Chapter Text
One ten-day later
“Oh no.” Fir Councillor Gourmanian couldn’t seem to take his gaze off Tilrey as they sat down for tea in his sitting room. “Oh no,” he repeated in a whisper, tender tears filling his eyes. “Besha warned me what to expect, but I never imagined…”
Half a month into his convalescence, Tilrey was royally sick of being fretted over—and even more sick of not being able to say so. He fished out his trusty notebook and passed the Councillor a prewritten note: Not as bad as it looks, Fir. I’m mending.
Indeed, his face was back to its normal shape, and the bruises had yellowed and begun to fade. Glancing in the mirror these days, Tilrey recognized himself. He’d been running and lifting weights in the mornings when the Gym was nearly empty, flanked by the protective escort of Bror or Jorning or both.
The tension between his friend and the driver remained palpable. But Bror had reverted to treating Tilrey like a kid brother, at least when Jorning was around, and Jorning no longer bristled at his presence. Tutored by Ansha, no doubt, Bror tried hard not to seem like a rival for Tilrey’s attention. Sometimes he even turned his charm on Jorning and buttered him up.
Tilrey suppressed a smile at the thought and forced himself to focus on Gourmanian, whom he was seeing for the first time tonight since the incident (as Verán and Besha called it). Resuming his usual duties was part of a welcome return to normalcy, and he needed to act normal. Keep everything on an even keel.
Gourmanian, for his part, seemed unable to find words. He drew Tilrey into a careful, trembling embrace as if he expected the healing jawbone to break again.
Maybe he won’t spank me tonight. That’s something. Tilrey had enjoyed the playacted “punishments” for a while. But play had felt more serious since the night Jorning had used a belt on him, raising actual welts. And after the incident—well, he didn’t want to be hit right now, even with all the care and consideration in the world. Too soon.
I can take it, of course, he told himself sternly. I’m used to it.
His brain trusted Gourmanian to respect boundaries even after Linden had trampled on them. But he couldn’t be sure his body would cooperate, and that worried him.
“Darling. My poor child,” the Councillor breathed, then drew back to give the damage a closer look. “I didn’t think you were a brawler,” he added bemusedly, tucking a strand of hair behind Tilrey’s ear. “And to take on a bunch of factory louts … what were you thinking?”
Oh, right. Besha had offered to feed Gourmanian and the others Jorning’s “bar fight” story. With two different flimsy lies in play, Tilrey found it hard to keep track.
He couldn’t help shaking his head and smiling, to the extent the wires permitted. Surely Gourmanian knew him better than that.
“Wait, what did I miss?” The Councillor nuzzled Tilrey, dark stubble against his healing cheek, which Jorning had carefully shaved for him a few hours ago. “What’s funny?”
After a moment, when Tilrey didn’t answer, Gourmanian figured it out. “That fucking Besha. I should never listen to him. What really happened?”
Tilrey repressed a sigh as he went for the notebook again. Maybe it would be smarter to flesh out the bar fight story with more details, giving it a degree of plausibility. Malsha would have suggested that.
But the lie was so out of character that it felt like an insult to him. Poor Jorning had no talent for compelling falsehoods. Remembering Verán’s take on the incident at their last meeting, he wrote with a flourish: Unpardonable insolence.
Gourmanian snatched the notebook. “I don’t understand. You’re never insolent.”
Why was the Upstart being so dense? Tilrey added: I court punishment. I enjoy it. You said so yourself once.
This time, Gourmanian’s face reddened as he read. When he looked up, his tears were welling again. “I never said such a thing about you.”
Tilrey shrugged. He wasn’t equipped to argue the point.
The Councillor fluttered wet lashes, as if thinking back. “Well, maybe. But I didn’t mean this kind of punishment. I never said you were … asking to be hurt.” His voice broke. “I told you I was sorry about the spring fling. That was before I actually knew you. You must know I would never harm you. You’re the sweetest, cleverest, most agreeable boy I’ve ever had in my bed.”
