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The stark contrast of the pristine paper against his desk isn't enough to shake Auguste out of his shock.
It's a note.
A ransom note.
A ransom note detailing his baby brother's kidnapping, and what will happen to him if Auguste doesn't do exactly what the mastermind behind it asks of him.
His eyes go from the note, its lines angry and marred with red spots that make something at the base of his spine burn, to the person who brought him the missive, and is now standing still in front of his desk. Impassible Jord. Loyal Jord.
Auguste only needs a few words.
“Bring me your best tracker.”
No one threatens Laurent’s life without paying a price. Not under his watch.
*
A firm knock at his door.
Damen stretches his legs from under his desk, gesturing with a sigh for the staff to open the study door. He’s been hunched over papers for hours now. Days, even, since Kastor found it somehow perfectly sane to leave the Akielos estate without informing anyone, much less his younger brother, of his departure, or his destination. Not an uncommon occurrence, but to say taking over for him on such short notice had been a pain would be an understatement.
Gods, what Damen wouldn’t give for a good trek through the woods right about now.
Surprisingly, the person who enters isn’t from the house. It isn’t even one of his brother’s partners or friends. The man is tall and pale, with a shock of brown hair, and what looks like a perpetually closed off face. He nods and bows just the right amount, his fist coming to rest against his heart, before his piercing eyes settle on the temporary master of the house once more.
“My name is Jord. I was sent by my superior, Auguste De Vere, on an urgent matter.”
Barely resisting the urge to rub at his temples, Damen straightens into his chair. Great. After dealing with all the late papers Kastor left behind, now he has to negotiate with his brother’s rival. This day just keeps getting better.
“Unfortunately, my brother his unavailable at the moment. If your employer wishes to discuss specifics with him, I’m afraid you’ll have to come back lat…” the speech he’s been practicing all day tumbles neatly out of his lips, but the man – Jord – interrupts him before he can finish.
“It’s a good thing I wasn’t sent to get your brother then.”
Damen’s eyes narrow, his interest suddenly picked. No one cares about him. Hell, he’s been absent for years now. People don’t know him.
But Jord keeps staring at him, as if, somehow, he does.
With a gesture for his staff, they immediately leave the two men alone. Once the doors have closed, Damen crosses his hands under his chin, and lowers his voice. “What do you want?”
A small smile crosses the other man’s features. He closes in on the desk, puts one of his hands on it. It’s not threatening. Not yet. Not with Damen’s size, even when he’s sitting and Jord is standing. But there is a determination there, a glint at the back of his eyes that promises of a greater strength.
“I want your skills.”
“My skills?” Damen asks, the confused lilt in his voice and the tilt of his head purposeful.
Once again, Jord seems to see right through him. “I was ordered to fetch the best tracker I can.” Damen’s eyebrows rise, but before he can interrupt, Jord continues, “And don’t bother denying. You may have been able to hide what you spent your years away doing from every other noble in this city, and maybe even your own brother, but I’m no fool. And neither are my informants.”
Maybe he should be upset, that a stranger working for a rival family knows. Maybe he should throw him out with a kick in the backside for his lack of decorum. But instead, Damen finds himself intrigued. Because behind the determination, he can practically smell the fear and desperation.
Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong.
Smoothly molding his surprise into indifference, Damen stares at his nails, picks at a couple of them. “And what do you need my skills for then, dear Jord?” he asks, cutting a glance at the man.
The only response he gets is an enigmatic smile, and the words, “It’s confidential.”
-
The De Vere estate is… something.
Not that the Akielos one has anything to blush about. Between its ochre columns and its massive size, standing tall on a cliff over the stormy sea, it has always been a landmark of the city, and a fixed point in Damen’s tumultuous history. But this. This is something special.
Perhaps it’s simply the contrast of the verdant and lush expanses of trees and bushes, compared to the sandy steps he’s been climbing all his life. The sound of the fauna replacing the crash of waves. The alabaster walls cascading with flowers and tapestries where his home is carved marble and echoing halls.
He’d always dreamed of visiting this place, as a kid. He’d heard the rumors and the tall tales, seen a few paintings of its grandeur. Kastor kept telling him it was all greatly exaggerated.
Not that he was allowed to fraternize with the enemy anyway. How the De Vere and Akielos came from being estranged noble families in the same town to sworn rivals, Damen isn’t quite sure. His parents would summarize it in terms easy to understand for a kid, talking of ancient betrayals and arranged marriages falling through. And Kastor… Kastor wouldn’t talk about it. Ever.
But seeing the estate with his own two eyes now, Damen understands the praise he heard years ago. The manor is like a pearl, laying inside a greenery case. A jewel perfectly hidden.
The main doors, made of beautiful wood, carved and polished in dark blue colors, open to reveal twin staircases spiraling to the first floor, and as many if not more flowers inside than there were outside. Though he doesn’t get as much time to appreciate it as he would like, Jord leading the charge with determined strides, ascending the steps and making for one of the wings, barely acknowledging the rest of the staff as they pass them by, men and women whispering among themselves in hushed whispers. One of the younger members, another pale man with brown hair, worn long this time, tried to stop them, to no avail. Damen apologizes to him with a wince as he passes by.
Another set of doors, another room. This one is tiny compared to the main hall or the corridors, but still lavishly decorated, in tones of white and blue and gold like everything else. Floor to ceiling bookcases obscure part of the natural morning light filtering through the window, and falling on golden hair.
Damen startles. Stares. His head spins. For a moment, he wonders if he’s dreaming. But then he registers the length of the locks, that isn’t quite right, or the build of the shoulders, that’s a little too large. When the man turns, his crisis has passed.
Cold hard blue stares back at him. Surprise, flitting. Anger, simmering. Rage, waiting. The man’s eyes move from Damen to Jord, and then again from Jord to Damen.
“You. You’re the Akielos kid.” The words that drip from his mouth are full of condescension. Great.
Standing a little taller, aware that he has an inch or two on this man, however tall he is, Damen crosses his arms. “And you’re the De Vere heir,” he replies, equally cold. Auguste, his mind supplies, drawing from the deepest depths of his memories. “Trust me, I’m not particularly happy to be working with you either. But your man said you needed the best. And I’m the best.”
Auguste sneers at him then, a micro-expression he’d probably have missed if it didn’t feel so familiar. With the blond hair, the blue eyes. But it can’t be. It isn’t.
Damen shakes his head, drawing himself back from his reverie. “Plus, he promised the pay would be good, and I need the money.”
He isn’t as surprised by the quizzical look thrown his way. Auguste is surely no stranger to his noble birth, considering he recognized Damen instantly. Hearing that he lacks funds must be quite a shock. But Damen can’t tell him he’s planning on leaving again, of abandoning the family name and all that comes with it. Of finally being free.
Deflecting the questions he’s sure are to come, he keeps on, “What do you need me for?”
This time, he does get an answer. He watches as Auguste collects himself, as some small cracks form on his armor before disappearing behind a mask Damen recognizes all too well. He watches as his blue eyes steel in the same expression of determination he’d seen on Jord earlier.
“My brother has been kidnapped. And I need you to help me find him.”
*
Cold water, splashing against his face.
Laurent wakes with a strangled gasp, his vision blurry and his mind woozy. It’s like the whole room is spinning on its axis, the dark corners of the wooden cabin mingling with the shape of the hulking man in front of him.
A hand catches his hair, and tugs, forcing his head back enough for it to hurt. He bites back a moan of pain. Forces himself to focus on the brown eyes staring into his own.
It’s him. Except it isn’t. The note said it would be, but the shape of the face is all wrong, and yet not completely wrong. The nose is bent a little, the cheekbones are weaker, there is no smile on the man’s lips. His hair is longer, a little straighter, and a days-old beard frames his strong jaw.
Slowly, so slowly, as the world stops spinning and Laurent’s mind settles back under his control, the puzzle pieces fall into place.
Damen. Damianos. Damianos of Akielos.
Kastor grins. His hold on Laurent’s hair firms.
“Looks like you’re finally awake then, princess. Wondered if I’d need another beating to wake you up.”
Oh, Laurent wants to spit into his face so bad. But he can still taste the copper stench of blood at the corner of his mouth, can feel the strain on his bound wrists and the ache of bruises forming all over his sensitive skin. Kastor really did a number on him when he jumped him in that alley.
So instead, he settles for a glower, hoping it’ll sufficiently convey his fury without him having to strain his split lip or his molested body.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Kastor laughs, clucking his tongue. “I’m not the one who came running into a dark alley as soon as I received a note from my crush. Incredibly stupid, by the way, to run around without an escort, given who you are. I know my brother is a good lay, but that was just desperate.”
