Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5547251.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Original_Work
  Relationship:
      Semyon_Dvornikov/Ardae_Le'Rou
  Character:
      Semyon_Dvornikov, Ardae_Le'Rou, Jenny
  Additional Tags:
      Dub-con_elements, Prostitution, Various_Kinks, Daddy_Kink, begging_kink,
      Praise_Kink, Past/Present_Abuse, Animalistic_Tendencies, Supernatural
      Elements, Dom/sub_Undertones
  Series:
      Part 1 of Wendigo
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-12-27 Words: 23579
****** Treasure ******
by Bennyhatter
Summary
     Ardae's life is shit. All he's got to look forward to is a town of
     people who don't give a damn what happens to him, and a father who's
     probably going to beat him to death one of these days. He has no
     future, and no desire to create one. Then one day, a man shows up in
     his town looking for a rare treasure, and the interest he shows in
     Ardae isn't anything like what he's used to. Not only that, but it
     threatens everything he is.
Notes
     I tagged this as dub-con because Ardae is a prostitute, so he has sex
     with people for money, and he doesn't really enjoy it. The underage
     warning is because he started selling his body when he was under the
     age of consent. This story is also full of past/present abuse, so if
     that's a trigger, please tread carefully.
     Also, I swear I have nothing against Moss Point, Mississippi, or the
     people who live there. I just borrowed it for the story. ;0;
     Warning for panic attacks.
“I have a job for you.”
“Oh? What is it?”
“A treasure. A very rare treasure.”
“Where is it?”
“America.”
“America?”
“Da. It is in America.”
“How rare is it?”
“It is like nothing you have ever seen before. Are you interested?”
“Oh yes. Send me the details?”
“Da.”
 
 
 
It’s dark out tonight, and quiet. Almost too quiet, which is keeping him more
alert than it normally would were this any other patrol. He’s decided to skip
the streets tonight and just roam out across his territory, taking the time to
strengthen the scent-markers that define his borders even though he has yet to
run into another predator capable of besting him. It’s not that he’s bragging,
either. It’s just inconceivable that another wild beast, or even a bumbling
human, might be able to get the better of his superior senses.
Not that those senses are any good against his father, but he takes that
bitter, acidic thought and shoves it behind the door in his mind that he sticks
all of the others like it; metaphorically slamming the lock home to keep them
contained.
Ardae snorts, a misty plume of his breath rising around him; little wisps that
cling to his dark antlers like stray thoughts begging to be allowed to stay,
only to be carried away by a stronger breeze, dissolving into nothingness while
he watches dispassionately before he turns and slips away through the marshes.
Hunger claws at his belly, the radiating pangs sharp and uncomfortable. It is a
hunger he is intimately familiar with in this form, and one he knows can never
be sated, no matter what he might try to gorge himself on. Unfortunately, that
constant, ravenous hunger is the nature of his particular beast, and after so
many years it is more like an old friend to him. An old, despised friend, but a
constant one nonetheless. Considering that there is a distinct lack of actual
flesh-and-blood friends of any kind in his life, he supposes he will have to
settle for this one.
He hears a splash nearby and his velvety nostrils flare, drawing in the
multitude of scents that blanket the swampland. His ears twitch before they
swivel forward, pinpointing the direction the sound has come from. His swirling
silver eyes cut through the night with no difficulty, focusing on the ripples
of the water as the alligator who has sensed and smelled him bravely—or perhaps
foolishly—cuts through it with powerful beats of its tail; snake-like and
nearly-silent as it regards him with black, liquid eyes. He knows there are
others around watching the progression of the big male; an adolescent who is
sure of his rank and his own power. He has never faced a power like the one he
has decided to challenge, and it will cost him dearly.
Ardae takes great pride in the sounds the beast makes as he kills it, the blood
hot and wonderful on his tongue as he swallows it in great big gulps, trying
desperately to quench his thirst and ease his hunger with the fresh, lean meat.
