

realize that, taking a step back and frowning.

Meldrick turned to face the door. He could leave. Probably should.

Half-stupid with drink and sexually frustrated was no way to have

the conversation Faldor wanted. Nay, deserved. Anger made Mel-

drick’s blood boil. Why did Faldor deserve a damned thing? He was

the one who’d lived through hell. He was the one who couldn’t get

his head straight. Why was he the one to have to apologize? His heart

pounded in his throat, pressure built in his head until he thought his

skull would explode. And finally, Meldrick snapped. He rounded on

Faldor.

“You want to know where I was?” Meldrick shouted and slammed

his fist into the wall. “I’ll tell you! I went to a brothel. I went to a broth-

el, and I found two of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen, with

cocks so gorgeous I could’ve wept. I went to a room with them and

I tried...I tried to do anything. I tried to watch them, I tried to par-

ticipate. They did everything I asked. Things...bad things.” Meldrick

DC Juris

shook his head. “But it wasn’t ever enough. My cock was so hard, I

feared it would split in twain, but nothing made me come.

“They did everything,” he continued, ignoring Faldor’s wide eyes

and trembling bottom lip. Let him hurt—he’d asked for this, after all.

“They touched me, licked me, sucked me, fucked me, and let me fuck

them. And it was glorious! I’ve never felt more aroused in my life. But

all I wanted was to hear them beg for mercy. I wanted to know I’d hurt

them. I wanted to break them. I’m a monster. Is that what you want to

hear? I’m the worst kind of monster.”

Silence stretched between them. Faldor slumped down into a

chair. “I suppose it’s not cheating if you didn’t find release.”

Meldrick sputtered, then burst into full-fledged laughter. Of all

the responses in the world, he’d never expected that one. He clutched

at his sides, leaned back against the door, and laughed until he had

no air left in his chest. When he regained his senses, he walked to the

table and sat down across from Faldor.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” Faldor murmured.

“Nor I with you.” Meldrick folded his arms on the tabletop and

leaned his head down on them. “I was only in the prison for seven

months.”

“Seven? I don’t understand.”

Meldrick lifted his head back up, immediately regretting the ac-

tion, as stabbing pain in his temples made him wince. He waited for a

wave of nausea to abate before he continued. “When the men saw me

fall, I truly was injured. But as soon as the ogres realized who I was,

the men were ordered to save me. I lay at death’s door for the better

part of a month. When I was healthy, they tried to torture informa-

tion out of me. But that didn’t work. Then Vintik came to me with his

deal—torture the others or tell him what I knew. I still would not talk.

“All of this time, we were being fed lies about the war. That

Maganuld Castle had been breached. We were led to believe the very

world was falling apart. During the seventh month, Vintik brought

me something. A ring. What I thought was your ring. What he told me

was your ring. He told me you were dead—gave me explicit details

on how his captain had found you tending a knight on the battlefield,

tortured you, told you what I’d become, what I had done to the others.

And how with your last breath you had cursed me and taken off my

ring.” He cleared his throat as his voice broke.

“I couldn’t bear the thought that you had died, much less that

you had died thinking the worst of me. I told them everything. All the

Betrayed

questions they asked, I answered honestly, in detail. I thought they

would kill me afterward. But they let me go. Vintik said there was

nothing he could mete out as ghastly as what I would do to myself.

I didn’t understand what he meant.” He looked away. “It never oc-

curred to me that they might’ve made a copy of my very own ring.”

“The second attack?” Faldor asked. “Prince Nevyn’s death...” He

trailed off, closing his eyes momentarily.

Meldrick nodded. “Everything I spoke of led to that. When

I learned of the devastation I had wrought, I went and lived in the

woods, off the land. Until a few days before I came back.”

“What changed?” Faldor frowned.

“I saw you on a hunt.”

Faldor gasped. “You didn’t know I lived?”

“How would I have?” Meldrick shrugged. “I’d never dared to

venture that close to the castle before for fear of being found. I wanted

to go to you then, but I couldn’t stand to think of having this conver-

sation with you. I told myself you would be better off without me. I

tried to stay away. But I couldn’t. I am not perfect. I have killed men.

I have stood with their blood on my hands, and I have gloried in it. I

have painted it on my face and dragged their bodies across the field

of battle as trophies. I have wounded men, friend and foe alike—their

bodies and their minds—and if you need to turn me away for it—”

His voice broke again. He didn’t dare continue, couldn’t stomach the

words that might seal his fate.

Faldor sighed heavily and shook his head. “I’m not going to turn

you away. I do still love you.”

“Is that enough?” Meldrick took a deep breath and braced himself

for the answer.

“All I have is love,” Faldor murmured. “I’m no saint, Mel. You

know I have plenty of my own demons.”

Meldrick nodded. His thoughts drifted to Brother Maynard, the

monk who had beaten and molested Faldor, and who had accidentally

died years later at Faldor’s healing hands.

“I’m not willing to give up on you. Or us,” Faldor told him. “But

we cannot keep tiptoeing around each other. We cannot keep ignoring

the dragon in the middle of the room and hoping it will go away. We

must either feed it or slay it.” He smiled wryly. “And we can’t very

well feed it. There’s barely room for the two of us in this house. So as

far as I can see, the choice is only one: slay it. The only question is how

you feel.”

DC Juris

Meldrick regarded him. “I don’t know how I feel. When I see you,

I want you. But then everything floods back in on me. I get these...

urges. Frightening things. And I don’t know if I can be with you. Or

with anyone. I just don’t know.” He stood, suddenly at war with him-

self. He wanted to throw Faldor out, he wanted to fall at Faldor’s feet

and beg forgiveness, he wanted to pull Faldor close and cover Faldor’s

mouth with soft kisses. He wanted to fuck Faldor until Faldor bled

and begged for mercy.

Meldrick sank heavily back down into the chair. “I want you so

badly I fear I’ll go mad with it.” He shrugged. “That’s the whole of it.

