Page 194 of Eight of Swords, Part One

He’s attracted to Jules.

Likes him.

Loves him.

Wants him.

The last few months, he’s wanted him so much, and has buried it beneath concrete, steel and earth, but now it’s waking, rising, breaking free.

‘I’m… me?’

‘You don’t have to, obviously. I just thought…’ Jules’ free hand dips to caress Lachlan’s side. He goes rigid in an entirely different way. ‘Why are you wet?’

Oh.

Oh.

He’s bleeding to death.

Right.

Lachlan chuckles, eyes fluttering. ‘Oh shit, yeah.’

‘Are you bleeding?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Is this…?’ Jules pulls back his hand, gasping hard. ‘Oh my God.’

‘It’s OK, really.’

‘Did he do this to you?’

Lachlan pulls himself upright, reeling instantly at how lightheaded he is. Jules’ hand is red, the boy’s favourite colour, only rose red and blood red are different, Lachlan knows. ‘Fuck,’ he says calmly.

‘Who did this to you?’

A wave of dizziness rises up hard, won’t be denied.

‘C-can you call Blaire for me, sweetheart? Only Blaire.’

He’s fading, seeing colours and shapes, ocean water blue filled with vivid red clouds and pretty snakes whose scales gleam in the firelight.

‘Lachlan? Oh my God, Lachlan!’

‘Tell her… where… we are.’

✴

The wounds heal. Blaire forgives him.

But Lachlan can’t forgive himself for what almost happened.

Jules is pretty much furious with Lachlan anyway, so the awkward renewal of cool distance between them works out fine. They don’t talk about it, and Jules hardly even looks at him in the weeks following his birthday.

November melts into December and Lachlan throws himself into work.

Blaire only asks once why Lachlan didn’t get the wounds seen to. He tries his best to explain, but it sounds psychotic saying he didn’t want anyone else seeing them, asking how he got them, because then he’d have to describe the cold, procedural way Alistair Penhalyx penetrated him while telling him who he belonged to, and the fact that Lachlan, trained killer that he is, allowed it.