The Red King (35 page)

“My actions are not under scrutiny here. You
are the root of every evil that has befallen me and I will not
suffer your judgment,” Andrew said, his teeth clenched so tightly
they hurt.

Salvatore moved closer still, within range of
Andrew’s lunge. “I do not judge, I offer. I have some power; I
could give you vows. You could come with me and know such luxuries
as you could never dream of.”

Andrew laughed, his bitterness made the sound
hard, hateful. “I have luxuries here. I have everything I want,
right here.”

“You seek riches? Surely you know the riches
that would await you,” Salvatore continued. He was smiling, the
same lecherous, leering grin that he had seen on Acklie’s face, on
Maarten’s. “Or, if you have already become accustomed to the
pleasures of the flesh, why, those await you, as well. We are not
without our…amusements.”

Andrew lifted the sword and pointed it
straight at Salvatore’s throat. “Can you give me back my life? My
innocence?” he asked. He swiped the tip across the man’s chin,
leaving a thin line of blood. “My ignorance? For to go with you
that is what I would require. Ignorance of your vileness and your
hypocrisy.”
Ignorance of joy
, his mind added.
Ignorance
of Rory.

Maarten was beside him, then, laughing as he
took the sword from Andrew’s hand. “My dove has a taste for blood,
signore
. Do not doubt that I have just spared you another
wound.” He tossed the sword away, carelessly, and wrapped one arm
around Andrew’s waist. “Tell them again,
lille due
. Tell
them you are with me.”

Reaching up to tangle his fingers in
Maarten’s hair, Andrew pulled him down into an impassioned kiss.
When he withdrew, Maarten was smiling, eyes dark and hungry. Andrew
turned back to the Inquisitor and spat at his feet. “Go back to
your council or go to Hell, for they are one and the same, and
you…you are nothing more than the Devil’s lackey.”

Salvatore’s face was red. “I will go to the
council. I will tell them of your indulgence and your heresy and
they will come for you. Then we shall see if you are still
spitting, you filthy whore.”

Maarten laughed, loud and long. “Go then! And
with my…blessing…” He nodded to the stern and quiet Laurent. The
man’s lips thinned, but he nodded back and came forward to lead the
group away. “Take care that no calamity should end your journey...”
Maarten added, his arms tightening around Andrew’s waist,
“prematurely,
signore
.”

Laurent silently glared at the men and
extended on arm towards the door.

“This is not over, de Worrt. I will be back
with the council’s acknowledgment. Enjoy your whore while you can,”
Salvatore sneered. He nodded to his guard and together they left
the room.

Sliding his hands down Andrew’s chest,
stopping when he came to the dip of pubis and bone, Maarten
breathed, “My whore.”

Andrew shuddered, pain, anger and fear still
stirring his blood.

“Are you my whore, Andrew?”

Swallowing thickly, Andrew whispered, “I am
whatever you wish me to be, my lord.”

He felt Maarten’s laugh against his back.
“Say it.”

The trembling would not stop. Andrew opened
his mouth to speak, but the words did not come. When Maarten’s
hands lowered to cup his cock, he gasped.

“Say it,” the man said again, gripping
tighter.

“I am…” Andrew closed his eyes against their
sting, “your whore.”

Maarten made a rumbling noise in his chest.
“Yes, you are, and I have left you unattended for too long.”

Maarten opened the robe and shoved it off of
Andrew’s shoulders, his hands moving fast and ruthless over the
exposed flesh. “My lord! Fresh air! You promised—ah!” Andrew
protested until Maarten’s teeth closed on his neck. Fingers found
the cleft of his ass and probed, seeking, entering. Andrew cried
out again and willed himself not to struggle. He was crushed to
Maarten’s chest as those fingers twisted inside him, finding the
most pleasurable of angles and digging in with merciless
attention.

Moaning, opening unwillingly but completely,
Andrew clasped his hands around Maarten’s neck and thrust his
hardening cock against one steely thigh. Maarten was laughing
again. “Say it, my dove, once more.”