I want you. I want us. But I fear I’ll ruin everything.”

Faldor reached out and laid a hand on Meldrick’s arm. “All I can

offer you is time, my love. Things will get easier, they will hurt less.

You are going to have to trust me, and it’s going to take time, but I’ll

be here. I’ve always been here for you, haven’t I?”

“Not this time.” Meldrick pulled his arm away, hating himself for

the thoughts that rose in him. It didn’t make any sense. He should be

clinging to Faldor. And he wanted to. But he couldn’t. Couldn’t get

past the fact Faldor had not come for him.

“Only because you’ve pulled away from me,” Faldor murmured.

“That’s not what I meant.” He shuddered, unable to keep the

words from leaving his lips. This was not how he wanted to handle

things. It shouldn’t be this way. He covered his face with his hands.

“You blame me, don’t you?” Faldor asked softly. “For the prison

camp?”

“I...” Meldrick lowered his hands and blinked back tears. “Not

just you. Rychal...the men who fought with me. The rest of the knight-

hood. I blame everyone.” He looked up at Faldor. “You have no idea

what it’s like to be left for dead. Forgotten. Forsaken.”

“I can only say I’m sorry for not finding you.”

Meldrick let out a choked sob. “I know. I know you are.”

“I think you’re rushing things,” Faldor said after a while. “Prison

or not, you’ve lived on the fringes for too long to just walk back into

your old life. I know that’s what you want, but it’s not realistic. May-

haps we’ve both been doing things differently for too long.”

Faldor’s statement brought Yanek to the forefront of Meldrick’s

thoughts. He still wasn’t certain what Yanek’s role had been in the

prison camp—if the elf had been a source of information about the

king or inspiration about how to finally break him. Yanek was clearly

someone Faldor trusted, though. While Meldrick would keep his sus-

Betrayed

picions to himself, he had to know how Faldor felt. “What is the elf

to you?”

“Yanek?” Faldor shrugged. “An acquaintance, nothing more.”

“Did you ever...?” He couldn’t say the words.

“Do you truly want to know the answer?”

Meldrick swallowed hard and wiped his palms on his breeches.

How he would react if Faldor said aye, he didn’t know. But the jumble

of doubt and jealousy knotted in his belly hadn’t gone away, even

with ale. He had to know the truth, and he did trust Faldor not to lie

to him. He nodded. “Aye.”

“He’s offered more than once, but nay, I’ve never slept with

Yanek, and nay, I don’t want to.”

Meldrick scrubbed his hands over his face and let out a shudder-

ing gasp. Faldor had not betrayed him. Even though he had betrayed

Faldor—for surely turning traitor and then not coming home were the

biggest of betrayals—Faldor had not betrayed him. He jerked back to

awareness as Faldor moved.

Faldor knelt next to Meldrick’s chair and reached for him.

Meldrick sucked in a harsh breath and tried to lean away, but Fal-

dor pressed in, capturing his face in warm, strong hands.

“Shh,” Faldor soothed. He nibbled at Meldrick’s bottom lip, ran

his tongue along the path his teeth had followed. “I love you,” he

whispered.

Meldrick shivered at the words—so much to hope for. “Love

you,” he murmured the response, clutching Faldor close. “Please.”

Faldor returned his lips to Meldrick’s, kissing gently, softly.

Meldrick growled low in his throat, startling even himself. The

contact was too much. And not enough.

Faldor stood and held out a hand to him. “Come to bed.”

Meldrick shuddered and eyed Faldor’s hand dubiously. He was

broken and worthless. The thought of climbing the stairs to their bed-

room brought back the nausea. He wasn’t worthy of their bed—the

place they had been so good together so often. He wasn’t good any-

more. He shook his head. “In the prison,” he whispered. “I could tell

myself I climaxed because I had to. Because Vintik demanded a good

show. But I’m not sure that’s true. Out here, in the daylight, I think—”

He looked away. “I know I liked it. I can’t sleep in bed tonight. I wish

I could explain.”

“You don’t have to.” Faldor sat down on the floor and patted his

lap. “Lay your head down.”

DC Juris

Objections sprang to his mind, but Meldrick ignored them. Trust

me, Faldor had said. He owed Faldor his trust. He eased himself

down, curled his legs underneath him, and pillowed his head on Fal-

dor’s lap. Faldor’s hands roved over him, rubbing his arms, his neck,

his back, down his thigh and back up again. The warmth of Faldor’s

touch was a soothing balm to his frazzled spirit. Meldrick stiffened as

Faldor’s hand dipped a little lower in its exploration. “Fal...”

Faldor’s hands stopped immediately. “I won’t do anything you

say nay to, and I’ll stop anytime you ask me to. But trust me for a mo-

ment or two.”

Meldrick gnawed on his lower lip, but at length he nodded. Fal-

dor continued the touches, teasing and petting his body, stroking his

hair. He shivered as Faldor lifted the bottom of his tunic and pressed

one hand to his chest, slid the other hand down into his breeches. Mel-

drick’s hips surged forward the moment Faldor’s flesh met his, and a

moan escaped his lips.

Faldor leaned down and pressed kisses to Meldrick’s temples as

he worked Meldrick’s cock with long, slow strokes. “Seek what you

need, my love. Let me give it to you.”

Unable to bear Faldor’s touch in silence, Meldrick cried out, rock-

ing his hips. But as the pleasure soared through him, so did the doubt

and self-revulsion, unwelcome as the emotions were. He tried to push

them away, tried to focus on the feel of Faldor’s hand, warm and tight,

the feel of Faldor’s soft, pliant lips.

Meldrick became aware of a distant, almost phantom itch some-

where in his body, though he couldn’t quite place where. He clawed

at his arms even as he realized what he felt wasn’t an itch at all, but a

need. While Faldor’s touch made his cock hard and his heart flutter,

it wasn’t enough. He needed—the gods save him—he needed pain.