He picks the carcass nearly clean while the other predators watch, silent and
still; waiting to see if the beast will turn its fathomless eyes on them. He
could, if he wanted to. He’s still so hungry, even after what he’s just
consumed. His belly is still aching, his hunger very much present, but he
cannot stay here and slaughter the rest of them in a fit of boredom. He has to
finish his scouting and be home before the sun rises. Then again, even if he
stayed away for an entire week, it isn’t like his father would ever notice. He
rarely notices anything but the bottom of his bottle, and then all he does is
grab himself another one.
As Ardae lopes away into the darkness, leaving behind bloodied bones and a few
remaining scraps of meat and skin, he hears the rasp and slither of some of the
younger alligators making their way to the carcass to snatch up the last few
morsels he's left before they all move on, his warning to them crystal clear: I
own these lands.
Something like satisfaction surges within him, mixing in with the ever-present
hunger and leaving him somewhere between frantic and furious. He increases his
stride, his cloven hooves making hardly any sound over the wet ground as he
leaps from one little grass island-cluster to the next, never actually touching
the water as he follows the path he’s taken countless times now on his way to
the next part of his territory.
 
 
 
“I don’t understand the email you sent me.”
“What is there to not understand?”
“This thing you’re sending me after—I’ve never even heard of it before.”
“I tell you, is rare. Do you want job or not?”
“I want the job. To find this thing, to find out what it is… It sounds like a
marvelous adventure. It sounds like the kind of treasure that pales in
comparison to all the others I’ve found.”
“I am glad you think so.”
“How has no one found it before, though? Americans are always so very eager to
get their hands on anything they think is rare and valuable.”
“This treasure is hidden well. Cannot be found unless you search hard and plan
deeply. Bring gun.”
“A gun?”
“Da, gun. You will need way to protect yourself, where you are going. Many wild
beasts, and wild humans. Must be prepared.”
“I’ll look into it, then. Have a good evening.”
“Da. Have good evening. Happy hunting.”
 
 
 
The weak rays of winter sunlight are slanting through the trees around their
property when Ardae slinks his way out of the surrounding wilds, already
shifted back and mostly-dressed as his bare feet carry him silently toward the
crumbling building his father calls a house. There’s not enough space in Moss
Point, Mississippi, or enough trees, to call those around his home a forest,
but he likes to sometimes think of them that way in the privacy of his own
mind. It helps him to feel like he’s anywhere else, anywhere but trapped in the
life he’s been given, even if he knows better.
Luck is on his side this morning, it would seem, because his father is
unconscious and snoring on the couch, the table and floor surrounding the ratty
sectional littered with empty bottles and smashed fragments of others that
weren’t there when Ardae snuck out the night before. Then again, his father
wasn’t there either; probably out purchasing all of it, or shacking up with
some desperate whore who knows enough about Robert Le’Rou to keep her guard and
her prices up, but still felt enough pity to give him a few hours of time.
Practiced in the art of avoiding whole and broken glass alike, he slips through
the room and into the tiny, cramped kitchen, stopping long enough for a bottle
of water to wash the lingering tang of blood from his mouth before he continues
on past the fluttering curtain and into the hole he calls his room. It’s barely
big enough for the bed he’s crammed into the space—certainly not big enough for
anything else, not even a dresser for his clothes. He keeps those in the linen
closet down the hall, shoved in behind threadbare towels that only he uses.
That’s where he goes next, once he’s peeled himself out of his slightly-muddy
clothes that still carry the scent of the trees. It’s a scent that he takes
with him to the bathroom, his long hair tickling across the blades of his
shoulders and his spine. With it he can smell his own sweat, and the lingering
smells of the marshes and the woods he did visit, because his territory is vast
with no one else to challenge him for pieces of it.
Baring his teeth at himself in the mirror, he picks out a sliver of meat he
hadn’t noticed was stuck between the top front two and starts the shower, not
even bothering to wait for it to warm up before he steps under the spray.