He grasped Tilrey’s hand and pressed it to his heart, as if afraid to hug him again. “Whoever did this, they didn’t know you like I do. They only wanted to hurt you, to break you. My sweet Nettsha.”
Tilrey averted his gaze as the Councillor fawned on him, kissing and sniveling on his hand. For a few moments, he felt almost powerful, as if this Upstart’s contrition could somehow make up for what Linden had inflicted on him. But he knew that wouldn’t last.
Gourmanian set Tilrey’s hand down again. “It wasn’t Verán?” he asked quietly.
Tilrey sketched another shrug. Figure it out if it matters to you, you fool.
“No. Visha’s always too pleased with himself to have that much anger in him. But he wouldn’t cover for anyone else, either. Except maybe… oh.”
When Tilrey looked up, Gourmanian’s face was awash in understanding—and pity. “My poor boy,” he murmured, drawing Tilrey to him again and kissing his forehead and stroking his hair. “My poor boy.”
The evening passed without spanking, shackles, or playacting. When they retired to the bedroom, Gourmanian rolled Tilrey on his side and opened and entered him with immense care, insisting he nod periodically to confirm it didn’t hurt. The Councillor clearly still enjoyed the fuck despite these extra precautions—and to his own surprise, Tilrey did as well.
He was never more than half hard during it, despite Gourmanian’s fitful efforts, but it felt right to have a cock inside him again. Necessary, even. He hadn’t consciously missed it. But wasn’t this what he was for? And he couldn’t currently use his mouth, as Verán had untactfully pointed out.
As the warmth of the Councillor’s release gushed into him, Tilrey had a sudden memory of the most recent time he’d done this with Bror, the day after he moved in with Linden. It had felt different then, hadn’t it? Better? He’d been down on all fours, begging shamelessly for Bror’s cock, and he hadn’t needed to pretend he was Ansha. He’d just wanted it, as himself.
The memory seemed foreign now, though, like someone else’s life. After the shocks from which his body was still recovering, it was hard to imagine wanting anything except to be safe. And the sweaty body slumped against Tilrey’s felt like safety. As long as enough Islanders still liked fucking him, they wouldn’t want him maimed or dead.
Linden couldn’t fuck him, so Linden didn’t care if he existed—Tilrey had felt that reckless disregard in the old man’s blows. He was useful to the Magistrate only as an outlet for frustration. The man might kill Tilrey one day out of rage, out of carelessness, or for no reason at all.
But I won’t let him. Tilrey snuggled closer to Gourmanian, who seemed loath to let him go. This is up to me, at least—whether I live or die. I won’t let that old prick decide.
The next morning, the Councillor helped him dress, as if he were an invalid. With a troubled expression, he said, “We can’t let it happen again.”
Tilrey nodded. Every day he was building his relationship with Jorning, the friend he needed most as long as he stayed in the Magistrate’s home. Tollsha was second most important, followed by Verán (ugh) and Besha. But Gourmanian’s support certainly couldn’t hurt.
Gourmanian fastened Tilrey’s trousers and patted his flank. “I’ll talk to Verán. There must be a better solution. Remember how we talked about you living here with me? Wouldn’t you like that?”
Tilrey hadn’t expected such a rash suggestion. He seized his tunic from Gourmanian and fumbled in the pocket, desperate for his notebook.
What was Gourmanian thinking? Last fall, yes, the man had kindly offered to take in Tilrey rather than let him land in the Brothel. But Verán would never allow that now, while Tilrey was still useful. Possessing the Jewel was the highest mark of the Island’s favor.
In his haste, Tilrey wrote a note that was blunter than anything he would have said aloud. You don’t have that much clout. He’ll laugh at you.
Gourmanian looked wounded. “Isn’t it worth a try?”
Tilrey wasn’t sure whether to be touched by the gesture or annoyed that the man lacked so much political savvy. Malsha would never have overestimated his own power that way.
I’d love to live with you, of course. But you don’t want to second guess Verán, Fir. That always makes him dig in his heels. Just tell him you’re concerned for me and leave it at that.