Cold fury has Laurent’s fists balling so hard he can feel the prick of blood against his fingertips. In this moment, he truly wishes he had Damen’s – Damianos’ – strength, so that he could rip his restraints apart and destroy Kastor’s face.
Instead, he takes another steadying breath. For all his gloating, Kastor still looks rumpled and unhinged, like something has finally broken inside of him. His grip also has loosened a bit, and Laurent uses this opportunity to take in more of his surroundings.
It’s a wooden cabin alright. Only two rooms, from what he can make out. The main one he’s in is covered in dust and spiderwebs, an old cast iron stove sputtering back to life in a corner, with a rickety table in the middle, and three other chairs on top of the one he’s currently attached to. The door to his right probably leads to just as bare a bedroom. Wherever they are, it’s been abandoned for years, maybe decades. Old hunting grounds, perhaps? It looks like Kastor is alone, and though Laurent’s throat is parched, he isn’t dying of hunger, so he can’t have taken them too far from the city. One to two days ride, perhaps. Less, if he’s lucky.
And Kastor is still talking. “I left a note you see. I’m asking Auguste a pretty hefty ransom. He owes me that. The De Vere owe me that,” he says, his sneer profoundly cruel as he digs his fingers harder into Laurent’s scalp again.
His hiss of pain quickly morphs into a croaky laugh. “You asked Auguste a ransom? And what do you think is going to happen once he’s paid it, and you’ve returned me home safe?” he wonders, bewildered. His whole body aches, but his kidnapper is acting so stupidly that Laurent can’t not make fun of him. “Do you think things will go back to normal, and you’ll take back control of the Akielos estate and fortune like nothing happened? You can’t be that dense. Auguste will hunt you down. He’ll make it his mission to destroy you, and everything you stand for.” And so will I.
The pressure on his head subsides, and finally, Laurent can breathe easier. Using the reprieve to move around, pretending to make himself more comfortable, he tests his bonds. They’re strong. Multiple knots, encircling his wrists and ankles, pushing his golden bracelet uncomfortably against his sensitive skin. He isn’t getting out of them any time soon.
“I’m not,” Kastor replies.
A flash of grey, and the distinct sound of steel embedding itself into wood. Vibrations, right above Laurent’s left shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he catches the glint of metal. Of a knife.
“Taking his money from Auguste is just the first step. An added bonus, if you will,” Kastor explains, walking slowly back toward Laurent, his stance turned predatory. “I have no intention of running back home once my pockets are full. Just as I have no intention of letting you leave this place in one piece.” He closes the distance, one of his hands coming to grasp the hilt of the knife, the other snaking around Laurent’s throat. “I told you the De Vere owe me a debt. This time, I intend to make you pay it in blood.”
*
A couple of months earlier
The streets are full to the brim with people, as Damen weaves through the night crowds. Tired from his day in the woods, he can feel his muscles protest every time someone bumps into his massive form, every time he has to strain to look them in the eye as they apologize. The night market is bustling already, merchants shouting at every street corner, couples holding hands as they look over fine jewelry.
And Damen just wants to go home.
His clothes are dirty, his forearms are bruised, his eyes are tired. But his backpack is full with a pheasant and two hares he caught earlier, and he can already see the smile on Erasmus’ face as he brings in the fresh meat for him to cook. Can hear the pleasure in Jokaste’s voice as the delicacies hit her tongue. It’s worth even wading through the masses to finally get home. Even if it means leaving a part of his heart out in the woods, somewhere where even the wolves won’t find it.
Distracted by the soft lights of the midsummer lanterns and their gold reflections on the wares around him, Damen feels something impact against his chest.
Someone.
Pale blue eyes rise to meet his own, the surprise quickly replaced by cold annoyance. “What’s a giant animal like you doing idling in the middle of the street?” the young man quips, pushing at his ruffled blond hair in exasperation.
Damen has a great comeback. Something along the lines of “If I’m a giant animal, then you must be made in miniature.” Or maybe something about how the streets are free. Or about how the man should be apologizing. But everything stays stuck in his throat, ravaged as he is by the ethereal beauty before him. By the blond hair and the blue eyes and the pale skin and his prickly snake attitude.
The silence lingers for a bit. Then two. A little too long, enough for a soft blush to color the man’s cheeks under the scrutiny, and for him to turn around with a huff, ready to disappear back into the crowd.
“Wait!” Damen’s hand shoots out, catching on the man’s wrist.
A second later, and he feels his own being twisted painfully away, a snarl marring the stranger’s features. “Don’t…”
Immediately Damen draws back, hands raised in a placating gesture, trying to make himself as tiny and non-threatening as he can. The bow strung around his chest might not help. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Just wanted to apologize for bumping into you.” When no response comes, the man slowly surveying him, taking in his equipment with a raised eyebrow, he adds, “I’m Damen. Nice to meet you.”
The seconds stretch once more, passers-by parting around them as Damen extends his hand again, this time hoping for the stranger to shake it. He’s starting to withdraw, dejected, when a cold palm meets his own, slender fingers lingering a second too long against his callouses.
“Lazar.” Another long look, this time at his pack, curiosity slowly gaining on weariness. “Are you a hunter?”
Truth and wishes and half-baked lies war in Damen’s mind, guilt slithering its way into his chest as he thinks of home, and then thinks again, of the unlimited expanses of trees and earth miles and miles away, which felt much more like Home than the mansion ever did. With a bite to his lips, he nods. “Amongst other things, yes. I’ve been training abroad for a while, and only came back to town recently.” With a small smile, his gaze catching again on the lanterns and the crowds, he adds, “But it seems like some things never change.”
Not seemingly as impressed with the night market as he his, Lazar shrugs and rolls his eyes. The expression is endearing, nearly boyish, on his marble like features. It softens something in Damen’s heart, the way it contrasts with his manners and speech. He recognizes aristocracy too well, even as it’s shrouded behind a moth-eaten cape and a cagey demeanor. Whoever he is, this Lazar fellow comes from blue blood.
“They really don’t,” he mutters under his breath, his eyes seeming to see beyond the town, straight into an abyss only he knows. But before Damen can pry, someone bumps into Lazar, sending him hurtling against Damen’s chest again. He catches him at the last second, sending a glare the woman’s way.
And immediately releases him again, apologizing profusely.
Lazar shakes his head, but something in his demeanor has changed. Damen can’t pinpoint what, exactly. Perhaps it’s his shoulders, that aren’t as tensed as before, or the way his lips curl ever so slightly to the side. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it. Maybe we should move to the side.”
And so they do, avoiding the masses best as they can. Damen catches himself reaching for Lazar’s hands a couple of times, and stops himself at the last second. He hopes the other man doesn’t notice.
He’s surprised to find that Lazar waits for him once he’s breached the crowds, instead of just disappearing into the night. He half expected the beautiful man to be nothing but a figment of his imagination, a beautiful dream made flesh by his fatigue addled mind. And yet here he stands, only a couple of steps away. Not quite smiling.
“You said you went abroad. Where, exactly?” Lazar asks.
It’s surprisingly easy to tell him. To recount his years spent with Halvik and her clan, running around forests all day and all night, letting the nature tame him just as much as he tamed it. Becoming one with everything around him.
He skips over a few details, especially when Lazar starts questioning him about why he left. Alludes to the pressure of being around his family, describing how he felt stifled by the town and its inhabitants. Never says anything about how even though he loves Kastor and Jokaste, he hates the way they ran the estate. Hates the way they run it. Hates that they strive on nothing but their own hatred for their De Vere rivals, hates that it fuels them and fills them enough that it’s all Kastor seems to be able to speak about these days.
“Everything alright?” Lazar’s voice cuts through his musings like scissors through velvet. Damen’s eyes snap to his. He’s surprised to find genuine concern then.
With a chuckle and a wave of his hand, he tries to placate him. “I’m still coming down from the adrenaline rush of my hunt, it’s nothing.” Then with a sly smile, more than happy to divert the attention to someone else, he asks, “But what about you? It’s not often someone of your rank visits the night market alone.”
Something in the air shifts, a heaviness that wasn’t there before as Lazar’s eyes narrow ever so slightly. But it’s gone nearly as fast as it appeared, replaced by a soft blooming smile that immediately weakens Damen’s knees. “Ha, it’s a story a bit similar to yours, I suppose.”
And it’s just as surprisingly easy to listen. To hear of the days Lazar spends with his brother, helping run their business, of the way it speaks to his mind but not to his heart, letting the routine lull him into a false sense of belonging. Thinking this is what happiness must be.