He shook his head and tried to push Faldor away. He didn’t think

poorly of anyone who did that kind of thing—what two (or more)

adults did was their own business, so long as they were agreed on

it. But Faldor wouldn’t agree to this out of mutual interest—only in

the interest of pleasing Meldrick. And that was something Meldrick

couldn’t allow. But the more he struggled to get away, the tighter Fal-

dor held him.

“It’s all right,” Faldor murmured. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Tears rolled freely down Meldrick’s cheeks. “I know.” And that

was the problem.

Betrayed

Faldor stilled his hands and looked down into Meldrick’s eyes.

“You feel like you need me to, don’t you?” He frowned. “Because

you enjoyed it that way, or because you think you deserve to be pun-

ished?”

“I don’t know,” Meldrick admitted. “Mayhaps both. I don’t want

it be to this way, though,” he whispered.

“Then it won’t be.” Faldor slid out from under him and urged him

onto his hands and knees, knelt beside him.

Fear welled inside Meldrick, making his arms shake. He had nev-

er been on the receiving end of their lovemaking—of anyone’s love-

making—until the prison camp. But the expected didn’t come.

Faldor stroked Meldrick’s back, shoulder to hip, hip to shoulder,

over and over. Then he lowered his head and slowly began to lick

Meldrick’s scars.

Meldrick shuddered violently.

Faldor pulled back. “Am I hurting you?”

“Don’t stop.” Meldrick’s teeth chattered loudly, more from the

exhaustion of holding himself in check so long than anything else.

The warm wetness of Faldor’s tongue slid across his body, spreading

sweet fire over his muscles. But something else came with the plea-

sure—calmness, serenity. Faldor’s touch seemed to erase the pain,

seemed to penetrate down into Meldrick’s soul where all his dark

emotions were buried—hatred for the king who had abandoned him,

the knights who had left him to die, Faldor who hadn’t come after

him, his jailers who had tormented him, and most of all for himself,

the one who had let it all happen.

Self-blame crashed over him. He realized then just how much re-

sponsibility he had taken for what had happened, not just what he

had done to his comrades, but for being captured in the first place.

How changed would their lives have been if that day had ended dif-

ferently? If he had fought just a little harder, run just a little faster, re-

acted just a little quicker? Would Prince Nevyn have lived to a ripe old

age? Would the two sides of the war have found some sort of peace

between their peoples, instead of ripping the land apart? How many

lives would have been spared? These questions had haunted him. But

he knew now that the questions—and indeed their answers—no lon-

ger mattered. Nothing could change what had been done—what he

had done—all that was left now was to pick up the pieces and start

again.

DC Juris

Though his arms and legs shook ferociously, he managed not

to succumb to it, and even that was a sort of symbol. No matter the

strain, no matter the weight that had been placed on him, he still lived.

He had made mistakes, mistakes he could never completely atone for.

But Faldor had been right—he was indeed a force to be reckoned with.

The wetness on his back had increased, and he realized it wasn’t just

Faldor’s tongue, but Faldor’s tears as well. “It’s not your fault. There

was nothing you could’ve done to stop it.”

Faldor pressed his lips to the back of Meldrick’s neck. “My logical

mind knows that,” he murmured. “My heart isn’t so convinced.”

Meldrick shifted his weight and wrapped his left arm around Fal-

dor’s left leg, holding tight. He shivered as Faldor reached under him

and began once again to stroke his cock. Faldor laid his head on Mel-

drick’s shoulder, whispered words Meldrick didn’t register. But the

words didn’t matter anyway. All that mattered was that Faldor was

here, Faldor loved him, wanted him, and they would chase away the

darkness. Together.

Meldrick lost himself in the feel of Faldor next to him, the warmth

radiating off Faldor’s body, the smooth, soft timbre of Faldor’s voice,

the aching pressure inside him that Faldor’s touch only intensified.

And at the last, when he feared he couldn’t hold out any longer, when

he wasn’t sure he’d ever find his release through gentleness and love,

Meldrick’s eyes rolled back, his body tensed, and he cried out as he

climaxed into Faldor’s hand. He collapsed onto the floor, body shak-

ing, breath coming in harsh gasps, tears spilling down his cheeks. He

wanted to say thank you, wanted to tell Faldor that he’d been wrong

about everything, that they could find a way back to their life togeth-

er, but he couldn’t form words.

Faldor lay down in front of Meldrick and spooned their bodies

together. “Rest for a while,” he whispered.

Meldrick pulled the healer tight against him and closed his eyes,

comforted by the even, methodical sounds of Faldor’s breathing and

the solid feel of Faldor’s body against his. Finally, peace filled him.

Peace with the world. Peace with himself. No matter what had trans-

pired or what was to come, he had Faldor, and nothing else made any

difference. As long as they could hold fast to each other, they could

endure anything.

Faldor stirred suddenly, looked back at Meldrick over his shoul-

der. “You recognized Yanek, didn’t you? When you met him at the

Betrayed

castle. I thought at first you were merely uncomfortable with the idea

that I knew him, but it was more than that, was it not?”

Meldrick shrugged. “Mayhaps. He looked familiar, but then all

elves look the same, aye?”

Faldor shuddered and turned in Meldrick’s arms, buried his face

against Meldrick’s chest, and held on to the big man tightly. “He

knew.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Meldrick shook his head.

“How can you say that?” Faldor looked up, tears standing in his

eyes. “What you went through. Yanek could’ve prevented that.”

“Not all of it. In truth, if I did see him there, I only saw him once,

and near the end, and I don’t know what his purpose was. If he was

there to give information on the king, or on me, or something com-

pletely different. Mayhaps he didn’t even know who I was.” He traced

Faldor’s bottom lip with his thumb, swallowed down the desire to

twist that soft, supple flesh until Faldor whimpered. Not who I am, he

reminded himself. Not who I have to be.