Usually he prefers bathing in the creek that winds behind their property, but
there’s no telling when his father will wake up, or what mood he’ll be in when
he does, so Ardae chooses the safer route and tilts his face up into the
warming water as he closes his eyes. He gives himself a moment, his muscles
relaxing under the steady water pressure, and then he grabs the soap and starts
to scrub himself clean. Within ten minutes he’s toweling himself dry, his hair
dripping and plastered to his skin. He pauses at the door of the bathroom,
listening, and then grabs himself some fresh clothes and goes back to his room
to finish drying and get dressed before grabbing some of the money he keeps
very well hidden and the bills he’d thrown onto the kitchen table some time
during the last few days, and then he’s out the door and heading for the town,
his damp hair pulled back into its customary ponytail and his trademark scowl
firmly in place.
Moss Point isn’t a bad-looking town. It’s clean, and the buildings are well-
maintained, but he cannot stand the people who call the place their home, or
the way they look at him, their whispered words not at all unnoticed thanks to
his sensitive hearing. Every quiet word may as well be a little louder than
normal speech levels, reaching his ears with little difficulty despite the
traffic roaring down the road he’s walking beside.
His path is a familiar one, their words no different than usual, so he ignores
them and everything they say unless he has to, his narrowed eyes fixed on his
destination. They watch him go, a mixture of curious and wary and sympathetic.
It makes his skin prickle, makes him want to turn around and roar at them, to
shed his weak human skin and fall upon them the way the beast is snarling for
him to do; so desperate to end its endless hunger. Instead, he just clenches
his teeth and tightens his jaw, pulling open the clean glass door of the bank
and prowling inside.
“Good morning, sir,” one of the available tellers says, trying to smile at him
even as he glares sullenly back at her. “What can I do for you this morning?”
She must be new.
“Need a money order,” he mutters, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, one
curled tightly around the precious wad of cash he’s brought with him and the
other around the crumpled bills. “Gotta pay a bill.”
“Do you have an account with us?” she asks, still trying to be sweet even
though he can smell her nervousness getting stronger.
“Does it look like I’ve got enough money to waste for that?” he barks, the
sudden ferocity in his voice making her jump and reach for the necklace at her
throat.
“I-I’m sorry, sir. Can I have your name and the amount for, um, for the order?”
She doesn’t have a very strong accent, not like he does; her Southern drawl
more refined to match her Southern belle appearance, her blond curls bouncy and
perfectly shiny, and her makeup tasteful but not overpowering.
He hates her.
“Ain’t got all fuckin’ day, Jesus fuck.” Eyes flicking away, he scowls at the
other tellers watching him reproachfully. He picks out Sharon, who usually ends
up helping him because she’s the only one with skin thick enough to handle his
sharp tongue, but she’s busy on the phone and only spares him a glance and a
frown before she turns away. He wants to curl his lips back and snarl, but he
just clenches his teeth even harder until he can feel his molars creaking in
protest. “Name’s Ardae Le’Rou. Amount’s one hundred two dollars.”
“That’s an interesting name,” the teller says, desperately trying to keep her
nice façade in place as she starts to fill out the money order. This bank is
the only one in town that offers them, and he wasn’t lying when he said he
doesn’t have enough of an income to keep a bank account going. He has enough to
keep the lights on and the water running, and get himself a new shirt when his
old one finally falls apart, but not much else.
“’S a shitty name,” he snorts, hunching his shoulders and glaring out the
window behind the teller’s head. She looks like she’s about to cry, looking at
her coworkers desperately for some cue that will tell her how to handle this
particular customer.
“You watch your language in my bank, young man,” Sharon tells him sharply as
she comes over to them, clearly finished with her phone call. She stands beside
the upset teller, who visibly relaxes, and she smells so relieved that it makes
his nose itch.