He’s hiding things, too. Damen can tell in the way his breath hitches right before he replaces whatever name he was about to say with “my brother”, in the way his eyes dart around as they weave the market streets whenever something hits a little too close. And he can’t fault Lazar for that. They’re basically strangers, still.
Yet there’s something there. A spark.
They’re both fleeing something. Someone. Dodging the inescapable pressure of life only for a while, tasting a hint of freedom before whatever it is that anchors them here crushes them in its jaws once again. Their bones and brains ground to pieces by the routine they impose on themselves.
Damen can tell that Lazar feels it too. Maybe not as acutely as him. But if the way they’ve been running circle around the same part of town for the better part of an hour as they talk their way into an unlikely friendship is any indication, his cry for help is probably as strong as the tear through Damen’s heart.
*
Damen keeps laughing. Damen keeps laughing, and smiling, and Laurent should find it irritating. Hells, he should already be back home, or nursing his drink at his favorite escape bar, and instead he’s leading this giant puppy around the market and diving into conversations he’s been too scared to bring up to anyone. Especially his brother.
Maybe it’s the newness of him. Damen brings a hint of fresh air in his path, his manners betraying a good education but his talk speaking to the years spent in the wild, as he tells Laurent about the day Halvik and her clan helped him slay a bear with his bare hands. If it was anybody else, Laurent would have teased them for exaggerating. Yet somehow, with Damen, he’s pretty sure he’s telling the truth.
He shouldn’t let his guard down, hates himself for how easily the man slips behind his barricades and aims straight for his heart. And yet it seems like he can do nothing to stop him. It’s already torture to pretend he’s someone else, to invoke Lazar’s persona only for his own to give it the boot every time that he speaks.
Big brown eyes, big brown curls, big brown muscles. They will be the death of him.
“I’ve never slayed a bear myself, but I know of a boy who once used a fork to skewer a full-grown man in the thigh. And won,” Laurent says when the conversation lulls, reaching to fill the silence because he knows his mouth will betray him the moment he stops to think.
Laughter, again. Damen’s deep voice rumbles like a river, sending shivers down Laurent’s spine. It reminds him of earlier, when he thought Damen had caught on to who he was. He’d felt scared, true. But he’d also felt… exhilarated. A prey looking forward to the hunter chasing him.
“Was it you?”
Laurent snickers at the question. It could have been in another life, perhaps. Instead, he shakes his head. “My other, younger, brother. A true menace.”
“Well, I’m looking forward to meeting him.” Damen’s soft remark makes Laurent’s heart sink and soar at the same time. It’s barely an off-hand comment, nothing serious, he can tell, and yet the very idea of Damen coming into contact with Nicaise…
Laurent would never forgive himself if a stranger ever hurt his brother, adopted or not.
On the other hand, he’s pretty sure Nicaise would love to mess with Damen. Might attack him with a fork, too. And Laurent would pay a hefty sum to see that.
“Something funny?” Damen asks, his eyes once again staring unabashedly at Laurent’s face. He can’t help but turn away to hide his returning blush. Being this handsome should probably be illegal.
“Nothing.”
“Doesn’t seem like nothing. You were smiling.”
Laurent half-sighs, half-laughs. “I was thinking that if they ever met you, my younger brother and my older brother would probably both target you with sharp objects.” Imagining Auguste face to face with Damen is another form of torture in itself. He’d be able to tell Laurent was attracted to him in an instant, and then it’d only go one of two ways. Either he’d like Damen, and constantly needle Laurent about his attraction, or he’d hate him, and then Damen would find himself skewered by a sharp object. A sword, probably.
With a huff, Damen keeps walking, his stained clothes rippling over his muscled shoulders, “Don’t they just seem lovely.”
He keeps on talking, but Laurent isn’t listening anymore. A soft reflection has caught at the corner of his eye, and when he turns to look at it he finds a jewelry stall, adorned in glistening silvers and golds, the artisan’s fine craftmanship shining in every single one of her creations. She welcomes him with a curt nod and smile, inviting him to peruse her wares. But there’s only one of her sets that he’s interested in.
The duo of golden bands lies on a red velvet cushion. The bracelets are wide, intricately adorned with filigree in the form of leaves and flowers, some of the details so finely etched they appear real. A pure work of art.
And yet, something he doesn’t deserve.
He turns away from the stall before he can linger any longer, thanking her quickly. And gets stopped by a massive body, right behind his own.
“See anything you like?” Damen asks, pointing to the jewelry with his chin. Even from a couple steps and wearing half the layers Laurent is, he radiates warmth. Laurent wants to hug him. Laurent wants to slap him.
Laurent wants to kiss him.
“Just checking the earrings. My brother has been thinking about getting a new set,” he replies, the lie smooth on his lips. It isn’t even one, technically. Nicaise had gone through Laurent’s stash last week, and he’d been nagging Laurent ever since about wanting to wear the beautiful twin sapphire earring he’d carefully hidden there for Nicaise’s next birthday. Which was in three months.
He doesn’t register Damen’s hand moving until he can feel it brushing against his hair, pushing it away to get a better look at his own ear. The furious blush that colors his cheeks then, he can’t quite hide. Especially when the man adds, in a soft voice, “Well, if he’s half as beautiful as you are, I’m sure whatever you choose will suit him.”
And then, like nothing happened, he starts walking again, leaving a smitten Laurent in his wake.
*
Present
“When was the last time you saw him?” Damen asks as Auguste guides him through the corridors of polished wood and unmarred white walls. He’s requested to see the victim’s room as a first step, so that’s presumably where they’re headed.
“Yesterday for dinner,” Auguste supplies with a grunt. Every admission seems to be dragged out of him, every piece of weakness something the De Vere heir would rather hide than see exposed to his enemy. But if they want to find his brother, they don’t have a choice.
And, though Damen would never tell him that, it’s not like he’s remotely interested to exploit his defects.
He ponders Auguste’s answer instead, mapping out how far anyone could have gone in a little under a day, either by foot or by horse. Still a wide search area. But better than nothing. Hopefully, the next clues will help narrow it down. “Then he’s either still in town or in the surrounding countryside. If we move fast, you might see your brother again tonight, or tomorrow.”
“Considering what I’m paying you, it better be tonight.”
Deflecting the venomous words cloaked in the unmistakable wobble of worry, Damen pushes through the door Auguste just opened.
His first thought is that the place is entirely too neat. Every linen is folded just the right way, every cloth safely hanged or put away, every sheet on the desk neatly stacked. The windows are closed, the shades still drawn, though a couple of light rays illuminate specks of dust floating in the air around them.
No one was kidnapped here.
And yet Damen can’t help but look for signs of forced entry. Signs of a struggle. Anything that will assuage his employer’s feelings. He can feel the worry as if it were his own, can hear his heart falter and then pick up as he moves from the bed to some shelves, his trained eyes picking up on familiar details but his mind too busy looking for clues to understand what’s staring him right in the face.
Because everything looks so familiar.
“What’s happening?” The voice is sharp yet youthful, a slight silhouette standing in the doorway, dark hair highlighted by glowing sapphires at his left ear. The kid’s sneer mimics Auguste’s perfectly, as he takes in Damen. “Why is there an uncivilized brute in Laurent’s chamber?”
With a couple of strides, Auguste is at the kid’s side, chastizing him too quietly for Damen to quite make out his words. It barely seems to move him. The slender shoulders shrug, until a particular sentence falls, and then he freezes. Blanches. His blue eyes – blues everywhere, blues in the De Vere’s pupils and blues in the sheets on the bed, blues on the book covers, blues on the carefully draped fabric of a cape, blues Damen knows too well – widen with shock, and then horror. He stutters.
When he speaks next, the kid’s voice trembles. “Laurent went outside yesterday. After dinner,” he reveals, looking apologetically at Auguste, who can’t even seem to bring himself to be mad as the adolescent shakes. “He’s been doing it for a while now, but he usually comes back unscathed.”
As Damen moves closer to them, he hears the next part, added in a softer voice still, “He usually comes back with a smile on his face.”
Something breaks in Damen’s heart to see this kid ready to burst into tears, and Auguste reassuring him – Nicaise, from what he gathers – as he pushes him back to his own room, promising that they’ll get Laurent back, not matter what. But his own mind is already back on track.
Tailing someone through the town won’t be as easy as following footsteps into the mud, but luck seems to have them on their side today. After all, the night market is still around for a couple more days, and if this Laurent fellow went out after dark, then surely someone must have spotted him.
