Hal’s head swam with the vision that assaulted him;Alaric’s lean musculature bouncing on his cock, holding Hal down to get his own pleasure. It wasn’t quite the reclamation of power Hal had imagined for himself—not quite as hot as fucking his better into the mattress until the other man screamed—but he felt his hips tilt up all the same. Alaric noticed too, and finally his hand wrapped around Hal’s cock again, stroking in slow, long arcs.
“But first, I’m going to make you beg for it. Going to reduce you to nothing but need. And tomorrow, when you’re trying to concentrate on the joust, you’re going to remember exactly how you fell apart for me.”
Hal sneered. “You fucking?—”
Alaric’s mouth returned to his cock, and whatever semi-coherent argument had been brewing became stupidly irrelevant. Hal fell back and closed his eyes with a high-pitched moan. This time it was different; he couldn’t even think to be embarrassed. Alaric took his time, alternating between long, slow sucks and quick flicks of his tongue that had Hal writhing. His hands roamed everywhere—pinching Hal’s nipples, squeezing his thighs, pressing against places that made Hal’s back arch off the cot. Every part of Hal’s body felt suddenly made for pleasure. Not pain, as he’d always thought. There was more to his physicality than jousting; more to his worth than what honour he might bring a noble house. There was his body—the use of his body—for whatever he wanted. And he fuckingwanted. . .!
“Please,” Hal heard himself gasp. “Please, I need?—”
“Need what?” Alaric pulled off just enough to speak, his breath ghosting over Hal’s wet cock. “Tell me what you need.”
But before Hal could answer—before he could put intowords the desperate ache building in his body—the tent flap opened.
Hal jerked at the movement. Perrin stood in the entrance, his thin frame backlit by dying campfires. His face was a study in shock, dark eyes wide and mouth slightly open as he took in the scene before him. Hal knew what he was seeing: his knight on his back, naked and hard and obviously debauched. Alaric between his legs, equally naked, his lips still wet with Hal’s precum.
For a moment, nobody moved. The tableau held frozen, three men caught in a moment that couldn’t be explained away or ignored.
Then Alaric laughed.
It wasn’t the pleased chuckle Hal had heard this evening, but something cold and sharp and calculated. He had been edging from stranger to lover, but the sound re-established the gulf between them.
“I think your pet is in love with you, Ser Hal.” Alaric climbed off the cot with leisurely grace. He made no attempt to cover himself, completely unashamed. “Perhaps you should go tend to him.”
Hal scrambled upright, his mind struggling to process what was happening. Perrin just stood there, staring, his face cycling through expressions Hal had no names for. How dare he—how dare Perrin stand there and look hurt!
“Perrin,” Hal started, reaching for his breeches with shaking hands. It came out trembling, like Hal was about to apologise. He shook his own head, mouth running dry. But it was fury he felt. An embarrassed rage. “The fuck are you standing there for, boy? Leave us.”
Perrin, who had been obedient as long as Hal had known him, did not move.
“S-sorry, ser.”
Sorry, he said, and still, he did not move.
Alaric was pulling on his own clothes now, and the moment—a small, blissful moment of real pleasure—was disappearing. Fuck Perrin right in the ass.
The young man raised his chin. Wait—Hal had been wrong; it wasn’t hurt in his eyes, but fear. Perrin glanced at him, then fixed his gaze on the back of the tent.
“I think. . .h-he’s using you, ser.”
Hal blinked at him. “What?”
“I think I know,” Perrin whispered, “who he is.”
Alaric’s head lifted very slowly, but something about the movement made Hal’s blood run cold. The warmth that had filled the tent moments ago drained away, replaced by a creeping horror as Alaric turned to face him. His silver eyes were cold as stone, holding no trace of the heat they’d shown before.
Hal was looking at Alaric, but he was seeing the Nameless Knight. Alaric didn’t look away as he asked Perrin, “And who do you think I am?”
“Lord Vaelor’s son.”
There was no twitch of recognition in Alaric’s face, but he was a good liar, wasn’t he? Hal shifted his gaze to Perrin.
“You making this up, Perrin?”
Perrin’s lips pinched together. “An educated guess, ser. I—was worried.”
“So you came to find me?” Hal hissed at his squire. Was this an act of care from his squire, or something petty? Hal risked a glance back at Alaric. Whatever it was, scolding the squire here in front of his rival wasn’t safe. Leaving would be the best move, and instead he wet his lips and nodded to Perrin. “Fine. Tell me the story.”
Perrin straightened. “Lord Vaelor was a border lord who fell out of royal favour two years ago after he was accusedof raising arms without leave. After he was charged for treason, his eldest son vanished from court. It would make sense,” Perrin said firmly, “for him to be so interested in besting you, with your common birth. He reasserts the old order and begins to clear his name.”