“Gimmie my fuckin’ money order, then, an’ I’ll get the fuck out” he retorts,
blatantly ignoring her warning and glaring at the younger, pretty Southern
belle teller, who is wilting like a magnolia blossom in the heat. When she
pushes it toward him over the counter, her hand shaking faintly, he snatches it
and watches her jump again before he turns and stalks out the door. He ignores
Sharon’s annoyance, and the fact that he didn’t sign for the money order, which
will annoy her more. Instead, he heads right for the post office, ignoring the
protests of whoever he bumps into or cuts in front of, car horns blaring and
drivers shouting angrily as he walks right across the road in front of them.
“Get the fuck out of the street, punk!” one man shouts at him. Ardae thrusts
his middle finger in the guy’s direction without even looking, the money order
clutched in his other fist like someone is going to try to take it from him. A
few of the whores he works the streets with are out hoping for some early
business, and they laugh in delight at the driver’s potent rage. Everyone knows
who they are, and what they do, but the town’s police tend to turn a blind eye
considering that several of the officers they employ are customers.
“You’re such a badass,” one of the girls coos at him as he walks past. He
shoots her a grin that is all teeth and no pleasantry. She just grins right
back at him, her skin a lot tougher than Sharon’s. “No wonder some of the boys
are so eager to get their hands on you,” she adds, not for the first time. “All
that fire in you. Can’t think of any guy who wouldn’t love trying to put you in
your place.”
“All of ‘em try,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Ain’t one of ‘em succeeded, yet.”
“I’m glad.” He thinks that comes from Jenny, who he sees off to the side. She’s
barely older than him, not currently working considering her outfit, and she's
smiling at him. “It’d be a damn shame to see you turned into some meek little
thing.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“Make sure it doesn’t, darlin’.”
 
 
 
“I believe I have everything I need, but we still haven’t talked about price.”
“Two million upfront, another six when you bring treasure to me.”
“Eight million? Is it that valuable to you?”
“Da.”
“What makes it worth such a price tag?”
“I am collector, just like you. I have been looking to add to my collection,
and this is what I want. For such rare treasure, price tag is of no
consequence. Just bring it to me intact.”
“I take great pains to never break anything I collect.”
“Da, I have heard, but treasure might break you.”
“Unlikely. I am a professional, after all.”
 
 
 
The police officer traps Ardae at the back of an alley between the local bar
and the neighboring thrift shop, his head high and his grin triumphant.
“Heard from Mike that you’re really good at what you do,” he says, all alpha-
male entitlement and swagger. He’s got his hands on his hips, fingers toying
with the holster of his gun and belt loops respectively. If he’s trying to go
for intimidation, he might as well be a puppy who’s trying to get attention by
pissing on the carpet. Ardae is decidedly unimpressed, and levels the man with
an expression that tells him as much.
“Heard you’ve got a girlfriend,” he replies snidely, crossing his arms over his
narrow chest. He narrows his eyes until they’re slits, blue swallowed up slowly
by encroaching black. He hasn’t heard that, not verbally, but he’s really good
with scents. This guy, Jake or whatever his name is, does have a girlfriend,
and from the smell of it, he just fucked her before he came into work. “You get
off on fucking your girl and trolling for barely-legal gay ass?”
The smile slides from Jake’s face, but he’s still confident and relaxed,
tossing his head and then chuckling before he starts to move closer, the scent
of his aftershave and cloves clinging to him and making Ardae wrinkle his nose
and scowl even harder.
“Maybe,” the guy purrs, sliding a knuckle under his chin to lift his face into
the light. His pupils are already dilated and the scent of his arousal is
thickening in the chilly air. Jake’s wearing a jacket to combat the cold, but
Ardae just has on his jeans and his tank top, though the temperature isn’t
really bothersome to him. “You gonna do something about it?”
He blows the guy against the wall, Jake’s thick, rough fingers tangled through
his ash-blonde hair to hold him in place while he fucks his dick down Ardae’s
throat and blows his load without pulling out, forcing him to swallow it or
choke. He glares up at the officer, licking up a stray bit of cum that managed
to leak out of the corner of his mouth as he watches Jake put himself back
together while grinning like he's won some big prize.