Faldor snorted. “Not know the king’s favored knight? Unlike-

ly. What kind of information would they need about you that they

couldn’t—” He broke off, his lips forming a grimace. “Oh gods. Me.

He told them about me.”

Meldrick took Faldor by the shoulders and shook him. “Listen

to me. I don’t know why he was there. Anyone could’ve figured out

about the rings. I guarded mine with my life; it was clearly important

to me. It would’ve taken little effort to learn of your existence and

use it against me.” He took a deep breath and placed a kiss on Fal-

dor’s forehead, then kissed the tears that ran down Faldor’s cheeks.

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmured.

Meldrick tucked Faldor against him, cradled the smaller man as

though Faldor were made of glass. He took deep breaths, fighting to

calm the maniacal thoughts and dark desires. In time, he would re-

gain himself. He would. He had no other choice.

“How can it not matter?” Faldor whispered.

Meldrick smiled and sighed. “Because it cannot.”

“He must be dealt with.”

Meldrick licked his lips and hummed softly as his cock grew and

hardened at the thought of dealing with Yanek. “He will be.” Faldor

tried to squirm away to look at him, but Meldrick held fast. “Get some

sleep, my love.”

Chapter Six

Meldrick made his way through Castle Maganul’s winding halls,

headed for King Rychal’s private chamber. He’d woken early this

morning—still on the kitchen floor—and discussed his plan to ad-

dress their concerns about Yanek with the king. Faldor had wanted

to accompany him, but Meldrick had said nay—discovering the elf’s

role in his imprisonment was something he needed to do by himself.

Rychal welcomed him inside with a warm embrace and poured

them both ale. Meldrick sipped his sparingly; he wanted his wits

about him for this conversation.

“I trust you’re getting along well?” Rychal asked.

Meldrick nodded. “Well enough.”

“Life is returning to normal?”

“Slowly but surely, milord.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it. Your absence pained me.” Rychal shuf-

fled a stack of parchment around on his desk, moving it from one side

to the other.

Betrayed

“It’s actually my absence I wanted to speak to you about.”

“Oh?” The king’s voice took on an upward inflection, but he

didn’t pay any more attention to Meldrick than he had before.

Meldrick swallowed hard. “How well do you know Yanek?”

Rychal finally looked up. He studied Meldrick for a moment, then

shrugged and took a sip from a nearby goblet. “Well enough. Why do

you ask?”

“He looked familiar to me when I met him. I think I’ve seen him

before.” Meldrick narrowed his eyes, intent on Rychal’s reaction to his

next few words. “At the prison camp.”

Rychal narrowed his eyes as well, and then he shook his head.

“I highly doubt that. You know elves—they all look the same.” He

waved a hand in the air and stood, went for more ale. “Likely you saw

a relative of his. They inbreed you know. They’re like vermin.”

Meldrick stiffened at the remark but let it slide. He wasn’t here to

debate his king’s personal ethics. “I’m certain it was him. He spoke to

the guards.”

“And?” Rychal prompted.

He shook his head, frowning. “And I don’t know. But I believe he

gave them information.”

“Then you’re definitely wrong.” Rychal resumed his seat, turned

in his chair, and put his feet up on the corner of his large desk. “Yanek

has no sensitive knowledge of either myself or the castle. He knows

nothing.”

“Information about me. I think he told them who Faldor was, and

they used it against me.”

Rychal smiled, head tilted to the side. “Even if that were so, which

I sincerely doubt it is, there’s no point in revisiting it now. You’re free.

What’s done is done.”

Meldrick took a deep breath and swallowed hard. He didn’t dare

reveal the extent of what Yanek’s suspected betrayal had led to, but he

felt Rychal was holding back. “But if Yanek betrayed you—”

A shadow passed behind the king’s eyes, and his expression dark-

ened. “What good do these questions do you? The war was years ago.

Have you a magic device to take you back in time? Nay? I thought not.

Put these things out of your mind, my boy. You place undue stress

upon yourself.” Rychal stood and paced slowly to Meldrick’s chair,

laid a strong hand on Meldrick’s shoulder, and squeezed hard. “If

Yanek took coin for secrets back then, it means nothing now, in the

present.”

DC Juris

Meldrick nodded, forehead wrinkled. He hadn’t mentioned see-

ing Yanek receive any payment. “What did you say?”

“I said it’s in the past.” Rychal squeezed harder. “Let it lie there,

where it belongs. Nothing good comes from digging up the dead.”

Gathering his courage around him, Meldrick stood and shrugged

off the king’s hand. He had never questioned Rychal, and a part of

him screamed that he was crossing the line, that this was not his place.

“How did you know Yanek was paid?”

Rychal blanched and stepped back. “You said he was.”

“Nay.” Meldrick shook his head slowly. He turned and strode

away, to the bar on the other side of the room, and refilled his drink

and gulped it down. He had the advantage here, and he would gain

the information he sought, if he played his hand correctly. He set the

goblet back on the bar slowly, ran his finger around the rim. “I said I

saw him giving information. I said nothing of payment.”

“It’s implied, is it not? Why else would a person turn traitor?”

“Why else indeed?” Meldrick turned back to look at his monarch,

seeing the man for the first time in a different light. As a child he had

revered the king, believed him capable of anything. He still believed

that but not, he realized, in the same context. He thought back to his

time in the knighthood, to the rumors and innuendo that had swirled

in the court. Rumors about Prince Nevyn, King Rychal’s son. Rumors

that Queen Lemyura had taken a lover, that the boy was not the king’s

after all, but the bastard son of a king from across the ocean. A chill

ran up Meldrick’s spine as the pieces fell into place for him. “You sent

Yanek.”

Rychal sputtered and threw his arms out wide. “Why would I do

such a thing?” He shook his head, pointed a bony finger at Meldrick.