And indeed someone did. Damen only has to asks a couple of the regular merchants as they’re preparing for tonight, flashing his best smile to contrast with Auguste’s looming coldness, for lips to loosen up. A tailor saw the young blond man going this way, and was so entranced by his looks she first thought he was a woman. A fruit merchant offered him an apple when he noticed his tattered outer wear, only for some of his fine clothing to peak through and surprise him. A young cutpurse Damen manages to catch when she tries to lift Auguste’s gold saw the pretty boy move to this little hidden alley, and then a hooded man push him on a horse, and take him straight out of town.
Auguste stills at the mention of the hooded man. But Damen isn’t listening anymore. He’s looking at the alley the young girl is pointing at. At the barrel he knows obfuscates a shaky brick, behind which a little nook, just enough to fit a rolled-up parchment, hides.
The revelation punches through him so hard it’s all he can do not to bend over and heave. Not to fall apart.
Because if what he thinks is true, then the stakes of this kidnapping just became much much more personal.
He collects himself just in time to send a gold coin the young girl’s way before Auguste drags him to the closest stables and comes out with two freshly harnessed horses.
“Shouldn’t we take other people with us?” Damen asks, trying his best now to mask his own worry, to focus on the mission instead of his own beating heart. If he lets his fear win, he will unravel. He can feel it.
Mounting his horse with a determined look, Auguste nods. “I’ve already sent word to Jord to rally my men. They’ll follow closely. But I assumed it’d be easier to track your way to Laurent without having ten people meddling.”
Laurent. Gods, Damen had been so stupid. It had been in front of his face this whole time.
“It will be,” is all the answer he manages before he sends his own mount into a canter.
Thankfully, the kidnapper took one of the less trod roads out of the city when he fled. Which means the prints at the gate are easily discernible from one another.
But there are still so many.
And then the circumstances of the kidnapping slowly dredge themselves from Damen’s addled mind. Laurent went to the hidden alley. Someone was obviously waiting for him there, probably bludgeoned him, and took off.
Someone who was smart enough to stalk him and his routine for days, if not weeks.
Or smart enough to stalk Damen.
A chill runs down his spine as his fists contract over his reins, a small huff of protest escaping his horse. And yet Damen is far away still. Fighting in the throes of his mind as the picture it starts painting horrifies him ever more.
It helps him, nonetheless. As much as he loathes to admit it.
Dismounting for a couple of minutes, long enough to study each set of tracks, discard those that belong to women or short men, or unmounted groups, he finally finds what he’s looking for. One horse, heavily loaded, heading for the forest.
They follow them in silence, until even that is too much to bear for him. Damen turns to Auguste. Gives himself a couple of seconds to study his face. The similarities. The differences.
He needs to know for sure.
But he can’t be too obvious about it.
“Why did you agree to work with me, if you hate my family so much?”
The question startles Auguste, the worry lines on his forehead giving way to clear surprise in his eyes. Instead of his sour expression of superiority coming back, though, his pale features take on a melancholy air, a sigh brushing against his lips. “Jord said you were the best, and I trust Jord.” Then, after a beat, he adds, “And I don’t hate your family.”
It’s Damen’s turn to be surprised, the revelation twisting everything he’d ever heard Kastor mention before about the De Vere. How they wanted to wreck them, to take their business and their family name away, until only embers of the Akielos family remained. It had been his favorite tale to spin after their parents died, going so far as to forbid Damen from ever making contact with them.
“Then what…”
He doesn’t know how to articulate his question. What is the meaning of it all? What happened? What is happening?
Thankfully, Auguste seems to pick up on the unspoken, leaving Damen to chase the trail as he recounts facts, so ingrained in his mind he seems to recite them from memory. “Centuries ago, our families were sworn enemies. Rivals in trade. And then, a couple of generations ago, a deal was made, in the hopes to fortify both businesses. An arranged marriage.” He pauses, observing the set of tracks and broken branches Damen mulls over. “As you can guess, one of the betrothed betrayed the other, and never showed up. Depending on which side you’re on, it was either your ancestor or mine. Whatever the case, their names are lost to time, as are the actual events of that day.”
“All this over a marriage falling apart?” Damen asks, bewildered, as he trots ahead, his eyes peeled for any change in the tracks. The recent rains have made the earth malleable, and with it, his job far too easy. Or perhaps the kidnapper was just being sloppy. Damen wouldn’t be surprised.
“Well, our families are both very good at holding a grudge.”
“But you don’t?”
Another sigh. Auguste catches up to him, his eyes lost in the canopy. “I did, at first. And then I saw the way it destroyed your brother. I saw Kastor devolving into resentment, saw him plunge into debt in his efforts to one-up me. It just… it wasn’t worth it. Especially with two brothers to take care of,” he says the last part so quietly Damen barely hears it. But the way his blue eyes seem to pierce through him, with a sadness that stabs straight to his soul, is enough to shake him to the core.
Clearing his throat, choosing to ignore the way his heart squeezes as he thinks of Kastor, of how cheerful he was before Damen left years ago, and of the shell of himself he’d become when Damen came back, he turns his next question on another topic. The one he’s truly after.
“What does he look like? Laurent, I mean. I was away for a while, I didn’t…”
Auguste shakes his head with a small, private laugh. “You wouldn’t have seen him even if you’d been around. He’s a homebody most days, and I never took him to business meetings unless I truly had to. There was no need to have him faced with your brother’s animosity,” and that part stings, it really does, but Damen can’t fault Auguste for doing what was best toward his family. Admires him for that, even.
“We’re quite similar,” Auguste answers finally, his eyebrows knitting with worry again as he pushes his horse faster, starting to pick up on the pattern Damen has been following for a while already. “Blond hair, though it’s cut a bit shorter than mine. Same blue eyes. Paler skin. Slender but muscular build. Likes to judge everyone he meets with a single glance, though he’s a true romantic bookworm at heart.”
Damen doesn’t think he’d have described him better himself. The image springs clear in his mind, almost lifelike, a soft smile painted on marble features.
He’s about to reveal everything to Auguste when the tracks suddenly disappear.
With a tug on his reins, his mount stops, a small neigh escaping its mouth. He dismounts in a quick motion, backtracking until he finds the trail again. It stops in a clearing, the four prints of a horse planted in an almost identical way to his own, before seeming to turn around and flee.
There’s so much mud now, in the heart of the woods, so much humidity that the earth is practically sinking beneath his feet, making tracking an absolute mess.
It takes him a while to finally find another clue. Minutes, hours maybe of going around in circles, looking for broken branches or displaced rocks or crushed ferns. Until he finds it.
A set of footprints, bigger than his own, but similar in weight. More profoundly drawn to the right, as if whoever made them was carrying a heavy burden on that side. And heading west.
Pulling up a map from one of his leather pouches, he jots down where they are, and then, with a quick glance, in which direction the tracks are heading.
And freezes.
Because those familiar prints are moving toward a place he remembers, from a long, long time ago.
The icy knot of worry solidifies into something darker in the pit of his stomach. Anger. Hatred. Betrayal. Twisty coils of emotions that make him shake all over, and lunge for his horse before pushing it into a galop, ignoring Auguste’s yelp of surprise.
Because Lazar is Laurent. And, if Damen is right, he’s been kidnapped by none other than Kastor.
*
He feels blood trickle against his throat, over his left eye, in his elbow, each and every cut bringing with it the sting of pain and the thrill of life.
Because as long as it hurts, Laurent isn’t dead.
There’s something crazy in Kastor’s eyes, something he’s only seen once before, shortly before Auguste’s sword cut through the torso of their uncle. A hunger for hurting others, as much as a hunger for hurting oneself. It’s like he isn’t even looking at Laurent, every time he strikes, but only at the symbol he is.
In this moment, Laurent isn’t Laurent anymore. He’s the whole De Vere family, the cunning tyrants and the ages old rivals.
Except he’s still very much himself, and if he doesn’t find a way to get free, quickly, then he’s going to run out of blood before Kastor’s thirst for vengeance is quenched.
He’s been working on his bindings in between scrapes of the knife, slowly pushing the rope against the old wood. It’s barely given. If anything, the wood seems weaker than the already weak rope. But it still gives him hope. Not enough, however, to genuinely trust he’s going to survive Kastor’s next bout of torture.
The man is talking to himself in hushed tones, his steps echoing on the creaky floor, as day slowly gives way to night outside, making it harder still for Laurent to make out his surroundings. He’s glad he mapped them as soon as he woke up.
The wood underneath Kastor’s feet shifts with a heavy groan, and Laurent tenses. He’s closing in again, bloodied knife still in hand. A couple more heavy cuts, and Laurent’s mind won’t be able to think properly because of the blood loss.
Think, he orders himself. Think!
And then another voice covers his own, deep but gentle, with a hint of humor and irony he hadn’t understood at the time. Hadn’t wanted to understand. “For a commoner, you have quite the way with words,” Damen had said, a fond gaze sent Laurent’s way.