“Mike was right,” he’s told as a few bills are dropped into his outstretched
palm. He counts it suspiciously, but it’s all there. “Maybe next time I’ll fuck
your ass instead of your throat, maybe leave a few bruises too. Mike said you
beg like a bitch for those.”
Jake leaves him shaking furiously with one final laugh, sauntering back out
onto the street to continue his patrol. Once the scent of cloves has faded, he
stands and crams the bills into his pocket, adding it to the rest of what he’s
made before he stalks out of the alley himself and turns in the other
direction, ignoring the people who are staring at his swollen, red lips. He
makes no effort to hide what he’s just done and ignores the scornful mutterings
his appearance calls forth, instead using his nose to track down Jenny. They’re
not friends—he doesn’t have any of those—but out of all of the whores who have
turned to the streets in Moss Point, he dislikes her the least.
He finds her lounging against a street lamp, not even trying to be subtle in
her tight top and her tiny skirt, though she’s wearing a pair of sensible shoes
instead of hooker heels and she’s shivering slightly because her outfit does
nothing to protect her from the elements, and even if they live in Mississippi,
it’s the middle of winter.
“You look like you had fun,” she teases him, but there’s something in her dark
eyes that makes him think she’s worried. “Didn’t rough you up too bad, did he?”
“Nah,” Ardae says; the single word more like a low rumble as he stands beside
her with his hands in his pockets. The beast is clawing at his conscious,
trying to persuade him to let it free so that it can feed, but he ignores it
with the ease of long practice and reaches up to scratch at his itchy scalp
where his antlers would otherwise be. He can smell the bruises darkening across
the arm she’s trying to keep him from seeing. “Looks like your guy did,
though.”
“I’m fine,” she promises too quickly, looking at him from the corner of her eye
and biting her cherry-red lower lip. “It’s nothing.”
“Did you make him pay more?”
“Of course I did, darlin’. He knew the rules.” Her next smile is smug and
predatory. “Added one hundred to his total, and made him feel like such shit
for hurtin’ weak little me that he didn’t even curse my momma much before he
threw the money on the bed and left.”
Ardae whistles, impressed despite himself. “You little minx.”
Jenny’s next smile is far too innocent and shy. “Thanks for the compliment,
darlin’. How much longer are you stayin’ out?”
“Dunno. Had to pay some bills today, which took a big chunk out of what I had.
Made some of it back, but it ain’t gonna last long, especially if the old man
finds this new hiding spot like he found the last one.” He’d been sore for
weeks trying to earn all of that back, and he’d been so furious after he had
that he’d stashed the cash in its new spot and spent a whole night running over
his territory, killing anything that seemed like it might be challenging him.
He’d come home covered in blood and bits of fur and scales and feathers, his
stomach still twisting into knots from hunger, and had thrown up almost
everything after he’d shifted back to human.
“Why are you still living there, ‘Dae?” Jenny looks so upset for him, and it
makes him tense, because he doesn’t know how to respond to her genuine
unhappiness. “He’s such a fucking disaster, and I know he hits you. Why not
just leave?”
“Ain’t got nowhere else to fuckin’ go,” he spits, glaring out at the cars
driving by. There are girls here and there on the surrounding corners, and
every once and a while a car will slow in front of one of the lucky ones, or a
man or even a woman will approach one of them. “Kinda need a roof over my head,
and it ain’t like anyone is gonna offer.” He looks at her pointedly, and she
looks away, her mouth tight. Jenny won’t offer, he knows it and is grateful for
it, but it’s not because she doesn’t care. She does care, maybe too much, but
she still lives with her parents, and they’re great representations of the
human species, but not saints enough to offer shelter to a Le'Rou. They're
ignorant as fuck to the fact that their darling daughter is a hooker, but still
mostly good people.
“Ardae,” she begins hesitantly, after the silence between them has relaxed into
something comfortable again. He holds up a hand to stop her.
“I’m fine, Jenny.” He’s not, and they both know it, but she can’t help him, so
she has no choice but to let it go. It’s clear that she doesn’t want to, but
she stays quiet.
