Leander had been to the royal palace many times before, but only once to the private residences, where Jarryn had been afforded lavish apartments during his exile in Saeren. His last visit had been in a haze of drugs and alcohol, though, so he was scarcely able to remember it.
On any other occasion, Leander would be examining theintricate artworks that lined the walls or curiously peeking through open doors to get a glimpse into the private lives of the people who lived there. Today, it was all he could do to watch the floor as he forced one foot in front of the other.
It did not take long before they reached a door, which another waiting guard from Jarryn’s own retinue opened, and Leander followed Jarryn inside.
“I thought it best to do… this”—Jarryn waved a hand at the fireplace, where a metal rod rested on the floor, one end heating up in the flames—“in private.”
Leander nodded mutely. His swallow caught in his throat as he stared at the brand waiting to be used on him.
“Remove your trousers. We will brand the outer thigh. The mark will be there, as law dictates, but the world does not need to see it every day. Nor do we have to be reminded of it.”
Leander thought that he was unlikely to forget its presence for the rest of his existence, regardless of where Jarryn decided was best to place it, but he nodded again nonetheless.
Jarryn inhaled deeply and finally looked at his new property, meeting his gaze. When he spoke, however, it was to the guards in the room, who were conveniently flanking Leander without him even realising. “Restrain him.”
They did so, quickly and efficiently. Each took an arm and manhandled Leander forwards until he fell face first onto a long chaise. He gasped, consciously reminding himself of the importance of breathing. The guards each knelt on either side of the chaise and pulled at his arms until they were taught with no more give in them. Leanderfelt, but did not see, further hands grab and do the same with his legs.
There was no count down. No mental preparation. But nothing would have had him ready for the blinding, searing pain that attacked his right thigh. The branding iron met his skin just below his hip and the white hot heat radiated down his leg and up his torso.
He convulsed, an innate reaction in an attempt to escape the pain.
And he screamed—a high pitched noise that could only indicate terror or agony. And Leander felt both.
The screaming and convulsing did stop, though, because his vision—so blinding white up until now—went dark. He succumbed to oblivion: his mind’s only remaining defence mechanism to escape the pain.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The door to Leander’s room opened noiselessly and the young demigod glanced up from the large book he had been reading when he saw a figure appear out of the corner of his eye. Lying prone on his stomach with the tome before him, Leander marked his place in the book before closing it and rolling off the bed to stand and bow his head respectfully to the prince who had just entered his room.
If he was surprised, Leander hid it well; this was the first time in the six days since Prince Jarryn had bought him that Leo had been disturbed other than to have meals delivered, much less have his new owner walk into the room with two steaming mugs of tea in his hands.
“Good morning, Master,” the demigod greeted civilly, trying to keep the impish quality out of his tone.
The other man offered him a smile, an emotionless one that Leander couldn’t decide if it was comforting or not. “Good morning, Leander.”
That was the problem: throughout his time knowing the prince, Leander was never sure where he stood in the other’s esteem.
Even as their relationship had blossomed into something…more, Leander had not known if the prince truly shared his affection. They had danced around each other for so long, and Leander had an inkling, but there was no sure way for the demigod to know definitively, given how well protected Jarryn’s mind was.
There was no doubt that Jarryn knew of Leander’s sincere feelings, though. Maybe he enjoyed the idea of a passing fling, a distraction, much like the ones Leander had often sought in the past.
The newly branded slave turned his gaze away and moved to sit in one of the many chairs in the room.
In the space of the past six days, Leander had done a lot of reflection. A demigod to an aristocrat and now a slave. His father and brothers had washed their hands of him, as was to be expected, but it was his mother who Leander found himself to be most hurt by. The goddess had made no effort to reach out, no effort to help. If she had given up on him too, then what home, what fuckinghope, did he have?
And he wondered if Jarryn was liable to verbally attacking him again, like he had initially when the two had encountered each other. His expression wasn’t far off that of those times before Green Tryst when they had been forced into each other’s company.
Things had shifted between them, but there was still that undercurrent of mistrust that Leander could see in theeyes of Jarryn’s household, and he didn’t know if Jarryn still harboured ill-feelings towards him.
Especially now that he had been convicted of two crimes.
Now that Leander was literally his property, Jarryn could do whatever he pleased to his slave.
“I have some questions for you,” Jarryn said softly.
“Joy,” Leander muttered bitterly, and slightly childishly. “Why don’t you just read my mind?” Though he had all the time in the world, he did not have the patience to tolerate whatever insulting conversation his new master now wanted to engage in. That and the fact that, as property, Leander didn’t have the same rights and protections as free men when it came to the use of Aesthesia.
“We can do it that way if you prefer,” Jarryn responded, arching his eyebrows on an otherwise unreadable expression. He indicated to the mug closest to Leander. “Drink. You did not come out for breakfast. Or any other meal, for that matter. Soup and sandwiches are on their way up, you must be starving.”