“You know more than you reveal here. Or you are guilty of more than

you reveal. Why did the ogres let you go?”

“Don’t you know?” Meldrick grinned. “They let me go because

your plan worked. You sent Yanek, with word of the ring on my fin-

ger, word of Faldor’s existence. You knew me well enough to realize

nothing else would break me. I’d excelled in combat and endurance, I

was loyal and true. Only Faldor’s death could’ve condemned me, and

you knew it. So rather than tell the ogres yourself—you couldn’t meet

with them, after all, that would’ve looked bad—you sent Yanek. No

one would’ve questioned an elfin spy—they’re always selling secrets

to someone, and they care very little for the outcome of non-elfin poli-

tics. The ogres attacked, you arranged for Nevyn to be there”—Mel-

Betrayed

drick chuckled at the dastardly genius of it all—”you’re minus one

inconvenient illegitimate heir, and you’ve managed to out the ogre

army, not to mention their prison camp, in one move. I have to give

you credit; it’s monumentally clever.”

Rychal glared at Meldrick, opened his mouth to speak, but then

closed it. He repeated the gesture several times and then finally shook

his head. “And? So you think you know what happened. I’ll tell you a

lot more went into it than your simplistic version.”

“Why me?” Meldrick asked, his voice a hushed whisper. He

curled his hands into fists, fighting against the pain in his gut and the

tightness in his chest.

“Who else? You were my favored knight. None had the intimate

knowledge you possessed. No other knew my schedule as well, my

personal habits. No other knew as many castle secrets. I couldn’t sim-

ply let the information slip. It had to be you who was caught. You who

was betrayed. You who turned traitor.” Rychal nodded absently, as if

to himself. His voice was calm, not loud or soft, as one might expect.

He didn’t yell or cry. There was no guilt in his tone, only the simple

fact of what had happened, as if he were recounting nothing more

important than the weather.

Meldrick gaped, trying desperately to process the sheer extent

of what Rychal had just confessed. Murder. Betrayal. His guts sank

into his boots, his heart raced. “You might’ve told me in advance. We

could’ve come to some kind of agreement.”

“Could we have?” Rychal cocked his head. “Would you have

agreed? Would you have taken my son’s blood on your hands will-

ingly? Would the ogres have believed you, even? Knowing who you

were, with your reputation, would they have believed they’d made

you talk so easily? Nay.” Rychal shook his head as he walked back to

his desk and sat down heavily, groaning. “Nay, it had to be the way it

was. Nothing else would’ve worked.”

Meldrick searched for something to say. All of it—up to and in-

cluding his actual capture—had been a part of Rychal’s script. He’d

thought the king had simply taken advantage of a situation. But nay.

Rychal had created the situation. Rychal had betrayed him. Betrayed

Faldor. Betrayed Prince Nevyn. Betrayed the entire kingdom.

Meldrick took a deep breath. But surely the king had learned the

error of his ways? “Tell me you regret it. Tell me you’d do it all differ-

ently. Tell me it gnaws at your guts, that it keeps you up at night, that

it sours the food you eat, that it dulls the wine you drink.”

DC Juris

King Rychal smiled sadly. “I can’t tell you those things. I did what

I had to do to protect the crown.”

“To protect yourself!” Meldrick snapped. “Don’t play the patriot

with me! All you’ve ever cared about was your own personal gain.

How much wealth and power you could amass. And how the people

must’ve sobbed for you, the brokenhearted father. How they must’ve

thrown prayers and tokens at your feet. How they must’ve banded

together, allied themselves in the just cause of your son’s murder!”

Rychal shrugged. “What you call murder, I call justice. Retribu-

tion. Did you think I didn’t know Nevyn wasn’t mine, right from

the beginning? Have you ever lain next to Faldor, smelling the stink

of another on him? Have you kissed him, and tasted another man’s

mouth? Lemyura made a mockery of our marriage. Of me. I couldn’t

let her bastard ascend my throne.” He rolled his eyes. “But neither

could he die by my own hand, or one of my men’s. The people loved

him, didn’t they? That waifish frame and that pale skin of his. He had

them eating out of his hand before he could speak. If Lemyura had

ever revealed his true parentage, he’d have run from me and taken my

throne with him. He’d have bided his time and taken it all from me.”

“You could’ve simply had another child,” Meldrick argued. “Any

true son of your loins would’ve had no argument in his claim.”

“Nevyn wasn’t mine for lack of trying.”

Meldrick’s eyes widened as the full meaning of Rychal’s words

hit him.

“We discovered early on that there would be no child of my loins.

Lemyura wanted a babe desperately, but she gave me her solemn oath

she would never look elsewhere to fulfill her desire. When she got

with child...” He shrugged and downed the rest of his ale in one gulp.

“I should’ve dealt with it the moment I realized. I should’ve ordered

her to kill the babe on pain of her own death.” He lowered his gaze,

seemed suddenly fascinated with something on the desktop.

“Why didn’t you?” Meldrick pressed.

Rychal looked up, tears trickling from the corners of his eyes.

“She loved me.” He swiped at the tears and stood. “Do what you will

with Yanek. Kill him if you want. Or pay someone to. I’ve no interest

in what happens to him. But use discretion. The world is a dangerous

place. Accidents happen all the time. Horses throw their riders. Car-

riages are set upon by bandits.” He shrugged. “Things happen.”

Meldrick stared hard at Rychal, but he no longer saw the wise,

powerful king he had seen as a child or even as a knight. He saw a

Betrayed

graying, huddled old man struggling with a mantle of responsibil-

ity that often proved too heavy for his bent shoulders. He saw the

truth behind all of Rychal’s maneuverings and political endeavors—

both in the war and not. The king had always looked out for one per-

son—himself. From agreements to land annexes to promotions within

his ranks, selfishness and conceit had been the driving force behind

Rychal’s choices all along.