“My, aren’t you just darling.”
The voice is warm and distinctly British, and it’s coming from almost directly
behind them. Ardae tenses immediately, but forces himself to turn slowly
instead of automatically lunging. He smells clay, and dust, and old leather
first. The man isn’t tall, only a few inches over his own five-foot-six, and he
isn’t particularly intimidating. He looks more like a librarian, what with his
boxy glasses, but his clothes aren’t proper and fashionable at all; a faded
Beatles shirt, jeans, and a pair of scuffed, worn sneakers that still manage to
look pristine next to his own disintegrating boots.
“Who the fuck’re you?” he spits, glaring into a pair of surprised, expressive
green eyes. Clearly the man wasn’t expecting such a negative reaction. He
recovers well, though his smile is a little bit distracted. The way he holds
his hand out to them makes it seem like he’s not entirely aware of what their
occupation is, or maybe he just has no idea how to interact with professional
whores.
“My name is Semyon,” the man replies politely, smiling at them in a way that
comes across as earnest and raises the hackles on Ardae’s neck purely because
of how friendly the guy is. Jenny is looking between them before she fixates on
Semyon—the fuck kind of name is that, anyway?—and edges just a little bit
closer until she’s pressed against his side, her skin slightly cool because of
the night air, though it warms up quickly against his own.
“You a john?” Ardae asks, looking the guy over. He’s nice to look at, though
not a match for the brawny guys that usually pick him out to be their toy.
“John? My name is Semyon.” Christ, is this dude for real? He looks so confused,
like he has absolutely no idea what they’re talking about. “I told you that.”
“You’re here for a whore, ain’t ya?” Rather than the acquiescence he’s
expecting to see, Semyon just looks horrified by his words. His hand is still
outstretched, like he’s not going to drop it until one or both of them shake
it. Ardae looks at it like one might look at a venomous snake.
“God, no! Why would I be looking for a prostitute?”
“Because you’re talking to us,” Ardae says slowly, because he’s starting to
think that the man is an idiot. “You called us darlings. The fuck else would
you want?” Jenny shoots him a look, confused and apprehensive. Moss Point isn’t
a crime-ridden town—hell, they don’t even have their own drug dealers here—but
there’s something up with this guy, he just knows it, and it seems that Jenny
knows it too.
“To say hello.” Semyon pouts. Honest to fuck pouts at them. Then he looks
puzzled and lowers his hand finally, light glinting off the ring on his middle
finger. It looks old, with an insignia Ardae isn’t sure the origins of. Maybe
Celtic? “Am I not allowed to do that?”
“We ain’t used to johns who want to say ‘hello’,” Jenny puts in quickly,
because she saw Ardae’s eyes flash and she knows him well enough to know what
that means. “Usually, they start by asking ‘how much’, and then follow that up
with ‘fine, get in’.”
“That’s horrible.” And the thing of it is, Semyon actually looks genuinely
upset. The bitter scent of distress and sweat is thickening around him, so he’s
not faking his reaction. What Ardae can’t figure out is why.
“What, you ain’t got whores in Europe?” he snarls, making himself sound
properly offended even though he doesn’t actually give a fuck what the man
thinks of what he chooses to do with his body. “Sounds like bullshit to me,
what with all them human trafficking rings they’re always talkin’ about on the
television.”
“Just because it’s a legitimate problem doesn’t mean we’re all in on it,” the
guy sniffs, affronted. “So you’re telling me that you’re also drug addicts
because you sell your body on the streets? That’s what they’re always talking
about on the television.”
“Fuck you. We’re done here.” Spinning on his heel, Ardae stalks away,
completely ignoring the few late-night shoppers who have stopped to stare at
the confrontation. Jenny follows him quickly, looping her cold arm through his
and hugging his bicep. “God, what the fuck’s his problem?” he grumbles as they
meander down the sidewalk with no real destination in mind. At least, he
doesn’t have one. After that, he’s pretty much done working for the evening. He
just wants to go back to the house, stash the few hundred he’s made tonight,
and then shed his human weaknesses and hunt. Despite what he said earlier, he’s
pretty pleased with what he’s earned, considering that he did it without having
to bend over for anyone.