Talk then.
“I kept wondering why my brother wouldn’t take me to business meetings, but if that’s the way all you Akielons behave, then I’m not surprised.”
It’s a meager insult, but it works. Stunned, Kastor stops in his tracks, taking another look at his bloodied and beaten prisoner. The knife in his hand trembles. But the words seem to seep through what remains of his sanity. Slowly, he regains some composure, anger making way to a resentful sneer.
“He more likely didn’t want you to see how he swindled everyone that wasn’t his own family,” he growls, playing with the handle still.
Laurent laughs. He can’t help it. Auguste, swindling people? If someone had told him Nicaise was a perfect angel, he’d have believed them more readily. Auguste is so bad at pretending he literally has to enlist one of his men, or sometimes Laurent, when he has a little white lie to tell someone. He’d never be able to pull anything off in front of business associates. Nothing of the magnitude Kastor is thinking of, at least.
“Auguste is the most honest person I’ve ever met,” he retorts, truth ringing heavy.
Half-truth. He’d thought he’d known someone even more honest, at least where it mattered, once he’d met Damen.
A vein pops in Kastor’s forehead. His eyes thin again. Laurent wonders if he’s gone too far. Yet the man contains himself, still. His teeth grinding and his muscles bunching, Kastor draws out his next words with so much venom it would’ve already killed Laurent, had it been real: “An honest man wouldn’t be able to turn such a profit. Not when I can’t do half as much as he does, even while…”
He doesn’t finish the thought, but Laurent is smart enough to paint himself a full picture. “Even while I cheat. Even while I corrupt. Even while I do everything in my power to gain the upper hand.”
And then, another obvious truth smacks him in the face.
Laurent is so surprised he forgets about his roped hands, forgets about how he’s currently held prisoner by the mad brother of the man he has slowly fallen for, how he’s bleeding and hurting all over.
“You’ve bankrupted yourself,” he whispers, with a certainty he’s rarely felt before.
Kastor turns white, then red. He starts pacing again, his weapon still in hand, trying to ignore the terrible weight of truth.
“You’ve bankrupted yourself, and now you need to get a ransom from Auguste because if you don’t, the Akielos name will fall into misfortune and…”
“I don’t care about the Akielos name!”
The cabin shakes from the roar of his voice, a couple of early night birds taking flight outside. Laurent’s eyebrows knit together. Now, this is intriguing. Now, the pain falls secondary to his curiosity.
“Then what…”
He doesn’t finish the question. Kastor turns on him, but instead of running straight for Laurent and attacking again, he pulls out a chair, making sure it scrapes uncomfortably against the wood, and straddles it, pillowing his arms on the back, his chin on his hands, gauging what he wants to do next.
Deciding that, whatever happens, he’ll be far away from here soon enough, and Laurent will most likely be dead. And he needs the company while they wait.
Wait for what? Laurent has wondered already. Does he have an ally in town, waiting to receive payment? He thinks he heard Auguste mention a fiancée once. Is that what…
“I don’t care about the Akielos name anymore. I did, once. And then your brother did his best to sink every shred of pride I had for what my family had accomplished far, far below the surface. And succeeded.”
Even knowing that Auguste never specifically targeted their rivals, what with being part of his strategic team for the past decade, Laurent feels himself moved by Kastor’s words. Recognizes the patterns of speech and the allure of the voice, having heard it somewhere else before.
Kastor would no doubt have been a brilliant leader, had he ever applied himself half as much to developing his skills instead of trying to destroy others.
“The only thing that matters now is my true family. My wife. My kid. Everything else can burn.”
“And your brother?” Laurent wants to ask. But he knows it’s a slippery slope, one that would involve him too much, when what he needs is for Kastor to get too preoccupied with himself, while he finds a way to escape. Sooner, rather than later.
“And how are you going to provide for them? If you couldn’t manage your money before, how long before you run out of whatever you asked Auguste?” he sneers in turn, using his best haughty voice, the one that works wonders on people that underestimate him.
The one he tried and failed to use on Damen, once.
The memory hurts, sinking painfully into his chest, compressing his already beaten muscles. He’s so absorbed in his pain for a moment, mental as it is physical, he nearly forgets to tune back in to hear Kastor’s answer.
“Oh, trust me, I asked enough out of your dear Auguste to both bankrupt him and make sure Jokaste and I are set for life.”
Millions, then. Too much for anyone to bring here, even using deeds and other parallel currencies. Definitely an ally in town, or somewhere close to here, but easily accessible.
Auguste is never going to fall for it.
The notion is enough to let Laurent loosen his shoulders as his heart rate steadies. No matter how much Auguste loves him, no matter how rash he may become from hearing the news, he knows he wouldn’t give in. Not without a backup plan at least. He’d rather ambush whoever was waiting at the drop off, and have them admit to Laurent’s location, begging for mercy, since Kastor probably shared his whereabouts with the person helping him.
At least, that’s what Laurent would do.
Knowing help is on the way both exhilarates and assuages him. He just needs to hold off long enough. Just needs to keep Kastor talking. And if he can make fun of him while he does, then all the more enjoyable.
“You’re going to be a terrible role model for your kid, you know that? Even if you somehow change your name and move to the next country over, what are you going to tell them? “Oh yeah, don’t worry, Kastor junior, I got all this money from a very generous donor, and I’m definitely not ashamed and hiding from that past I won’t ever tell you about.” Given how capable you are, I give you a couple of months. Maybe years. No more.”
“Months?” An indignant squawk bursts out of Kastor’s lips. Good. Let the fool finally get his due.
“Months,” Laurent confirms, trying to cross his legs in a display of superiority and reminding himself at the last minute that they’re also tied to the chair. So he spreads them instead, taking as much room as he can, smiling around his torn lip and blinking away the blood in his eyes to fix Kastor with an icy glare. “You’re a moron, Kastor. You could barely keep your company running when you took over from your parents, even though all you had to do was replicate what they did exactly and you wouldn’t have had to worry until you too were dead. But no, instead, you tried to do it your way. And look where that got you. In an old abandoned cabin in the woods, using an innocent young man to take your anger out.”
His stare morphs from coldness to downright fury then. Because that’s the least of Kastor’s faults. Oh, he could have run his company and his estate dry, for all Laurent cared. Auguste would have been happy, and that was always worth it.
But there is one sin, however. One little detail, that truly enrages him.
“Except when you chose selfishness, when you chose to be nothing more than a glorified con artist, you didn’t just doom yourself, and Jokaste, and your future kid. You doomed Damen too. And that’s what makes you rotten to the core.”
Kastor’s chair collapses to the ground in a clatter. He’s standing tall again, looming over Laurent even from feet away, his face drawn and dark, all humor or anger vanished.
“You don’t get to speak his name.”
Something snaps into Laurent. He’s been holding back, holding so so much back. All the anger and worry and love and downright fear that are swirling in his heart, eating him alive.
He can’t hold back anymore.
“I do, actually,” he hisses, struggling against his bindings anew, not half as discreet as he was before. “I do, because when I speak his name, I at least do it with the respect it deserves. Unlike you.”
Instead of the knife, it’s the burn of a slap that touches his face next. His neck snaps so hard he worries his spine might have broken then and there. Blinks a couple of time. Rights himself again. Facing Kastor.
Flustered Kastor. Full of hatred Kastor. Seconds away from wringing his neck Kastor.
“Damen probably just thinks of you as an expensive whore he can have fun with on the side. Don’t speak his name again.”
The words are like a lash taken directly to his already molested heart. Except the blow doesn’t sting half as much as it should. Because there is something else in Kastor’s eyes.
Somewhere, deep in his mind, he knows Laurent is right.
So Laurent puts pressure where it hurts. Drips his own venom in the wounds he’s just opened, with a satisfaction that should scare him, but instead makes his blood sing and a wry smile cross his lips.
“At least he doesn’t despise me so much that he ran away to another country for years to avoid me,” he bites back, his fangs sinking deep into Kastor’s brain. So deep the man visibly takes a step back.
He doesn’t feel guilty even for one second, using the knowledge that was shared to him in secret weeks ago. A confession made from too much wine and too good an evening, with a shaky voice and trembling hands, tears at the corners of big, beautiful, brown eyes.
Time slows. The darkness outside encompasses the interior of the cabin now as well, the lit fire slowly turning to embers as Kastor forgets to stroke it, the sounds of the night gently covering the staccato rhythm of Laurent’s heart.
And then Kastor lungers with the knife again.
There’s no doubt in Laurent’s mind that this time, he’s truly going to die.
