Chapter Eight

The sparring was dutifully arranged and began in the late afternoon outside in the gardens. Fox didn’t want to imagine the sound of so many people in armor moving across stone or wooden floors, but the real reason the display was outside was a matter of space. For this, all the byr had emerged from their rooms and even the knights not chosen to take part had put on some of their best to observe.

That included Conall, once again in his plain white surcoat. If he was bothered at not being invited to show off his skills, he naturally gave no sign. Byr Rolfi, a surcoat decorated with crossed swords worn over his shining armor, fought with daggers and a hand attachment of metal claws that Fox shuddered away from the sight of. Such attachments also existed for tails, but not for use in tournaments, since excited, battle-ready knights could not always control their tails. Byr Falnya’s cousin, whom Byr Falnya claimed was younger and less experienced, nonetheless appeared utterly calm as she did things with a spear that Fox also did not watch too closely.

With most eyes on the display of might and skill, Fox risked a few glances at Conall and saw nothing to indicate Conall was tired. Perhaps he had lingered in bed that morning as well.

At one point, Conall stood next to the new favorite to win, both of them speaking quietly to one another while they watched other knights show off for the rest of the byr. They could have been discussing the weather for all Fox knew. They certainly didn’t appear to have any bad feeling between them. Byr Drashnal was tall and lean, with black-tipped ears and a blue-tipped tail. To have combined colors was an astonishing rarity. Byr Drashnal was striking for that reason but ordinary in all other respects… except for how he moved, which was silently and with purpose, like Conall.

The observation only increased Fox’s horror over the whole thing, and he feared his anxiety was on his face when his eyes met Conall’s in the crowd. But at least the display of controlled violence gave him an excuse to keep his head down, although it did not let him escape Domvoda, who had Fox stand near him for most of it. Additionally, the excitement the demonstrations sent through the byr meant that their chatter was too loud for them to hear or need music as they ate their dinner. Fox slipped away halfway through the meal, hopefully unnoticed.

He returned to the startlingly quiet and empty Kaladas and took the time to file his nails and decide what he would wear during the tournament days. Then, restless, he went back out to the hall to sit by the fireplace and attempt to replace a button on a doublet. Doing his own mending saved money and he was competent enough at things like buttons, though he would never find work as a tailor.

The benches around him slowly began to be used again, the handful of returned knights full of chatter now that the tournament felt more real to them. They were admiring armor—or flirting, or perhaps flirting and admiring armor—and praising those who had demonstrated their skill. A few of them greeted Fox and apologized for scaring him.

He had no idea how to address that and chose not to other than bobbing his head to acknowledge that they meant well. He had more on his mind than the tournament anyway. He had pricked his finger with the needle for the third time and was lashing his tail over it when Conall sat on the bench next to him.

He left space between them, because Fox was not one of Conall’s close friends and because Conall was cautious as only time around Domvoda could make a person. Fox lashed his tail again. He finally got the fool button on and jabbed the needle viciously into a pincushion in an act of revenge. He didn’t twitch under Conall’s warm regard because he was used to the eyes of the court on him, but after a while, he did look over.

He was about to ask, “What?” as snappishly as possible because he could be snappish with Conall, but Conall’s eyes were closed. He was slouched, one arm up on the back of the bench seat, the other next to him, his legs spread. He was even smiling faintly as he rested.

“How are you so calm?” Fox demanded without thinking.

Conall opened his eyes to give Fox a sideways look. “I’m accustomed to tension and pressure.”

Fox understood that. “Even so,” he argued although he had no reason to. “You know what all that was really about as well as I do.” Yet was Conall content. He was calm. He was staring at Fox with perplexing emotions in his eyes that he did not explain.

“Fox,” Conall began with irritating patience, “I would like to win, but if I lose, I lose. If he thinks to upset to me with a reminder of my possible loss, I am already aware of it, so his desires do not matter. As for the rest of what bothers you, very rarely would any real harm come to me in a tournament, or to any of us for that matter. You looked pained all day and still pained now when I arrived.” He leaned slightly closer to Fox and lowered his voice to ask, “Are you well? Not hurt or too sore today?”

Fox raised his chin and twitched his tail to make it thump against the bench seat. “A little knotting isn’t going to break me.”

“Little?” Conall echoed, eyebrows high.

Fox gave him a more direct look, then turned his head when he felt the urge to smile. “Not so little,” he admitted quietly. Four knots. If Fox really thought about it, he might swoon. “And thank you.”