Heat spread through Andrew’s body, whether it
was want or shame did not matter. He relented and let the pleasure
take him again. He closed his eyes and cast his thoughts back to
the beach; the feel of the sun, the taste of salt on his lips. The
memory of Rory’s hands on him helped, but it hurt, too, and made
his heart stutter in his chest. His mortification was quickly
drowned in the sensual feel of the heavy velvet and fur of
Maarten’s robe, the strength in the man’s hands and arms, even the
smell of sweat and oil. He pushed back on Maarten’s fingers, voice
broken and trembling as he said, “Your whore, my lord. I am your
whore.”

Maarten’s knowledge was vast, his skills
sharpened over years and countless victims, and he was able to
bring Andrew to a shattering climax easily, quickly. He rode it out
with his head flung back and mouth open, the
beau ideal
of
wanton pleasure. Maarten took the offering and his teeth cut into
Andrew’s lip. He forced another finger into Andrew and growled when
Andrew began to struggle. “You are my whore and I would see you
come again. As many times as I wish it, Andrew.”

With that Andrew was lifted and carried to
one of the long tables. He was flipped onto his stomach and held at
the neck with one strong hand while the other continued its
torment. It was only after the third time, when Andrew was weeping
from the unending pressure and blossoming pain that he finally
begged for an end. “Please stop…my lord, please,” he cried, unable
to bear it further.

“Not yet. No, there is more.” Maarten’s voice
was manic and strident.

“No! No, there isn’t! It hurts! It hurts,
please stop!” Andrew wept.

“Very well.” Maarten pulled his hand away and
Andrew took a shaky breath only to exhale it as a shout when the
man’s cock plowed into him.

“No!” Andrew cried.

The hand at his neck moved to grip the hair
at the top of his head and it pulled, arching Andrew up from the
table as Maarten thrust. “Ah…yes, my dove. Scream for me,” Maarten
commanded.

Andrew did. Endlessly.

There was a touch, light and careful, but it
still hurt.

Andrew moaned. He tried to roll away, mind
solely on escaping the pain.

“Quiet, boy, and be still.”

Laurent’s voice was ice, not a drop of warmth
colored his words. Andrew struggled up from darkness to find
himself face down in a pile of furs. He whimpered as that touch
dipped into his torn and aching body, only realizing that the worst
of the pain was easing as parts of him went blessedly numb. There
were still deeper places inside that throbbed and cramped and could
not be soothed, but any relief was welcome. A warm, dry cloth was
fit up against his wounded flesh and Laurent said, “Roll over.”

It took more effort than Andrew would have
imagined. His arms and shoulders were stiff and sore, as was his
middle; he felt torn, all over, as if he had been on the rack. He
gasped when his cock rubbed across the furs, too tender for even
their softness. He remembered Maarten’s ceaseless attentions;
fingers coaxing, forcing more and more from him even when he had
nothing more to spill but tears.

A cup was pressed to his mouth and he hissed
when the liquid spilled across his the torn flesh of his lips.
“Drink it, boy.”

Swallowing was little better, for the back of
his throat felt battered and scraped raw and the taste was sharp
and stringent.

“Drink it all.”

Andrew would have wept from the pain of it,
had he any tears left.

He lie unmoving, staring up at the timber of
the ceiling, as Laurent daubed ointment on first the raw skin of
his cock, a purpling and puffy bite mark on the inside of his arm,
and then the three gouges that ran from his left shoulder down to
dip of his hipbone. He had a vague memory of Maarten scratching his
nails down Andrew’s chest, sucking the fingertips clean and…kissing
him, forcing his own flesh and blood upon him. He covered his mouth
with his hand and looked at Laurent, the intent clear in his
eyes.

“In the pail, if you please,” was all the man
said.

Andrew rolled over to heave drink and bile
into the wooden bucket beside the bed. He was surprised to find he
did have tears left, after all.

“Now I have to get you another cup. Stay
here,” Laurent sighed, as if this was merely an inconvenience.

Trembling, panting, Andrew fell once more
onto his back. “Oh, God,” he whispered, lips quivering. “Oh, God,
please, help me. I was wrong. I was wrong.”

He heard Laurent’s footsteps and went silent.
“Drink it all. It will take away the worst of it.”

Andrew shook his head. “Not…laudanum. It
makes me ill.” His words were so quiet, his throat burning so badly
that he was surprised to hear them at all.