And now Rychal was suggesting he deal with Yanek outside the

law. No one would ever know of the elf’s betrayal. No one could, of

course. But then again, no one would know of his own.

“I can arrange for him to go away very quickly, very quietly, if

you’d rather not involve yourself.”

Meldrick chuckled bitterly. “Murder begets murder?”

Rychal looked away, turned to gaze out the window behind his

desk.

“Thank you for being honest with me,” Meldrick said, moving to

leave. “You’ve helped me put things in perspective, if nothing else.”

He paused, his hand on the door, and turned back to the older man. “I

only hope you truly realize the power of the secrets you keep.”

“Meldrick?” Rychal called out. “I’m still the man you gave your

loyalty to all those years ago. Nothing has changed.”

A warning, Meldrick knew, but he focused only on the simplic-

ity of the words. Nothing has changed. But something had, hadn’t it?

He knew things now, things he’d never even imagined. He’d come

to Rychal for the truth about Yanek and ended up with more truth

than he could stomach. Shouldn’t something happen now? Shouldn’t

some god strike them both down? Shouldn’t some spirit rise up

against them? The spirit of Prince Nevyn perhaps, to slay Meldrick

and Rychal for what they’d been a party to? Shouldn’t the world end?

But nothing happened. No lightning bolt struck him. No spec-

ter from beyond the grave materialized before him. And the world

seemed to be going about its business the same as it always did. Noth-

ing had changed.

Except Meldrick.

***

Meldrick circled the chair, kicking the legs as he walked. Though

hastily formulated, and a bit time-consuming, his plan had come full

circle. Yanek sat before him, tied to a chair. Excitement consumed

him, but he bided his time, waiting patiently. Enjoying the moments

DC Juris

that crept by. He glanced down at his red-splattered hands and sup-

pressed the urge to lick the elf’s blood off them.

Yanek’s cackling laughter filled the air, and he spat a mouthful of

blood at Meldrick’s feet as Meldrick came back around in front of him.

“This is your plan, knight? Attack me on the street, abscond with me

in the night, and torture information out of me?” He laughed again

and raised his head, grinning. “Do your worst. I’m not like you.”

Meldrick chuckled. “You’re wrong about two things. You will

talk.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small glass bottle.

He tapped on it, rousing the insect inside, and held it up in front of

Yanek’s face. “Recognize this?” He shook the bottle. “It’s a tritchek

worm. Nasty little creatures. They used these on me in the prison

camp. Must’ve been tactic number three or four.” He shrugged. “De-

tails get hazy after so many years. The idea,” he continued, pulling

out the cork, “is that you make a cut in the prisoner’s skin and let the

worm crawl in.”

Yanek leaned away as much as he could. “Putting that thing un-

der my skin won’t make me talk.”

Meldrick nodded. “Oh, you’re quite right about that. I suppose to

ogres things feel different. These little guys didn’t hurt me at all. Not

even when the ogres put a dozen of them here.” He lifted his tunic,

displaying one of the scars on his belly. “I guess ogres don’t have as

much fat as we do. Although”—he patted his stomach—”I don’t have

that much either.” He dumped the worm out into his hand and raised

his hand up to look at it. “It’s a pretty little thing, isn’t it? All those

colors. Expensive too. I parted with a small fortune for him today.” He

petted the worm gently, twisted his hand as the thing crawled around.

“When you have a lot of time on your hands, say, when you’re in

prison, you think of things. And I thought that these worms might be

more effective if they were put elsewhere. In an ear, perhaps. Or an

eye. Or, if you’re feeling particularly nasty, up the nose.” He reached

out and took a firm grip on Yanek’s chin.

“You’ll pay for this,” Yanek hissed.

“I will?” Meldrick lowered his hand and cocked his head, stared

down at Yanek with a furrowed brow. “On whose authority?”

“King Rychal’s! When he discovers your treachery, he’ll have

your head.”

“Mayhaps.” Meldrick leaned his head back. Primal anger scorched

his veins, twisted lust hardened his cock. The zing of demented tri-

umph set his nerves on fire, sped his heartbeat, and made his pulse

Betrayed

race. This was the moment he’d lived for, the moment he’d craved for

so long. Revenge. Justice. He savored it, drawing in deep, long breaths

through his nose and letting them out slowly though his mouth.

He looked back down at the soon-to-be-simpering elf. Yanek still

held onto his bravery, but just barely. Meldrick took Yanek’s chin in

his grip, and the muscles beneath his fingers twitched and trembled.

He grinned and tipped Yanek’s head back. “Aye, I think the nose.”

“Wait!” Yanek struggled in his bonds, but the ropes held tight.

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know!”

Meldrick stopped. “What is it you think I want to know?”

“It was me.” Yanek licked his lips, gave a jerking nod. “I went to

the prison camp, and I told them about Faldor. About the ring. But it

wasn’t only me. Rychal was a part of it. The entire plan was his. He

wanted to be rid of Nevyn, and you were a means to an end.”

Meldrick frowned at him, turned Yanek’s head side to side. “You

did all this, for a king you’d no allegence to? Seems strange.”

“I had other reasons, as well,” Yanek told him hurriedly. “Faldor.

I wanted Faldor for myself. I thought mayhaps I could find my way to

everything I wanted, with one single act. I betrayed you.”

Meldrick leaned Yanek’s head forward, bent down, and looked

into the elf’s eyes. “I know.”

“You—” Yanek gasped, and his eyes went wide. “You know? You

knew all along?”

Meldrick nodded. “Remember when I said you were wrong about

two things? One was that you weren’t going to talk. The other was

that I wanted you to talk at all.”

“This was never about the truth, was it?” Yanek laughed. “Well

played. Well played, indeed. Seems like something I’d have done. Tell

me, do you mark yourself an evil man for such tactics, or do you re-

serve judgment only for the rest of us?”