*
A couple of weeks earlier
The pitter-patter of the rain outside isn’t quite enough to engulf the rising and falling sounds of conversations in the taverns. Glasses clinking, people laughing, heads lolling from too much alcohol. Everyone is in a good mood tonight.
Everyone but Lazar.
Their encounter at the market had culminated in an agreement to keep seeing each other, Lazar undoubtedly unable to resist Damen’s mournful eyes as he’d asked “Will I ever see you again?”. Implementing a system of notes left for each other in a hidden box behind a hidden crate in a hidden corner street had been surprisingly easy, and yet not nearly as much as hanging with Lazar every week or so, when their respective schedules permitted it.
This is one of those nights, the two of them shoved in a tiny corner of a tinier tavern, Damen nursing his tankard with jittery fingers as Lazar looks over the crowd without quite seeing them. Over the weeks, he’d grown warmer bit by bit. Smiling here and there, even laughing sometimes. Revealing what was hidden behind the icily hardened façade.
“What’s wrong?” Damen asks, unable to contain himself anymore. He feels close to bursting at the seams, the box in his pouch a heavy weight, but not half as heavy as Lazar’s sigh as he turns back to him.
“Sorry,” he apologizes with a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I had a fight with my brother earlier. I’m not…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but Damen understands. It’s as close to an admission of weakness as he’s ever heard Lazar.
“The older one?”
A sneeker, first genuine emotion of the night. Damen would feel elated if he wasn’t so nervous. “I fight so often with the younger one it’s not cause for concern, I fear.”
“Your family sounds… charming.”
“As does yours,” Lazar retorts, eyes truly focusing on Damen then, an undertone of meanness that wasn’t there before. Damen grimaces. He probably deserves that one, especially after he spent nearly all of their latest meeting complaining about Kastor being an absolute disaster of an estate leader.
Another sigh, this one softer, as Laurent shifts into his chair, no doubt trying – and failing – to make himself comfortable. For some reason, he insists on wearing fancy garb barely hidden by a ratty cloak that he never takes off. In the middle of summer.
Damen finds it charming. Might have said so, on one occasion at least.
“Sorry, again. You don’t deserve that. I’m still on edge.”
With a twirl of his beer, trying to appear as innocent as possible, Damen offers, “Do you want to talk about it?”
He’s been trying to get Lazar to open up for a while now. Sure, they’re both still veiled in their own thin lies, never revealing names, or places, or anything but the deeper and darker truth of who they are and who they want to be. But Lazar remains the most guarded of the two.
It has not stopped Damen, however, from falling head over heels for the man.
Lazar taps at his own drink, visibly grinding his teeth, before settling back into himself, the mask of feigned calm he usually shows strangers falling onto his features. “I don’t think s…” He stops. Swears. Starts again. “Oh, to the hells with it.”
The mask melts again, right then and there, a flash of frustration coloring his cheeks as he grips his beer tighter. “I love my brother, I truly do,” he insists first, like an apology in advance for what he’s about to say. Damen wants to tell him he couldn’t care less, but he fears that if he interrupts, he’ll never hear the rest of the story. “But he can be so… thick-headed sometimes.” Another glance at Damen. A genuine, sly smile this time. Whispered words that sound surprisingly like “You remind me of him.” And then another tirade. “He’s been increasingly concerned for my safety lately. I mean, he’s always coddled me, and it’s not like I don’t enjoy indulging in it sometimes, but it’s becoming positively overbearing these days. So I tried to talk some sense into him. Make him understand how it’s… too much.”
Silence. Lazar’s eyes turn regretful. “He wouldn’t have it.”
On instinct, Damen reaches for his other hand laying on the table, and gives it a squeeze, pushing away at his worry that Lazar will draw back. He doesn’t. He turns his fingers instead, lacing their hands together and barely seeming to notice it.
All the fight drains out of Lazar, like strings cut on a puppet, his shoulders sagging, his head hanging slightly to the side, blond strands obfuscating his beautiful sea colored gaze. “I just wish he’d listen to me, sometimes,” he admits in a whisper.
Damen’s heart clenches at the words, echoing ones he’s thought too often. He wishes he had something brilliant to say to Lazar. Something that would take away the pain in his eyes and the strain on his face. Something he longs to hear too.
But all the words he has tonight are those. “I’ll listen to you. Whenever you need to vent, or to cry, or scream or laugh or anything else. I’ll be there.”
It’s as close to a confession as he dares, his chest beating with excitement as much as anticipation, sweat dripping from his forehead.
Lazar squeezes his hand in turn. A smile, fragile, spreads across his plump lips. “Thank you. I appreciate it,” he says, voice still small. He seems to hesitate then, his mouth opening and closing multiple times, his features doing complicated things that Damen hasn’t quite yet learned how to interpret. He thinks he can read impatience, then fear, then self-consciousness, settling in what he’s starting to think looks like fondness on the exquisite features of this man.
The silence stretches between them as their hands stay clenched together, the tavern quieting down slowly as the night draws on.
The box in Damen’s pouch feels heavier with every second.
When finally, he can’t take the pressure anymore, he unlaces their fingers with a regretful twitch, and dives into his coat to retrieve the object that feels like it’s burning a hole through it. Takes out the black box in a sweeping gesture, and pushes it in Lazar’s direction without a word.
He receives a raised eyebrow in return, a silent question he answers with a movement of his chin, inviting the other man to open the present. Damen knows that if he were to speak, his voice would crack under the weight of the tension currently seizing his body.
Lazar examines the box for a while. It’s black and plain, though the velvet is exquisite to the touch. Not enough to detract from the treasure it holds. Enough to make a good first impression. Damen is no fool.
And then, oh so carefully, Lazar opens the box.
*
Laurent can’t believe what he’s seeing.
Cushioned on the soft red fabric, two bracelets with exquisite filigree lie, the light of the tavern reflecting back softly on their golden surface.
A true work of art.
He’s at a loss for words, like he’s rarely been before. He didn’t think Damen noticed which item had grabbed Laurent’s fancy, when he’d been checking out the stall all those weeks ago. And yet he isn’t surprised. Or, more accurately, he isn’t surprised by how Damen always manages to surprise him. How he understands him unlike anyone ever has before, not even Auguste.
How there’s something there still, a connection that runs deep, and snags with certainty around Laurent’s heart, no matter how hard he tries to fight it.
“You…” he starts, unsure how to end his question. “You remembered? You cared? You bought this for me?” Or other questions. Heavier questions. “Why did you? What do you want? What do you think of me?”
He’s scared the answer to any of them would break him.
“I saw you looking,” Damen explains, sheepishly scratching at the back of his head of curls, like he somehow feels guilty for his gift.
Oh, Laurent can’t have that.
Bringing as much assurance as he can in his voice, he draws on the embers of joy he’s tried to keep constantly in check, every time they are together. Lets some of their light slip through the closed doors to his heart. “I love them. They’re… breathtaking,” he admits, his gaze moving back to the bands, the craft evident in each indentation.
“Not as much as you are.”
The line is corny, nearly as ridiculous as it is to suddenly see Damen try to make himself small, bunching his giant shoulders together, a redness flaming high on his sun dappled cheeks. Yet the door to Laurent’s heart opens a bit wider still, warmth pouring through them and into his vein, a smile dancing on his lips. “Now you’re just trying to get in my pants.”
He hears more than he sees Damen’s startled cough, as he slowly takes on of the bands in his hands, carefully studying their patterns, feeling the gold slowly get warmer under his fingers.
Embarrassed into silence, unable to find a clever retort, the image of Damen frozen still comes into focus in between the carved details of the bracelets, his nervousness evident in each of his unguarded looks to Laurent.
Laurent’s mind catches on the heavy silhouette, on every detail of his face, the décor and brouhaha of the tavern around them falling away, all his attention taken by the wonderful man in front of him. So taken, in fact, he doesn’t notice the other heavy gaze focused on him, from all the way across the bar.
For the first time in his life, Laurent understands that fighting this, whatever it is, whatever it will be, is a lost cause. Not that he wants to fight it any longer.
So he grabs Damen’s arm, and draws him forward, until Damen has no choice but to stand out of his chair, and lean over the table. Until he’s close enough for Laurent to fasten the golden band around his right wrist. And then he does the same with his left, trying to pretend the sound of the clasp closing doesn’t bring him immense satisfaction.
“There, all done,” he says, patting Damen’s forearm gently and forcing his fingers to not linger on the muscles he so desperately wants to touch.
Damen remains standing, confusion and elation visibly warring on his face. “What…”
Feeling suddenly provocative, Laurent leans forward, furrowing his eyebrows just so, letting another more private smile stretch his lips. “Was this not what you had in mind?” he asks.