“You make a good point.” Gourmanian sighed, then took back the tunic and held it for Tilrey to insert his arms. “That man should be removed from our highest office, though,” he added meditatively, as Tilrey finished putting the garment on. “I only supported him because I didn’t like the alternative. Now I see he’s unfit.”
Tilrey was glad he couldn’t speak in that moment, because stinging words might have burst from him. Do something about it. Form a splinter coalition in your party. Lead an uprising against Verán.
And he knew Gourmanian wasn’t going to lead any uprising. The man was ranting about deposing Linden without even pronouncing his name, as if he were afraid his apartment might be bugged.
He’s a spineless coward, Malsha whispered inside Tilrey’s head. They all are. My love, if you’re going to stay alive, it’s all on you.
***
Nearly another ten-day passed before the Island Party needed Tilrey’s services again. He saw Bror at the Gym every morning, and his friend’s smiles and casual touches were enough to sustain him—for now. Jorning hovered so close that it wasn’t safe to go to the Vacants just yet.
Tilrey made good use of the long, dull afternoons in his room, too. He discovered that Jorning liked playing games on a battered portable console. His favorite involved shooting Outers with a sniper rifle. Tilrey would watch him dispatch hundreds, sucking on tea or broth through a straw. After an hour or so of this, he allowed Jorning to beat him in dual-player mode, trying gamely to follow the driver’s instructions: “Watch out, I’m coming at you!” “No, you’re aiming too far to the right!”
It was mind-numbing, but it was safe. And when Jorning touched him—leaning over his shoulder to guide his hand or “accidentally” jogging his elbow—Tilrey didn’t shy away. When he caught Jorning staring at him, he pretended not to notice.
It was comical how timid the driver was being now, after the night when he’d boldly slithered under the covers to suck Tilrey’s cock. After all, no one was likely to stop him from taking any liberties he wanted to with Tilrey, as long as he left no visible traces behind.
That oaf is like a pining schoolboy, Malsha crooned inside Tilrey’s head. It’s sweet. String him along until he’s practically exploding with wanting you.
What if I don’t want him back?
Will he put his big, strong body between you and Linden’s fists? Then I think you do want him.
Tilrey was glad Malsha wasn’t actually there to hear his next thought: I miss how safe I felt with you.
That was what he really needed, he was realizing: a member of the ruling coterie who cared about him enough to protect him. Bror’s love might make him feel warm and blissful for a few hours, but it had no power behind it. Even Gourmanian’s doting was worthless right now.
What about Besha? He had Verán’s favor and was fond of Tilrey. He was also unpredictable with a cruel streak, but maybe Tilrey could learn to manage him. Hadn’t he already used Besha’s jealousy to drive a wedge between the little Councillor and Makari?
Tonight Verán was having a small gathering of his inner circle. As Tilrey showered and dressed, he told himself he was grateful for the distraction. He was less eager to show his wired jaw to anyone new, even though most of the visible injuries had healed.
When Jorning led him out into the sitting room, Linden was sitting on the sofa with his tea, flipping through the Council Record.
Tilrey’s heart stuttered. It was his first time facing the Magistrate since the incident.
His brain told him to walk to the door without making eye contact, but his body froze midstep. And then panic wiped his mind clean, as Linden set down the journal and looked up at him.
Tilrey dropped his own gaze instantly. The white walls were a vortex, spinning and spinning and pulling him in. In the distance, he heard the old man’s voice say, “Bring him here. Let me see him.”
Time seemed to slow, each second stretching into agonizing minutes, and then abruptly leap forward. Shaky and nauseous, Tilrey found himself standing beside the sofa. Only Jorning’s hand clamped around his arm saved him from falling.
Linden was on his feet now, gazing up at his kettle boy. He touched Tilrey’s cheek with those flabby, baby-soft fingers, which seemed incapable of inflicting harm.
Tilrey screwed his eyes shut but opened them the next moment, scolding himself. After all, he had prepared for this. Painful experience had taught him rules: Breathe levelly. No eye contact. Above all, no sudden moves.