Meldrick mulled over the elf’s words. Was he an evil man? And if

he was, how evil was he? More evil than Yanek, who sold men’s lives

for coin? More evil than Vintik, who bought men’s lives? More evil

than Rychal, who arranged the deal in the first place? Aye, he realized.

More evil than each of them, more evil than all of them put together.

For, regardless of the right or wrong of it, each of those men had had

a reason—a solid purpose, no matter how twisted—for what they’d

done. Meldrick? Meldrick just had his own burning need. His own

rage. His own lust.

DC Juris

He grinned and tipped Yanek’s head back again. He held the

tritchek worm under the elf’s nose, waited patiently as it crawled up

into its destination, as Yanek struggled and howled.

“You can’t leave me like this!”

“In that, you are correct.” Meldrick balled his hand into a fist,

pulled back his arm, and leveled a bone-crunching blow to Yanek’s

head.

The elf topped over, chair and all, and lay silently on the ground.

Meldrick pulled a dagger from his waistband and squatted next

to Yanek. “You will never betray anyone ever again.”

***

Darkness had descended by the time Meldrick’s footsteps echoed

on the staircase at home. Faldor sat up, hoping against hope that Mel-

drick’s long absence didn’t mean what he thought it meant. The big

man had left that morning on a mission to bring Yanek to justice with

King Rychal, no matter what. But Faldor had never much trusted

Rychal, and Meldrick had been gone far too long for anything that

didn’t involve bloodshed.

Meldrick passed by the door to their bedchamber without even

glancing in. A moment later the sounds of water banging thorough

the pipes filled the house.

Faldor lay back and sighed. Mayhaps Meldrick would at least talk

to him, after what they’d shared last night. They’d achieved a new

level, he thought, and he’d claw and reach until they achieved yet an-

other one. He’d claw and reach until he had his lover back.

Meldrick’s naked form filled the doorway. He stood there silently

just looking in, leaning against the wooden frame.

Faldor’s heart hammered, the thrill of uncertainty gripped him.

“Mel?”

The big man moved at last, walked slowly toward the bed, head

cocked to the right, frowning. He snatched the covers away, exposing

Faldor’s body, and again, simply stood silently, looking. He frowned,

closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them, nodded once,

seeming to have come to a decision. Meldrick sat down on the edge of

the bed and reached out.

Faldor held his breath as Meldrick trailed his fingertips up Fal-

dor’s thigh, over Faldor’s hip, and up along Faldor’s side, where he

stopped. Swallowing hard, Faldor laid his hand on top of Meldrick’s.

Betrayed

The contact seemed to shock Meldrick out of whatever enchant-

ment had held sway over him. “I love you,” he whispered, voice

hoarse.

Faldor opened his mouth to respond, but Meldrick laid the fin-

gers of his free hand against Faldor’s lips and shook his head.

“Rychal organized everything. My capture. Yanek’s betrayal.

Nevyn’s death. All of it.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” Faldor sat up, ran his other hand

through Meldrick’s hair. Rychal had betrayed them? But that meant

Rychal had known about Meldrick’s betrayal. Had expected it. The

king had set out to break his own favored knight. “But that makes no

sense.”

Meldrick hung his head. “It will, when I explain it later. There’s

more. Something more important. I went after Yanek. After I left the

castle, I followed him all day. I waited until I could get him alone, on

the street, and I snatched him. I tortured him, and I enjoyed it.” He

raised his head and looked up at Faldor. “This is what I am. I changed

in prison, and I think I can change back, but I don’t know how long

that will take. But what I do know”—he dug his nails into Faldor’s

side—”is that I love you. I want you. I need you. I can’t tell you I’ll be

different tomorrow. I can’t say I’ll be better. But I’ll try. I’ll do what-

ever I have to do to keep you, if you’ll have me. And if you won’t,

then...” He trailed off and took a deep breath, hands shaking. “Then

I’d ask the favor of your body tonight, for one last time, because I need

you. I need what only you can give me. Tomorrow I’ll go if that’s what

you ask of me, but please, tonight, please let me have this.”

Faldor closed his eyes and willed away the sob rising in his throat.

This was not a time for tears. This was a time to be strong for Mel-

drick. That the big man had come home to him, sought him out de-

spite any worries—instead of paying for release—swelled Faldor’s

chest and filled him with hope. He swallowed hard several times

before he could trust his voice. “I’ll have you. Not just tonight, but

every night.” He cradled Meldrick’s face in his hands. “You are mine,

Meldrick DeBonn. Mine and no other’s. And nothing—not war, not

torture, not anything—can take you from me.”

Meldrick slid from the bed, never taking his eyes off Faldor, and

reached into the drawer of the side table. He withdrew a small bottle

of oil, fumbled with it in his shaking hands.

“Give it to me,” Faldor whispered.

DC Juris

Meldrick joined him, held out the bottle. “Need you,” he mur-

mured, reaching for Faldor with now-empty hands.

“Shhh,” Faldor soothed. He worked the cork out of the bottle and

tossed it to the end of the bed, then poured out some of the oil into his

palm. He rose up on his knees and claimed Meldrick’s lips in a sweet,

slow kiss as he reached between them to slick Meldrick’s cock.

Meldrick moaned and bucked his hips at the touch, his fingers

kneading Faldor’s flesh wherever they made contact.

Faldor took one of Meldrick’s hands in his and dribbled out the

rest of the oil. Clutching the tiny bottle absently, rubbing his fingers

over it almost like a touchstone, he lay back in the bed, raised his

knees to his chest, and guided Meldrick between his legs.

Meldrick closed his eyes but then snapped them back open, look-

ing from his hand to Faldor and back again several times as though he

didn’t quite comprehend what was being asked of him.

“Get me ready for you, my love,” Faldor urged. “Touch me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Meldrick looked away.

“Meldrick?” Faldor waited until the big man’s gaze met his. “You

won’t.” He gasped at the first touch, craving more, wanting to grab

Meldrick’s hands and demand attention. But Meldrick had to find his

way by himself, had to relearn how to love Faldor with his body.