Conall huffed. “No need for that.” He seemed more amused than offended and studied Fox for several moments in a way that did not make Fox’s shoulders tense. “You’re still upset,” he remarked softly. “Is this truly about me and the others, or did he say something to you?”

Fox wrinkled his nose as he turned back to Conall. “He wants my opinion on who will win. He means the knights but, I believe, also his possible consorts. And….” The rest of Fox’s unease was harder to explain. “He wants something else from me but I don’t know what. More than my attention. A fight?” he guessed. “Like the young knights?” Fox shook his head to deny that the moment he said it. “But I doubt he cares enough about the Potentials—the potential consorts to be that anxious over the matter.”

Conall pursed his lips but offered no comment.

“I think,” Fox went on hesitantly, because he also suspected Domvoda wanted to get him alone, even if he was being strangely indirect about it, “he expects….” He shook his head again and frowned, not wanting to speak the words. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“What can I do to help?”

Fox stared at Conall with wide eyes and received warmth in return. “You don’t—” have to, he should have finished, but couldn’t say that, either. “Help? You?” he asked haughtily instead. “You kept me up so late I didn’t get to properly style my hair.”

Conall moved his tail languidly over the bench seat. “And yet half the byr couldn’t take their eyes off you, including me.”

He put the fire in the fireplace to shame.

“That’s a risk,” Fox reminded him, mouth dry.

Conall’s shrug was so dismissive that it reminded Fox of why he was agitated in the first place and kept him from saying anything foolish. Conall should be concerned but Fox would be concerned for him since the Dragonslayer was apparently too brave to manage sense.

“Well,” Fox said as frostily as possible for someone who wanted to climb the person next to him, “the braiding is too tight and it pulls.” He gestured at his sore scalp to demonstrate, but as he did, realized he was not within the confines of Saravar anymore and thus didn’t need to maintain appearances, and set aside his sewing to take his hair down.

A large hand appeared in front of him, palm up, so he placed pins and the ribbon in it before shaking out the mess of curls and waves leftover from the braid. When he straightened, Conall was watching him intently and several others were glancing his way.

Fox held out his hand to Conall to receive his pins and ribbon, then put them with his sewing things. Conall did care for curls. Fox squirmed inwardly like the he had the first time one of the other workers on the Hetin farm had called him pretty.

“If you could see yourself now, you’d know Domvoda is not after a fight with you,” Conall said lowly, his warmth once again a full conflagration.

Fox met his eyes and then couldn’t anymore. “I don’t….”

When he didn’t say anything else, Conall seemed almost worried. “I’ve never seen you hesitate over words before.”

“I don’t know what to say!” Fox flung out a hand and spoke too loudly. He pulled in a breath to make himself at least sound calmer. “People expect me to. And to be witty, or…”

“Clever?” Conall finished.

“Yes.” Fox hissed it. “You don’t seem to, but I don’t know what you do want me to say.”

Conall leaned back again, appearing casual although his study of Fox was anything but. “You heard me giving instruction to the trainees?” he asked at last, after leaving Fox to be irritated and warm and shivering. “About practicing over and over, conditioning the body so it, so the muscles, will respond without conscious thought?”

Fox indulged in the freedom to glare at him. “You’re saying that I am responding as I have been trained to? But you aren’t attacking me,” he added in confusion a second later, and then, as he understood, murmured, “Ah,” and felt very silly. He had just thought that Conall acted cautiously because life at court had taught him to. He had forgotten about himself.

“You’re thinking a great deal. Always, but especially now.” It was said so gently. “As you do your thinking, I’d beg you to consider that I don’t expect you to be anything but Fox. That is, whichever Fox you feel like being.”

Fox stared at him, and blinked, and stared some more. “I don’t know what to say to that either,” he admitted finally and could hear his own frustration.

Conall looked around them, then back at Fox. “Your sewing didn’t work to distract you. Did you want to talk about this more or do you need something else to keep you occupied?” Nothing changed in his voice or in his posture and yet something in how he paused made Fox glance down over his body, his broad chest, his open thighs, the heavy base of his tail, before getting caught by his gaze again. “Would it calm you down to suck my cock?” No one else would have heard him. “Or I could return the favor,” Conall suggested next. “Or, if you like, I could eat out that sweet hole of yours.”

Whether they could hear him or not, there were others around, and this was not some rowdy tavern full of strangers. Fox reached out to slap a hand over his flailing tail. Heat rushed through his cheeks.

“That blush,” Conall sighed, “is better when I have more light to see it. The color really brings out those freckles. Do you have any elsewhere? I couldn’t tell by candlelight.”