His heart was racing, booming. As those fingers moved over him, probing his healing jaw, he saw the Magistrate’s lips move.
The Fir was speaking, and Jorning was answering. Something about doctors and removing the wire, a snowstorm, Verán. It was all a senseless jumble of words until Linden released Tilrey and sat back down.
“Keep him quiet with sap,” the Magistrate said, picking up the Council Record again. “There are vials in the bowl on the bookcase. We don’t want Verán upset.” His lips tugged into a sneer. “My nephew is adamant that I mustn’t upset anyone.”
“The boy can’t even speak just now, Fir.” Jorning’s tone had the slightest hint of reproach. “He won’t upset anyone.”
The Magistrate flapped his hand impatiently, his attention back on the page. “Use your judgment, then, if you have any. Out of my sight.”
Tilrey didn’t regain the full use of his senses until they were in the car and unmoored from the dock. He sucked in a deep breath, watching city lights stream through blowing snow, and released it. It’s all right. Still here. Still me.
When Jorning glanced back to check on him, Tilrey shot him a look that said, You didn’t fucking warn me.
“Sorry. Thought he’d be in his room. That’s where I brought him the tea.”
Jorning’s tone was meek. Nervous, even. Tilrey felt the same brief rush of power he had when Gourmanian was smearing his hand with tears.
I’ve made him care. If Linden ordered Jorning to hold Tilrey still for another beating, the driver was more likely to think twice now. He’d make excuses. If forced, he might even say no.
It was a small victory but a real one. And all it took was a dozen mindless hours of watching him play video games.
***
The group was intimate: just Verán, Besha, gloomy Niko Karishkov, and Besha’s wife, Davita Lindblom. Sap flowed freely, along with a bitter golden liquor imported from Harbour, and everyone munched on dumplings and smoked-salmon rusks.
Neither Lindblom nor Karishkov asked about Tilrey’s injury. Besha must have fed them some story or other. Now and then, Tilrey felt one of their gazes skittering over his face.
The presence of a woman made him uneasy, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was Davita’s beauty, those imperious features and the shiny black hair that reminded him of Dal. Maybe it was the fact that she was a mother, updating Verán on her young children with pride and affection.
Tilrey pitied those kids, having Besha for a father. But he felt sure Davita loved them dearly, just as his mother had loved him.
Verán had been feeding Tilrey sap all night, poking sticky fingers between his wired jaws. By the time he tugged Tilrey’s head down into his lap, Tilrey’s thoughts were liquefying into nonsense. Mom, I wish you were here. You wouldn’t let anyone hurt me…
Your mother can’t be here, love, Malsha reminded him. Your mother has no power outside of Sector Six of Thurskein. Remember her letters and how sad they made you?
I’m not sad now. I’m glad she’s faraway and safe.
Tilrey’s whole body felt waterlogged. Verán’s bony hand stroked his hair, back and forth, in the possessive way that always made him feel small and powerless but also … safe? Yes, he felt safe like this. Véran still wanted him. Perhaps he had forgiven Tilrey’s foolish fit of insolence—or, more likely, forgotten it entirely.
They’re talking about me, he realized, his breath catching.
“Just one more ten-day, according to the specialist,” Verán was saying. “Good thing. He’s practically useless without his mouth.”
“You’re not an ass man?” Besha suggested cheekily.
Verán didn’t join in the laughter. “My proclivities aren’t the point. I just hate to keep our Jewel idle for a whole month, losing his luster. The only one of his regulars I’ve sent him to is Gourmanian, who isn’t exactly picky. He gave me a lecture afterward, though. Said he was ‘concerned.’”
So Gourmanian had given Verán a piece of his mind, but he hadn’t made any foolish demands. Tilrey was relieved.
Davita laughed—a husky, sexy laugh. “Poor Visha, stuck with the best piece of ass in the city. If it pains you that much to leave him idle, I could take him off your hands tonight.”
Besha and Karishkov greeted this proposal with hearty guffaws, as if they thought (or hoped) she was making a joke. Everyone knew kettle boys were for men. Tilrey had heard of a few female Councillors sharing pretty girls, but it wasn’t really the same at all.