With the way Damen blushes a fiery red, visible even on his dark skin, he thinks he has all the answers he needs.
-
The night before
Laurent has been missing Damen like crazy.
He should hate it, that such a recent relationship can drive him to the brink of madness, that the easy way he keeps everyone but his family at arm’s length has been completely shattered by soulful eyes and a deceptively genuine smile. But he doesn’t.
Instead he mopes every day he doesn’t get to see the man, either because Damen is too busy, or he is. The fact that he hasn’t even received one note from him in the past couple of days enrages him even more, makes him irritable enough that he has to leave dinner early because he knows if he doesn’t he’ll snap at Auguste or even Nicaise, and say something he’ll truly regret.
Spinning around his room like a lion in a cage, he tries to breathe. It doesn’t work.
Finally, on the end of his rope, he grabs his tattered cloak, and makes for the stairs, as discreetly as possible. Jord nods to him as he passes. Laurent nods back. Reminds himself to raise the man’s salary even more, next time he discusses it with Auguste, right as he catches a hint of sapphire at the edge of his vision. He smiles.
The streets are still bustling, this early in the evening. He barely notices. He makes his way with determination in his steps, finding the barrel and the loose brick behind it before he gently tugs it free from the rest of the wall, coughing as it stirs some dust right into his face.
His breathing stops.
There’s a pristine white note carefully rolled up in the alcove.
“I’m waiting for you further in the alley. I missed you.”
The script looks a bit wrong. Tilted slightly more to the left, smaller too. And the note isn’t signed.
Some alarm bells start ringing in the back of Laurent’s skull, but he’s so excited he doesn’t hear them. He places the brick back, clenches the note into his fist, and makes his way further in the darkness.
All he remembers, before losing consciousness, is that the body he tried to hug felt all wrong.
*
That night, Damen wakes with a start, the sound of thunder echoing in the chamber around him. Something grips at his heart. A fear he’s never ever felt before.
But all is right in his chambers. Nothing disturbed. Nothing to fear.
So he goes back to sleep.
Kastor is still gone, and he’ll need his strength if he wants to make it through tomorrow’s red tape unarmed.
*
Present
Kastor’s knife arcs, straight for his throat this time, and for the first time since he woke up Laurent feels true fear. Bone deep, stomach twisting, muscle straining fear.
And then his brain kicks into motion.
He evades at the very last second, feeling the blade catching on his tender skin, a scrape instead of a killing blow. As he dives to the right, his left wrist catches in the ropes he’s been working for hours now, his cuff snagging against his binds, preventing him from sending the chair to the floor as he’d anticipated.
And then he hears it. A faint snap. The sound of light fabric falling to the floor.
His bracelet cut through what little straps were still tethering him.
Laurent is free.
At least, once he tugs at the remainder of his binds none too gently.
Another blow comes his way, the menacing glint of the knife reflecting the fire behind Kastor, but he’s had enough time to recover. With a swift kick of his leg, Laurent makes his enemy buckle, and fall to one knee, weapon still in hand.
“I think you’ll quickly learn that I’m not just my brother’s damsel in distress, nor your brother’s helpless whore,” he spits, beaten lip reopening, feeling blood drop down his chin.
With quick movements, he kicks again, this time in Kastor’s stomach, forcing him to bend around a painful groan, clever retort dying on his tongue as his hateful eyes close. Takes Kastor’s wrist and twists it, so fast it cracks, forcing his knife out and clattering to the ground.
A deep sense of satisfaction settles on Laurent. Satisfaction at perfectly mimicking what Auguste taught him – surprise then disarm. Satisfaction at hurting the man who hurt him. Satisfaction, most of all, at hurting the man who hurt Damen without ever realizing it.
Thinking about Damen instantly drenches his excitement, swallowing the elation under an ocean of guilt. No matter what Kastor did, he’s still Damen’s brother. What would Laurent think, if he saw Damen molesting Auguste?
So deep in his feelings, he forgets all about his surroundings for a second. Only a second. Yet still enough.
Kastor steps back up with an angry growl, and slams into him with full force. He’s built like an ox, bigger than Damen, if that is even possible. Laurent doesn’t stand a chance.
He falls, hard. Lands on his back and feels his left elbow crack when it hits the ground. Probably broken.
In an instant, Kastor is on him. The unhinged glint is back in his dark pupils, all logical thought forgotten He towers over Laurent like a monster straight out of the fairy tales, heaving with every breath as his hands snake around Laurent’s neck. And squeeze.
Laurent chokes.
He’s powerless. He’s going to die. He’s going to die and he won’t see Auguste ever again, won’t be able to argue with him and then run into his arms for a hug, won’t be able to scold and sneer at Nicaise and then smile fondly when the teenage boy turns his back, won’t be able to trade sarcastic blows and painful stories with Damen then head home with his thoughts filled of him.
He won’t be able to kiss him, like he promised himself he would, one day. Soon.
His muscles seize, his brain scatters, his eyes roll back into his head. A glint of metal, glowing red into the embers’ dying light. His last chance before death.
Laurent extends his left hand toward the blade, ignoring the flash of pain in his elbow that pales in comparison to the one of his windpipes getting crushed. There’s no place left for panic in his heart. If he doesn’t do this, it’s the end for him. Here. Now.
He feels more than he sees the handle into his grasp, a sharp twang of hope even though his vision is blurring, the sounds of his struggle getting garbled even to his own ears. It hurts. It hurts so much. And yet he picks up the knife, and drives it into Kastor, as fast as he can.
Blackness. All-encompassing blackness.
But he can hear wheezing inhales of pain, echoing his own as he takes breath after breath of fresh air. The wood cracks under Kastor’s staggering figure. When Laurent finally opens his eyes, he sees his massive silhouette backing up, shock written all over his face as his hand comes to touch the weapon embedded squarely into his ribcage, blood trickling on the floor heavily.
Laurent sits up. Coughs. Then, ever so slowly, his body aching in places he didn’t even think could, he uses his chair to prop himself all the way into standing, and levels his best glare at Kastor.
“For the record,” he says, voice still raw, “I still think this is the stupidest plan you could have ever come up with.”
Refusing to ponder on whether or not to finish Kastor, or worse, watch him die, Laurent turns around, and limps toward the door, refusing to emit any sound of pain.
When he opens it, the old hinges squeaking awfully loud, ready to leave this place behind him with a trail of his and Kastor’s blood in his wake, he blinks.
A light pierces the shadows of the woods at night.
On the other side of the clearing, two silhouettes stand, blanketed by early evening fog. And yet they’re unmistakable. Somehow, they found him.
Damen and Auguste are here.
*
Before he can even think it through, Damen is running.
He flies over a felled tree, rights himself when his feet threaten to send him sprawling into the mud as he lands, and sprints with all his might, aiming right for Laurent.
The man crumples into his arms as soon as he arrives, and Damen feels his heart give a painful squeeze, quickly replaced with a burning anger as he takes in the marks. Traces of beatings, all over his face, from the split lip to the trails of blood over his eye and under his jaw, including the bruises, slowly blooming on his fair skin.
If Kastor isn’t dead, Damen will kill him on sight.
His muscles tense, a predator ready to pounce, when he feels a hand, catching on his sleeve. “Don’t…,” Laurent says, voice as weak as his grip.
And just like that, all of Damen’s anger melts away. He cradles Laurent closer still, mindful of his injuries. Straightens him as best as he can and brushes a finger against an unmarred part of his cheek. Laurent’s eyes flutter back open. He tries to smile. Damen wants to cry.
“Thank you for coming to save me.”
“Looks like you didn’t even need my help,” Damen replies, fond, giving Laurent’s shoulders a quick squeeze. He apologizes with a couple of heavy swears, when that gets him a pained grimace.
“I’m thankful all the same.”
And then someone else barrels into them, Auguste’s eyes brimming with tears as he takes his hurt brother into his own arms, voice shaking with anger and fear and relief and joy as he whispers sweet nothings into his hairline, promising him the world.
Which reminds Damen. He still has a brother to deal with.
Steeling his heart, ignoring his deep-rooted need to fuss over Laurent, to make sure he’s okay, truly alive and not just a figment of Damen’s imagination, he moves through the threshold of his parent’s hunting cabin.
It’s barer than he remembers it being. Maybe because Kastor cleaned it up. Maybe because he’s grown-up, and everything that looked so big then has become tiny now. One chair, the one he presumes Laurent was attached to, is toppled on the floor. Everything else sits like it hasn’t moved in decades, dust sprinkled with patches of fresh blood, the crack of a dying fire the only sign of life in the main room.