“It isn’t laudanum. Drink it,”

So he did, and let Laurent continue his
ministrations. He was bandaged and wrapped with cold efficiency.
When Laurent was finished, he looked up at the man and asked,
“Where is he?”

Laurent covered him with a heavy blanket. “He
is otherwise occupied. Rest while you can.”

There was an easing in his muscles, soothing
away his pain and giving everything he saw a soft, unfocused
appearance. “Thank you, Laurent,” he whispered, blinking against
the blurriness.

The man frowned at him and left. Andrew heard
the door close just as he was pulled into the darkness once again.
He dreamed of sunshine and the smell of the ocean, seeming so real
he expected the brightness to blind him when he opened his
eyes.

Instead, he found himself in Maarten’s bed,
smothered in furs and blankets. The room was lit by the fire but
still dark; shadowed and hazy. He couldn’t find edges or corners,
no matter what his eyes sought. Everything was unfocused and soft.
Still without a time piece or even light through a window, Andrew
had no measure of how long he’d slept. That his bladder burned was
his only clue. Maarten was still absent and he sent up a silent
prayer of thanks for that.

The concoction Laurent had given him kept the
worst of his pain away, as promised. It also made him feel
strangely light, as though he were floating above the ground
instead of walking solidly upon it. It made finding the waste
bucket difficult and using it harder still. He managed, though, and
did not upset it even when he lost his balance. For an absurd
moment, he was ridiculously proud of himself and felt like
laughing…but the door behind him opened before it could bubble
forth. Andrew turned to see a figure filling the empty space.

“Ah,” Maarten said as he entered. “You’re
awake. Lovely.”

The man moved towards him and Andrew
retreated, stumbled and fell against the wall.

“My dove,
min
lille due
, will
you fly from me?” Maarten loomed in his vision, raising something
dark and heavy before him. Andrew’s hands flew up to stop him, but
they found only the plush, warm robe he’d been wrapped in before.
Maarten draped it over his shoulders and helped him find the
sleeves, making soothing, comforting sounds as closed it around his
body. “You tremble at my touch, Andrew. Do you know how much that
pleases me?”

Andrew was shaking so hard he could barely
stand. He felt it from his scalp to the soles of his feet.
Maarten’s hands were stroking him through the velvet, up and over
and back down, from shoulders to hips. Andrew’s knees gave way and
Maarten caught him.

“No, no…” was all he could say, all he could
think, as he was lifted.

“Shhh,” was all the man said as he cradled
Andrew against his chest.

He was carried like a child through the
sitting room, past the still laden dining table and into the
reception room. Maarten held him tightly and whispered to him as
they exited into the hall.

“You feel weak,
ja
? Out of strength
and out of control, yes, Andrew?” He did not wait for a response.
“I will help you.”

The words were spoken softly, almost sweetly,
and the power in Maarten’s arms was muted and comforting instead of
hurting. He sighed and felt more than heard a throaty sound of
approval against his cheek. Andrew huddled in his robe, feeling the
sway of the man’s walk and drifting a bit with his head resting on
Maarten’s shoulder. The movement was akin to the rocking of a ship
and the thought stirred such terrible longing in him that he wept.
Maarten only gave that same rumbling favor as he cried.

Andrew was so lost in his misery that he was
not aware of their passage. He was set on his feet once more in
another room, no larger than the smallest cell in the abbey. There
were candles stuck haphazardly around the room on old stools and
some bricks that thrust from the walls. A brazier laden with white
hot coals stood in the center and cast so much heat that Andrew
began to sweat almost instantly. When Maarten released him, he
swayed, dangerously close to a faint.

“None of that, now,” Maarten teased, wrapping
his arms around Andrew from behind. He held Andrew steady, speaking
in that same gentle tone. “I give you this, Andrew. See?” and he
turned them both to face the far wall.

Salvatore was shackled there, hanging by his
wrists by chains bolted into the stone. The man was unconscious,
bloody about his nose and mouth and wore only the tattered remains
of his white robe. Andrew tried to back away but could only press
himself into Maarten. He turned his head, closing his eyes
tight.

Maarten leaned down to speak in his ear.
“This man, this wicked man, is the cause of all your pain.”