Davita seemed to enjoy the attention. “There’s plenty he can do for me without his mouth,” she added archly, sending the men into a fresh round of merriment—except for Verán, who remained silent.
“You all see what I put up with?” Besha asked with comical frustration. “My wife is voracious.”
“Oh, poor sweetheart,” his wife riposted. “I don’t recall complaining last year when I was watching the boy suck you off.”
“Why would you complain about something that turned you on?”
Karishkov said in his dry way, “Some of us actually take our marriages seriously.”
Finally, Verán put a stop to the irreverence. “You always do make me laugh, Davita,” he said, twirling a strand of Tilrey’s hair around his finger, “but I hope you didn’t also intend to be taken seriously. A boy like this is strictly for men.”
Davita scoffed. “You’re such a traditionalist, Visha. Women can only have fun in bed with other women, or you brand them as shameless hussies.”
“I would never call you such a thing, my lovely friend.” Verán spoke lightly, but the reproach was plain. “I simply believe the coitus of man and woman is a sacred act that should be saved for the purposes of reproduction.”
“Sacred. Ah, I see.” Davita’s sarcasm was so barbed that Tilrey winced, twitching in Verán’s grip. “Is your wife the only woman who’s ever had the honor of your … sacred contact, then?”
Besha’s bark of laughter sounded insecure. “Boundaries, sweetness! Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”
Something was happening between Verán and Davita that her little schemer of a husband couldn’t control, Tilrey noted with interest. Perhaps there was history there.
Verán seemed unbothered. “We’ve all had our lapses, Davita,” he said, reaching down to give Tilrey’s ass a squeeze. “I simply prefer to respect tradition.”
“As do I, Visha. That’s how I was raised. But it’s such a waste, don’t you think?” Davita’s voice had that edge again. “A beautiful thing shouldn’t sit on a shelf when someone could make good use of it.”
And they all laughed again.
***
Davita and Karishkov departed soon afterward, but Besha stayed. While Verán was washing up and Vlastor cleared the dishes, the little Councillor hooked his arm around a still sap-woozy Tilrey and hoisted him to his feet.
“Poor boy,” he said as he led Tilrey into the bedroom. “I bet you would’ve liked fucking my wife. If she didn’t eat you alive first, which is a strong possibility.”
By the time Verán joined them, Tilrey was sprawled on the bed, letting Besha undress him. Apparently this was going to be a threesome of some kind. Tilrey couldn’t bring himself to care, especially after Verán fed him another palmful of sap.
He wished he’d had time to catch up with Vlastor. Maybe in the morning. The poor man had tried so hard to protect him.
Besha appeared to be playing the part that Ansha had played last time, prepping Tilrey for a token fuck while a bored Verán watched. Unlike Ansha, though, he jabbered the whole time.
“The nerve of my wife, Visha,” he said, stroking a hot little lubed finger into Tilrey’s ass crack. “She shocks even me sometimes. What was she offering to do, ride his cock?”
“You know she’s capable of it. Davita’s spoiled and headstrong. No one’s ever reined her in. Of course, she’s worth several of you,” Verán added casually a moment later.
Besha gave Tilrey a painful jab. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, boss.”
Verán ignored the sarcasm. “You’re a clever lad, Besha, in your way. But Davita is a brilliant tactician and an indispensable steward of the next generation, which is precisely why she shouldn’t waste her time with whores.”
“Waste time? Is that what we’re doing here?” Besha rolled Tilrey on his side and began probing him again, this time more gently, stroking his flank soothingly with the other hand. “Or don’t you think my time is valuable?”
“Every second of your time belongs to me. You were nothing, and I made you.” Again Verán spoke matter-of-factly, as if he expected no objections from Besha. He got none. Only Tilrey was close enough to hear the younger man’s irritated intake of breath.
“Anyway, women are different,” Verán added in a sticky drawl, which Tilrey recognized as a welcome sign the old man was getting drowsy. “Their needs aren’t as urgent as ours. They can afford to hold the moral high ground. Look at my wife—I don’t think she’s slept with anyone for the past few decades. Doesn’t seem to bother her.”