“He’s obviously a tourist. Maybe he’s passing through on his way to a bigger
city and decided to heckle some hookers.” Jenny’s a smart woman, and she sounds
and smells like she believes that, but Ardae does not. That’s probably because,
despite how air-headed and not-all-there Semyon had seemed, there was something
about him that was fiercely focused and interested, too interested to just be
curiosity about some small-town redneck prostitutes.
“You done for the night?”
Jenny frowns, looking around, and then shrugs. “Might as well be. It’s getting
late, and I’ve earned enough for tonight. Gotta get back home anyway, before my
mom starts to wonder where I am. You gonna head home too?”
“Yeah,” he mumbles, shivering slightly as she pulls away and cold air blows
over the skin she’d made warm. “Yeah, might as well. Gotta make sure the old
man didn’t drown himself in the tub, anyway. G’night, Jenny.”
“Night, Ardae. Sleep well.”
“You too.”
 
 
 
His father has, unfortunately, not drowned himself, but on the bright side,
he’s not home either, and the cash Ardae has hidden in his room hasn’t been
disturbed, so he adds the new bills to it and tucks it all away again before
slipping out through the sliding doors that open from the living room to the
back yard. Despite the cold, he hasn’t put on a jacket. He sees no point when
he’s just going to be getting naked soon enough anyway. Keeping himself alert,
he heads right for the copse of trees he always hides his clothes in, his
senses all on the alert to make sure no one is nearby. Not that anyone would
be, because none of the “respectable” people of Moss Point would ever come out
this way, but he likes to make sure.
He’s stuffing his bundle of clothes into the roots of the tree he always uses
when he hears a branch snap and smells the sudden spike of surprised annoyance.
Whirling around, he peers into the darkness, his lips already curled back to
show his teeth as he looks around and sniffs the air like a bloodhound. Now
that he’s paying attention, he can hear the careful steps of someone who is
trying to walk as silently as possible, but they’re just human, so they can’t
hope to see through the shadows the way he can. Slinking forward, he drops down
to crawl between some bushes, feeling the scrape and tickle of twigs and leaves
over his bare shoulders, and the slight tugs as his long hair gets snagged in a
few places.
“Damn it,” the person mutters, low but not low enough for him to miss. Ardae
narrows his eyes when he sees a flash of pale skin against a darker wardrobe,
the beast roaring to be set free so that it can feast and hope to appease its
starvation with sweet human flesh. Something tells him that it’s the only thing
that might make the constant, desperate hunger ease, but he’s never killed a
person before, and it’s a lot harder to cover up than killing a few wild
animals.
“Edward, hush,” another voice chimes in, and he starts suddenly, muscles going
tense, because he recognizes that voice, at least. A second later, the breeze
carries the scent of dirt and dust and old leather to him, and a snarl tumbles
about in his chest but stays lodged in his throat, because to react would be to
give away his position, and he’s an elite predator. He knows better than to
give his prey any warning before he strikes.
Semyon comes into view first, walking carefully but with confidence while the
other man, who smells like brine and fish—he must work on the water—stumbles
around a bit more inelegantly. The man, Edward, doesn’t step on another stick,
though, so he must know something about tracking. He also stops grumbling,
taking his cues well, and when they’re about ten feet away they both stop and
look around, Edward with nervous glances and Semyon with delight and
fascination.
“We’re close to the Le’Rou house,” Edward mutters, shifting from foot to foot.
His Southern drawl is noticeable, but more cultured, like he’s from a better-
developed part of the South where they teach things like proper grammar and
pronunciation. Not everyone can be a stereotype, after all.