Meldrick’s hands still shook, and he frowned in concentration as

he circled his fingers around Faldor’s hole. He slid one finger inside,

looked up quickly at Faldor’s sharp intake of breath.

Faldor smiled down at him. Patience, he reminded himself, though

his cock stood up straight and proud, dribbling its readiness, and his

very soul screamed for release. Patience. Meldrick added another fin-

ger, then another, working them in and out with slow, long strokes,

and Faldor could hold back no more. Pleasure burned through him,

shooting out from Meldrick’s fingers to all along his body, his skin

tingled with it, his muscles tensed and bunched. “Please,” he begged.

“I need you as much as you need me.”

Meldrick withdrew his fingers, held his cock at Faldor’s entrance.

He didn’t move at first, and then slowly, lightly, he rubbed the head

of his cock against Faldor’s skin.

Faldor all but sobbed at the contact. Desperate, frustrated beyond

thought, he wrapped his legs around Meldrick and dug his heels into

Meldrick’s back. “Don’t tease me,” he whined.

Betrayed

Meldrick wrapped a beefy hand around Faldor’s hip and closed

his eyes as his cock breached Faldor’s hole. He sighed and threw his

head back. “Gods, you’re tight!”

Faldor barely registered the words. He was lost in need, the need

to feel more of Meldrick, the need to be claimed and possessed, the

need to be made whole again by the only man who could. He kicked

at Meldrick, bucked his hips up off the bed, and twisted his free hand

in the sheets to keep from raking his nails over Meldrick’s arm. “Take

me!”

Frozen still, eyes wide, Meldrick looked for a split second as

though he might turn and run. But then he flexed his hips and drove

his cock home, letting out a roar of lust and need.

Too sweet and too soon but too good to deny. Faldor’s eyes rolled

back in his head as streaks of pleasure shot out from his cock to coat

his belly and chest. The oil bottle shattered in his grasp, glass slicing

open his flesh, but it didn’t matter. He held on to the feeling, held on

to Meldrick as the big man rode him, those powerful hips slamming

into him, that massive body covering him, and those gentle lips nib-

bling and licking at him. Meldrick moaned and sighed, cried out Fal-

dor’s name again and again as Faldor worked his muscles, tightening

on the in-stroke, milking Meldrick’s cock as best he could.

Meldrick’s body tensed, and he fell silent, attention focused on

Faldor. Their gazes locked as he arched against Faldor one last time,

and the heat of his release filled Faldor’s body and heart. Meldrick

collapsed, managing somehow at the last minute to pull away and

roll to the side.

Faldor ran his good hand over Meldrick’s sweat-slicked back. “I

love you,” he murmured.

Meldrick turned his face to look at Faldor but said nothing, though

he need not have. The awe and wonder in his wide, moist eyes spoke

volumes. He reached out and threw a heavy arm across Faldor’s mid-

dle, pulled the healer close, and Faldor held on tight again, but this

time Meldrick cried.

At length the tears abated, and Faldor brushed the hair back from

Meldrick’s face.

Meldrick grabbed Faldor’s other wrist, raised the still-bleeding

hand to his lips, and licked the blood.

Faldor shivered and closed his eyes, savoring the attention. “Is

Yanek—”

DC Juris

Meldrick raised his head and gave a crooked smile. “He was alive

when I left him, though what happened after that is not my concern.

I cut out his tongue.”

Faldor’s eyes popped wide open. “You? Oh. What did you do

with it?”

“I had a thought to fry it and eat it. But”—he made a face—”I gave

it to a dog on the street instead.”

“Ah. Well, that’s good.” Faldor’s stomach churned at the thought

of eating any part of the elf.

“A part of me hopes he didn’t live, and a part of me hopes he

did, but only because it would mean he suffered.” Meldrick frowned.

“That’s wrong of me.” He licked the rest of the blood off Faldor’s

hand, wrapped his own tight around it, and clutched it to his chest.

They fell silent for a while, Faldor comforted by the even calmness

of Meldrick’s breathing. Faldor didn’t doubt they’d have an answer to

Yanek’s fate soon. Someone would either find the elf’s body, or he’d

stumble into somewhere for help. Either way, they would likely never

hear from him again, which was just as well. Mayhaps they’d be able

to forget he even existed.

“When I was small,” Faldor began, “I saw a dog get run over by

a carriage in the street outside my home. It darted out and fell under

the wheels. A little boy ran out, cradled the body of his pet, and the

driver of the carriage jumped down, heartstruck and beside himself

with sadness. I watched the boy take the dog away, and there on the

ground was a puddle of blood.

“I remember it seemed as if all the world had gone black and

white, and the red of the dog’s blood was the only color left. I went

to my window every day and night for a week, watching the stain

fade ever so slowly, until finally one morning it was gone. No sign

remained of that little pup’s life, but still I went to the window every

day after that to remind myself that it had existed.” He pulled Mel-

drick’s head down for a kiss. “We may not ever forget, but we will

find comfort in each others’ arms.” He kissed Meldrick’s lips again,

the softest brush of flesh on flesh. “We will not go to the window for

Yanek.”

Biography

A Southern transplant who has retained none of his accent but all

of his charm, DC Juris is an out and proud transgender bisexual liv-

ing in Upstate New York with his husband, four dogs, three cats, and

a menagerie of Halloween props just creepy enough to keep people

guessing about his sanity. He’s still hopelessly single when it comes

to the woman in his life, and he’ll gladly entertain offers or applica-

tions for the position! In the rare event that he’s not writing, DC can

be found surfing the internet for random research, killing things on

his Xbox, reading, taking pictures of the world around him, or play-

ing Farmville, to which he admits a complete and totally blissful ad-

diction. You can keep up with him at www.facebook.com/dcjuris, or