Besha chortled. “Maybe your wife would tell a different story.”
Tilrey remembered his brief conversation with Verán’s wife on the plane last fall. For the past thirty-odd years, even his most casual touches have made my stomach curdle. He hoped she was getting her needs satisfied elsewhere, if she still had any.
He wondered if he would have any interest in sex when he was that old. He hoped not. Even tonight, the whole process made him cringe inside, despite the occasional twinges of arousal when Besha’s fingers brushed the right spot.
Safety. That’s what turns me on now. He recalled the pleasantly protective sensation of Gourmanian spooning him. Maybe Besha would do that, too.
“The cheek of you, Besha.” But Verán clearly had no energy for banter. Ten or so minutes later, while Tilrey was stroking Besha’s cock to full hardness, snoring rose from the old man’s side of the bed.
“Don’t stop just because he’s asleep!” Besha squirmed in Tilrey’s grip, his tone more complaint than command.
Tilrey wished he could use his mouth; he didn’t feel like getting fucked just now. Besha made no attempt to mount him, though, so he continued the hand job, and the little man writhed and whimpered until he spilled all over Tilrey’s fist and belly with a guttural groan.
Then Besha held Tilrey fiercely, forming a barrier between him and the slumbering Verán. “How’re things at home?” he hissed into Tilrey’s ear. “No more temper tantrums from our senile friend, I hope?”
Tilrey shook his head. This close, he could communicate in a whisper. “Tollsha talked to him. The driver…”
“That driver’s a dumb brute,” Besha said. “Or he likes seeing you in pain. It’s his fault you’re like this.”
Tilrey didn’t point out the irony of Besha’s accusing someone else of enjoying his pain. “Not anymore. Working on him.” Each word still hurt, jogging the mending bone. “Scared, though, Fir.”
“Scared? I don’t blame you.” Besha stroked Tilrey’s shoulder blade with one hand and tangled the other in his hair, just as possessive as Verán had been earlier. “Poor, silly Davita. She doesn’t get it, does she?” His tongue darted out to lick Tilrey’s neck. “She may want you, but she can’t take care of you. Not like I do.”
I want protection. That’s the only kind of caring that matters. Tilrey let the man nuzzle and fondle him, feeling more and more irritated by the difficulty of expressing himself.
Soon the wire would be out, and he and Jorning would be able to talk. They would plan. Once he could speak properly, he might eventually even dare to make Besha a proposition.
So you want to take care of me. What if you could keep me? What if I were really yours?
***
The better part of another ten-day passed before the big day arrived.
Jorning drove Tilrey to the hospital, where the doctors poked and prodded and tested and finally decided his jaw had mended itself enough to be liberated from the wire.
Neither of them spoke on the way back. Tilrey was too used to silence to know where to start. Jorning seemed tense, as if a dark cloud hung over his head.
The driver waited until they were in the warm safety of the apartment, behind the door of Tilrey’s room, before he said, “The Fir wants to see you tonight. What should we do?”
Tilrey sat down on the bed and held out his hand. The driver took it and joined him.
Jorning’s puppy-dog eyes and furrowed brow were almost endearing to Tilrey now he knew him better. The driver might try to control their relationship, but deep down, he needed a strong hand and a level head to guide him.
I have both. Just gotta be subtle about it. Need to train him to take his real orders from me instead of Linden.
Tilrey kissed Jorning’s knuckles, noting the shiver of desire that gripped the driver’s body in response.
“I think you know exactly what to do, Jorning.” His voice was rusty from disuse, but it felt good to speak again. He would get used to it. “And if you don’t, I’ll give you some ideas.”
“Don’t wanna hurt you.” Jorning spoke under his breath, not making eye contact. “Know I did before.”
Yeah, you did. But this was no time to rub it in. “You can’t hurt me,” Tilrey said, stroking the man’s hand. “Not if we plan everything out together. You and me, we’re gonna be a great team.”