“Conall.” Fox didn’t mean to sound like a scandalized city dweller finding a group of field hands splashing about naked in a creek. He had lived in the capital too long. All the same, he felt himself holding his doublet collar in one hand as he replied, shocked and breathless. “Of course I don’t! I hardly go around bare to the sunlight. Do you?” he demanded, then immediately imagined Conall naked and warmed by the sun.

He had been successfully distracted again. He didn’t mind as much as he should have. Conall really was clever and scheming in his own way. It was enough to make Fox feel damp in intimate places.

He cleared his throat before looking Conall in the eye. “Fine,” he agreed without admitting anything about the state of his underclothes, “but you aren’t knotting my mouth.”

Conall’s whole body jerked with surprise at the words but he gave Fox a gracious nod. “Not unless you beg,” he agreed.

His easy manner did not hide the challenge in the words.

Fox’s lips parted. “I’ve never begged that from anyone.”

A statement that some might have said reflected poorly on the king. Fox didn’t apologize for it. Conall wouldn’t have cared anyway, and Fox had other things on his mind. Conall stood up and stretched. He had stopped to remove his court clothing before coming down to approach Fox, and Fox really had gotten prudish in his time in the capital, because Conall’s undershirt left his arms and much of the area around his collarbone bare, and the combination was possibly worse than nudity.

As though no one else was around to observe and make assumptions, Conall extended a hand to help Fox to his feet. Fox resisted the urge to glance around guiltily, which would make any assumptions worse, and took Conall’s hand, although he released it once he was up. He got his tail under control, shoved his sewing things beneath his arm, and headed for the stairs.

Conall followed shortly behind him, keeping a small distance between them.

“I hear,” he began as they reached the stairs, his tone suspiciously purposeful, “from several sources, that the king was set to have me spar with Byr Drashnal and you talked him out of it.”

Fox paused and glanced up to Conall when Conall was level with him. “I didn’t talk him out of anything.” He whispered it. “I said Byr Drashnal would be tired from traveling, which he was. And I knew you hadn’t had much rest either.” That was an even softer whisper. “And I didn’t like how they would have taken pleasure in it. It wasn’t about sport to them. It was about testing you.”

“And that matters?” Conall took the bundle from Fox and continued up, leaving Fox to gaze after him then slowly follow.

“It does when….” Fox gestured though Conall couldn’t see it. “It does when it’s cruel and this would have been. You don’t deserve that.”

Conall reached the landing at the top of the stairs and stopped. “If you were like them, or wanted to be, you would have said nothing. You’re a sweet creature, Fox, even if you don’t like to think so or have forgotten you are.” He turned enough to give Fox a look that made Fox stumble on the last step and then caught Fox’s hand to keep him upright. Fox’s thoughts spun. His legs felt weak. He stared up blankly while Conall pulled him to safety. “You worry over my lack of caution, but you are the one who’ll face the brunt of their—of his—displeasure. Yet you spoke, again.”

Words failed Fox. He shook his head because he hadn’t done anything to compare to what Conall had done.

Conall tugged him close, in plain view of anyone who might choose to come up the stairs, although most of the residents of Kaladas were still at Saravar.

“Forgive me for seeing that you were unhappy but not acting sooner.” Conall was careful and quiet and sharp and deadly, watching Fox intently while urging him to follow him into the shadow provided by the curtains around the window. “I thought it was because of him and not that you were starved for kindness.”

“Conall.” Fox meant to be sharp in return, but the bundle slipped from Conall’s hold, abandoned to the windowsill, and then Conall’s arms were around Fox and Fox’s voice went breathy.

“May I be kind now?” Conall asked gravely, his tail curved to Fox’s waist.

Fox chose to address Conall’s chest, which was easier than raising his head. “Kind?” The question was as shaky as his limbs. He tried to laugh. “Not moments ago, you were teasing me with offers of your mouth.”

“Oh, that wasn’t teasing.” Conall pressed a kiss to Fox’s forehead, surprising Fox into looking up. “Shall I prove it to you?”

“You keep saying these things to me,” Fox complained, petulant or peevish, or worse, starving exactly as Conall had said. He was kissed for it, then kissed again when he opened his mouth and trembled as if he’d never been kissed before.

Conall didn’t acknowledge Fox’s complaint aloud. He turned them, he must have, although Fox didn’t notice until the stone wall was at his back and the edge of the window was against his shoulder. Conall lifted Fox off his feet a second after that, obviously pleased when Fox brought his legs up around him without question. The muscles in Fox’s thighs protested, exhausted from a night of vigorous fucking by a mountain. Fox ignored them and held Conall tighter.