Damen can’t decide what’s viler. Kidnapping Laurent. Or bringing him here, where some of Damen’s most treasured memories live, and torturing him on the chair where Damen used to sit, to watch his father prepare meals from what his parents had hunted that day. Either Kastor was targeting him, wishing to specifically sour their past, the little patches of light in the darkness of their messy relationship. Or he was too self-absorbed to care. Damen doesn’t know what would be worse.
Following the trail of fresh blood is easy for him. It stumbles and shakes straight through the other door and into the chambers, where one double-bed and two, much smaller single beds sit, unchanged. Except for the beddings, torn in places. Quick, makeshift bandages. A puddle of red sits right by the window, his brother’s hunting knife left on the ground, bloodied. Moth-eaten curtains wave into the wind.
He could go after Kastor. Jump through the window and follow his tracks. Depending on how hurt he is, Damen could catch up to him in minutes, maybe hours. Even faster if he took the horse Auguste lent him. He’d come upon his injured brother, watch him squirm, plead for forgiveness, or maybe spit in his face and tell him all of this is Damen’s fault.
And then what?
Would Damen be able to kill him? No. The moment he thinks about it, nausea hits the back of his throat, and it’s all he can do to lean against the nearest wall and force himself to swallow it back down as shivers still run down his back. No. Never. But what alternative is there? Bring Kastor back as a prisoner, let Auguste handle his case and bring him to justice? No. Not that either. Damen knows he won’t be able to deal with having Kastor’s shadow looming over him, always. The Akielos reputation is already going to be in shambles by the time this affair goes public. If he brought Kastor back to town, he’d have to flee.
And the thought is tempting. Very tempting. He lets himself daydream about going back to Halvik and her clan, spending his days hunting and traveling and drinking and fucking. Blissful freedom, for the rest of his life. But even in the moon’s deem light, his golden cuff reflects a brightness that lightens his heart.
Damen doesn’t think he will ever be able to abandon Laurent, no matter what befalls them after this.
As if brought to life by his thoughts, he hears two sets of footsteps making their way to him, one of them considerably lighter and more erratic than the other. Auguste has braced Laurent’s arm around his shoulders, carrying most of his weight as they emerge in the bedroom.
Seeing them side by side, Damen feels a little bit like a fool. They could have been twins, in another life.
“He’s gone?” Laurent asks, matter of factly.
Damen nods, crossing his arms and working his jaw. He wants to tell them he won’t pursue, wants to explain to the De Vere brothers they won’t get their justice, that he can’t let them have it, but the words won’t cross his lips.
“Good,” Laurent sighs, startling him. “Let the wolves have him, for all I care. He’s done enough damage for one life.”
“Laurent…” Auguste starts to protest, eliciting a pained groan from his brother as he turns them.
“No,” Laurent cuts, his voice baring no argument. “I don’t care where he goes. If he even gets anywhere in the shape he’s in.” He sees the knife then, winces again, something like guilt flashing into his eyes. “He won’t bother me, won’t bother us anymore. That’s all that matters.”
He catches Damen’s eyes on the "us", a silent understanding passing between them in the chill night air. And then his gaze morphs to something else. Weeks ago, Damen would have perplexed over what the expression meant. But he’s learned to read Lazar by now. And Laurent isn’t any different.
Suddenly, everything makes sense. The last pieces he needed to make the puzzle fit fall snuggly into place. Jokaste. The baby. The mountain of unopened letters from dubious business partners, some of them threatening. Kastor complaining under his breath about their finances, when he didn’t think Damen could hear.
And it hurts. Deep in Damen’s heart, the thin thread that still connects him to his brother, frayed as it may be, vibrates painfully. Because Kastor didn’t trust him. Right to the end, he chose the cruelest path rather than ask his own brother for help.
With a sigh, Damen turns around. Another thread vibrates now. But not in pain. He can imagine it perfectly, glowing a soft golden hue, snaking around his right wrist and the cuff he always wears, linking him directly to Laurent. Beaten, battered, bruised Laurent.
Perfect Laurent.
He takes a few steps toward the brothers, trying not to feel offended when Auguste draws back, beaming with satisfaction when Laurent chastises him, and pushes himself from his brother to fall back into Damen’s arms.
Allowing himself this small mercy, Damen brushes his face against Laurent’s temple. Kisses a strand of his hair. Lets some more joy seep into his pores when he doesn’t draw back.
“You could have at least told me your real name,” he whispers against the damp skin, a chuckle shaking his chest.
A small, surprised laugh, cut by another hurt inhale. “And spoil the surprise? Never,” Laurent retorts, responding to Damen’s careful embrace with a crushing hug of his own, burying his face in the crook of Damen’s neck.
Here, with Laurent in his arms, and for the first time in months, maybe years, Damen feels whole again.
“Let’s head home,” he says, softly.
Both of the De Vere brothers approve.
*
Epilogue – a year or so later
Laurent beams as he finds the pristine white note, carefully rolled into their hiding nook. His smile widens even more as he takes in Damen’s messy writing, the words incomprehensible to anyone but him.
He used one of their nicer papers, the one Laurent asked him to have imported from Patras a couple of months ago. It feels heavy in his hand, the grain a relaxing sensation under his fingers as he makes his way up the stairs, heading straight for his husband’s study.
His husband. Oh, every time he thinks the words, Laurent dies of happiness a little. Will the newness fade as the weeks progress, and the joy with it? He doesn’t think so. It’s been more than a month already, and Nicaise still calls him a lovestruck idiot every time he so much as utters the term.
Damen’s desk is crawling under mounds of missives stacked so high Laurent can barely glimpse his brown curls behind the mess. He can, however, distinctively hear the groan of frustration that escapes the man, no doubt pondering whether or not this or that investment would be worth his while.
Circling around the piles of paper, Laurent stops a couple of feet away from him, and taps his note on the desk.
“Hello, lover,” he says with all the swagger he can muster.
It’s always gratifying, the way all of Damen’s attention instantly snaps to him, like nothing in the world matters more to him than Laurent. He’s told him so, time and time again. But seeing it… it’s another thing entirely.
“Got your note,” Laurent adds, waving the paper in question.
“And?” Damen asks, hope in his eyes.
Feigning fatigue, Laurent walks up to him. He doesn’t even have to ask for Damen to push his chair back and lean further into it, making his lap perfectly available for Laurent to sit in. Which he does, before snaking his arms around his husband’s neck, pushing a light peck against his cheek.
“And I think a romantic dinner is a marvelous idea.”
A small, pleasured smile curls Damen’s mouth with a warm fondness reserved solely for Laurent. A private gift, only for his eyes to see.
He wants to kiss him again.
“Good,” Damen says, but the crease between his eyebrows deepens as he peeks over Laurent’s shoulders, back at the documents in his hands. “We might eat late though. I’m still trying to make sense of this deal Charls sent me. It looks too good to be true.”
“Charls is one of Auguste’s and my most trustworthy associates, I wouldn’t worry.” With a graceful twist of his cuffed wrist, Laurent exchanges Damen’s note for Charls’ letter, and gives it a perfunctory read. “It is a little too good in your… our favor. But then again, Charls aims to please. We shouldn’t disappoint him.”
Damen’s smile turns wicked, right at the dimple. Securing his hold on Laurent’s left hip, he whispers into his ear, “Do I ever?”
A furious blush climbs on Laurent’s cheeks, his throat managing an embarrassed cough, and a shyly uttered “no” before he moves his eyes back to the agreement, and signs it in Damen’s name, trying to quell the wave of pride that swarms him as he sees “De Vere” written right after “D’akielos”. “There. All done. Now stop moping.”
“It’s just…,” with a frustrated groan, Damen bumps his head against Laurent’s shoulder. “I always feel guilty, using Auguste’s connections to make deals. He says it doesn’t bother him – at least when he isn’t threatening to end me and everything I stand for if I ever break your heart – but I still don’t think I deserve this.” The admission is said in a small voice, so small Laurent probably wouldn’t have heard it if Damen wasn’t cuddled up to him.
Letting his fingers trail around Damen’s jaw, he forces his face back up. Pecks his lips, like he’s been wanting to do ever since he entered the study. Tries to not linger into the kiss like he always does. Fails. Emerges breathless a couple of minutes later.
“You do,” he says, brushing away a curl that’s fallen in Damen’s face from their making out. You deserve the world, he thinks, and finds that he means it. You deserve everything I can give you, and so much more.
Laurent doesn’t need to say it out loud. He can see his own feelings reflected perfectly in Damen’s eyes. A silent promise that they renew every day, as they carefully hide a new romantic note for each other in the nook they carved on the ground floor of Damen’s estate.
An eternal vow of love.
Their own perfect freedom.