Eight. Nine. Tears rolled over Sevastyan’s temples into his hair. His hands relaxed, palms open.
Ten.
Ten red lines. Ten softly bleeding doors into his life. One for each year he had been missing from their presence.
“If you run, I will cut you once for every seven days you are beyond my grasp. I’d rather make you bleed than make you cry.”
Sevastyan laughed. It turned into a sob. His breath choked him and he tried to turn onto his side, coughing. Ellisandre helped him shift. He cleared his throat and dragged in air. Blood seeped down his chest. “Odin’s beard, when have I ever run? Not when you changed your form. Not when you shot me. Not when you showed me everything. I would have gone to hell with you.”
Would. Ellisandre’s mind snagged on the tense of the words. Would. Not will. Sevastyan couldn’t follow them to the place where he already was. “But I left you behind to fall there alone.”
Sevastyan swallowed. He looked away.
Ellisandre dragged the flat side of the knife down his arms, following its path with their fingers. Sevastyan turned his wrist, offering the soft underside. Ellisandre covered the blue veins just below the skin with their palm. The knife followed the line of Ellisandre’s hand and turned, traveling back up Sevastyan’s arm.
He was beautiful, their lost boy. Even his pain was art: The way he used it. Controlled it. Offered it.
“Tell me about the others, the ones in hell with you.” If he couldn’t raise whatever secret was driving him, then they could meet him halfway.
Sevastyan stared at the tip of the knife as it moved, leaving behind red lines. Ellisandre dragged the blade in the shape of a vine, drawing in leaves and tendrils. Here and there a tiny pinprick of blood broke through. The marks looked like a faint white tattoo that would soon fade.
“You’re not supposed to make friends in hell.”
That wasn’t a denial. Ellisandre’s knife stilled. He had said friends. So he had someone or someones who were precious to him.
Their Bal required love. He would have found something to keep his soul alive. And Anton had not fulfilled that role.
Ellisandre shoved their hands between the cushions of the couch, finding the collar and chains they’d bolted there years before. The leather was around Sevastyan’s throat in an instant.
His hands came up, grasping at Ellisandre’s wrists. “I can’t stay.”
Ellisandre knocked him to his back on the floor, pinning him down with their knee and latching the collar. For the first time, he struggled to get away. The padlock closed with a snap. Ellisandre sat up.
Sevastyan gripped the chain at his throat. “This won’t keep me.”
“No, but I will.”
Sevastyan
The links of the chain bit into Sevastyan’s palms. Ellisandre’s hard thighs slanted over his pelvis and gripped his hips. He stared at the knife.
Would their Deux do it? Did they understand this wasn’t play?
A glance at their eyes told him yes. They knew. His pulse doubled. He let go of the chain to grab at the wrist behind the knife. Ellisandre lifted their arms above his reach.
“Tell me about these friends.”
“No.” Sevastyan’s voice caught and cracked in his throat. He reared up, reaching for the knife. It was time to go. He’d find another way. This was too dangerous.
No one could know about Rei. No one.
That was the rule. Others could see his slave. Others could know about his ruined catamite. But no one could know about Rei. If they knew . . . if anyone knew . . .
Ellisandre struck him across the face with their forearm. Stars splattered across his eyes. He fell back, stunned. The floor rumbled, the wheels of the coffee table moving further away. He started to rise. Ellisandre was across the room, disappearing into the bedroom. He jerked at the collar around his neck. It was all leather and steel. The padlock on the buckle had no give. But he could cut through the leather, or tear the end of the chain from wherever it was bolted. He reached into the couch, searching for the end anchor point.
The chain went through the back of the couch to the wall. He grabbed it with both hands and pulled.
Ellisandre re-entered the room carrying leather restraints. “It’s anchored to a steel strut.”