Conall slipped his hands under Fox’s ass and nudged Fox’s chin up so he could kiss the side of his neck and suck softly at the skin. He rumbled appreciatively against Fox’s throat when Fox gasped his name.

Fox had not been quiet. He opened his eyes to discover they were behind one of the heavy curtains, shielded from any passersby. Anyone close would certainly know people were behind the curtain and what they were doing there, but not who they were. He went to raise his tail to be certain any distinguishing features were out of sight, but his tail was already snug against Conall’s back.

“Your hair in firelight,” Conall told him, mouth open and hot at the base of Fox’s throat, “made me ache in a way I don’t often feel, made me go a little wet.” He bit down, not breaking skin, probably not even bruising, but Fox grabbed as much of Conall’s short hair as he could and held him there so he’d do it again. “Hard-soft like an eager receptive from a glimpse of your hair and you think I wouldn’t want to taste you?”

Fox had not said that but didn’t bother to argue, his voice rising high on another gasp when he was pushed against the wall so Conall could take one hand away from him to untie his belt. Conall slipped his hand beneath Fox’s doublet a moment later, cupping Fox’s stiffening cock through his underclothes and exhaling roughly in satisfaction when he dipped his fingers lower and found the fabric damp.

Fox tipped his head back to whine, only to end it in a pleased growl at the press of Conall’s teeth at his neck. Fox immediately shuddered and went still, surprised and aroused in equal measure. It surprised Conall too, judging from his shaky exhale as he raised his head, and how he stopped to stare at Fox even though Fox stubbornly refused to look back. But, being Conall, he didn’t hesitate to take advantage for long. He rubbed his fingers back and forth over Fox’s underclothes, clearly enjoying the sticky-wet cling and how he could tease Fox’s hole until Fox tried to push back, and then how he could make Fox go still by using his teeth again.

“Hungry vixen,” Conall breathed over the damp skin of Fox’s neck. “What won’t I give you? Just ask. It’s yours.”

Fox whined higher, louder, unbearably hot as he soaked his underclothes and the seat of his breeches. Anyone could walk by them and hear Fox unraveling, perhaps even smell how wet he was. Conall swore, furious and breathless even though he was the one to begin this game. He bit without biting, then when that became too much, sucked kisses instead, all the while drawing more and more wet from Fox.

He would mark Fox and Fox would have to hide it tomorrow. A word might have stopped him. Fox writhed against him and allowed himself to be teased. He was grateful he couldn’t see Conall’s face. He must know he was right. Fox was starving and empty, the neediest receptive at court.

“Sweet thing,” Conall praised him. He absolutely knew what it did to Fox to hear him growl, “Eat you up. So fucking wet for it. You’re starving, Fox, I can feel it,” with his palm pushed against Fox’s clutching hole. His palm offered heat and pressure but not enough to do anything but make Fox slicker and hotter. Fox could not stop whining.

The cloth was sodden. Fox’s gasps became frantic. It was like the firmer bite at his neck that would not come, the hand or cock or tongue that was not inside him. Fox nearly cried. “Fingers, then. Conall, please. I can’t wait, Conall, please. Fuck me.” Begging by anyone’s definition.

“I will lovely. I will give you everything. Shh.” Conall dared to shush him again, and slow his kisses, and pull his hand away when what he ought to do was not ruin Fox’s underclothes for no good reason. He spent several moments breathing hard against Fox’s throat, breath hot over wet skin, before he pulled back.

Fox was placed on his feet shortly after that and blinked his eyes open before swaying. He might have collapsed to his knees if Conall hadn’t pinned him to the wall with all of his body. Fox’s legs were weak and he was so achingly empty and wet that all he managed was to look up. Conall met his stare. Then, so close Fox could feel how hard he was and the hint of his knot, he brought his hand to his mouth to lick wetness from his fingers and then clean his palm with his tongue.

Fox grabbed Conall’s shirt and yanked Conall down to him, kissing his slick from Conall’s lips and instantly desperate when Conall held him up to let him. Then Fox’s arms were around Conall and he was on his toes while Conall snaked his wet hand inside the front of Fox’s breeches. He wedged his thigh between Fox’s, bringing Fox’s feet off the ground, and stroked Fox’s cock with the same vicious focus on driving Fox from his senses. Fox was left to whimper into Conall’s shoulder until he spilled.

“Sorry, lovely,” Conall whispered to Fox’s temple while Fox caught his breath. “I didn’t start that to tease. It’s those needy mewls of yours when I’m pleasing you. They make me want to take you apart. I’m sorry,” he said again, trailing kisses to Fox’s ear. “You can have what you like of me next. My mouth as I promised. All that you want.”

Fox whimpered again without moving. He didn’t trust his legs and his clothes were soiled. “I wanted you in me,” he croaked, which would be embarrassing later. “I still want it. I want….” He could taste himself but he wanted to taste Conall. After that, he wanted Conall back inside him, and his teeth—Fox stopped that thought there. “I don’t think I can walk,” he admitted, which was embarrassing now.

Conall inched back without stepping away, letting Fox lean on him while he retied Fox’s belt and the front of his breeches for him, then tugged on Fox’s clothes to straighten them as if they wouldn’t be darkened and noticeably wet. He put Fox’s bundle of sewing things into Fox’s arms at a level where it might hide some of the damage, then he peered beyond the shelter of the curtain before sweeping Fox out at his side, keeping himself between Fox at the view of the rest of the hall, although the hall was still mostly empty.

In his room, he left Fox by the bed, clearly intending for Fox to sit while he busied himself with finding and lighting a candle although the open curtains on the room’s window meant they had some light already. Once the candle was burning, he turned to Fox again.

He swept a look over Fox and something, confusion possibly, made him frown when he noticed that Fox had let his sewing kit and hair pins tumble to the bed but Fox himself remained standing.

Fox tilted his chin up to look at Conall in return. Conall’s beard was wet, shining faintly in the light.

“Are you angry with me?” Conall wondered, which was such an odd thing to say that Fox would have been taken aback if he’d had the mind to spare to think about it.

“Visibly wet from the touches of the Dragonslayer is not the humiliation you imagine it is.” But the remark did make Fox look down at himself. Then, because he’d noticed them and he could, he stepped out of his ridiculous slippers. His belt went next, also to the floor. Then his doublet.

Conall’s gaze did not leave him.

“Sit,” Fox told him, and nearly closed his eyes with pleasure when Conall did, coming down on the edge of the bed. “Am I beautiful?”

“Yes.” A rough voice to make Fox as luscious as a dripping honeycomb.

“You were hard-soft from a glimpse of my hair?” Fox pressed.

Conall gave a nod.

Fox let any remaining tension fall from him with one heavy breath, then stepped closer to kneel between Conall’s legs. He angled his head to feel cool air on the wet, unbitten, well-kissed patch on one side of his throat and to let Conall see whatever marks he’d left. Then he looked up at Conall through his lashes, hoping they shined in the candlelight the way his hair had gleamed in firelight. From the stunned heat in Conall’s gaze, he thought they did. Fox spoke as prettily as he had ever spoken for a king, perhaps more. “Will you still try to make me beg?”

“Fox.” Conall could whine too. But despite that added, “Yes,” and clearly meant it.

Fox put his hands to Conall’s thighs so he could run his palms over taut muscle. He wet his lips. “Would you hold my hair for me?”

“Please,” Conall said as if it hurt not to.

Fox wanted with sudden surprising need to give Conall what he wanted. Maybe because he also wanted it. Or because it didn’t hurt to beg for someone who begged for him too.

“Then hold it.” Fox couldn’t raise his voice above a whisper, and waited to speak again until he was done shivering from each brush of Conall’s fingers as he gathered up Fox’s hair and held it in a firm twist at the top of Fox’s head. Fox’s mouth was watering, but he remembered both the terms of the game and the way Conall had looked at him while licking Fox’s slick from his hand. He inched his knees farther apart, wet breeches on display, then gazed up at Conall imploringly. “Conall,” he began sweetly, Conall’s muscles shivering under his hands, “I’d like you to knot my mouth.”

Conall’s growl was soft. “Ask me.” A move of his wrist and Fox’s hair was tighter in his grip, although not painfully so. “You’re an impossibly beautiful creature, pretty and wanting, but that is not begging, Fox. Beg for it.”

Fox leaned forward, lightly, barely, testing Conall’s hold. It didn’t give and Conall’s hungry gaze didn’t waver. Fox thought he could say anything and Conall would answer how Fox wanted him to.

He wet his lips again. “Please.” He sighed it, shifting on his knees again as if that would ease the ache of being so empty. “Please let me taste you.” That was a sigh too, oddly warm and content despite his need. “Stuff my mouth before you stuff my hole again. Please, Conall. Please. I need you.”

It didn’t feel like begging in the slightest. Not when Conall drew Fox closer with one hand to give him what he wanted. Fox opened his mouth, thinking only that it felt good, right, to be at Conall’s mercy again.

“Please,” he said, and soared among the clouds when Conall obeyed.