“Le’Rou?” Semyon asks distractedly, his proper British accent not giving the
same rolling drawl to the surname but adding something unique and elegant that
makes goosebumps shiver down Ardae’s arms. Or maybe that’s the cold air,
because he’s completely naked and it’s the middle of winter.
“Yeah. Old man Robert and his spawn. No better than trailer trash, really,
those two. Le’Rou senior ain’t worked in who the hell knows how long, and some
people think his boy’s possessed, what with how violent he is. They give this
town a bad name.”
“I’m sure you exaggerate.” The way he’s speaking makes it seem like Semyon
isn’t even paying attention, more focused on wandering around. He comes within
three feet of Ardae, who’s preparing to attack or run when the man pauses to
look at the ground, and then he’s moving on, closer to the tree where clothes
Ardae’s hidden. “Or, if you’re not, I’m sure the boy has a reason for his
behavior.”
“Yeah, his dad’s an abusive drunk.” Edward shakes his head and trails closer.
“So what are we out here for? Isn’t it better to look for your artifact in the
daylight? You ain’t even got a metal detector or anything.”
“I’m not looking for something metal.” Semyon has stopped in front of the tree
and twisted to look back at his companion. His brow is furrowed, and he’s
frowning, that look of distress on his face nearly the same one he’d been
wearing earlier. The scent is more potent this time, though. “His father hurts
him? Why doesn’t anyone step in?”
Edward shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “Kid’s over eighteen. He’s legal and able
to leave. He just don’t. No one can figure out why.”
“If the boy is as aggressive as you claim,” the foreigner says while Ardae
grinds his teeth and focuses on keeping his breathing quiet and even, refusing
to react to the conversation even though how he lives his life is none of their
fucking business, “then his father’s behavior is nothing new. It’s been going
on for a long time, which means it started before he was of legal age. Why did
no one step in?” He sounds like he’s offended and angry on Ardae’s behalf, as
if he cannot believe the ignorance of an entire town for refusing to step in
and help a child who desperately needed it. The sharp, dark tang of anger fills
the air and Ardae stares, torn between shock at someone he’s met once caring so
much and suspicion because someone he’s met once cares so much.
No one cares about him, least of all some posh British librarian-type who’s
just passing through town on his way to bigger and better things.
If possible, Edward looks even more uncomfortable now, rubbing at the back of
his neck with thick, gnarly fingers that are covered in dirt and scars from
years of fishing. “Someone tried once, I think. Never went anywhere. They
brought in the authorities and everything, but other than some broken bones
that could have been attributed to just being a kid, there weren’t any bruises,
and the kid wouldn’t say anything against his old man. Actually, he didn’t say
anything at all.”
“So the system set up to protect children like him failed him in a very big
way.” Semyon shakes his head, sounding like he’s paying attention fully now and
absolutely disgusted by what he’s hearing. “No wonder the boy hates everyone. I
probably would too. However, we’re supposed to be looking around, not gossiping
like nannies.”
They fall silent while Ardae glares at them, hating them so much, hating all of
Moss Point with a fury that’s making him shake, his teeth clenched so hard it
feels like one might be cracking under the pressure. How fucking dare this man
for sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, and how fucking dare Edward for
telling him shit that is none of his goddamn business. He wants to kill them
both, the beast whining because it wants that too, it wants to claw and bite
and feed. He’s honestly contemplating letting it when he hears Semyon make a
soft, delighted noise and crouch down to start pulling Ardae’s dirt-smeared
clothes out of the gap between the tree roots.
Shit! Fuck, he’s never leaving his clothes outside again. He’ll just undress
before he leaves from now on, public indecency be damned. It’s not like anyone
comes out here, at least, not during the day. Nosy British men snooping around
for God-knows-what in the middle of the night are not something he’s ever had
to contend with before, which brings him to the question of what the fuck
they’re even looking for. Edward had said something about an artifact, but that
tells him nothing, so he just hunkers down and tries to make himself
comfortable despite his discontent, waiting for them to leave.
“The hell?” Edward looks over Semyon’s shoulders, smelling of confusion and
fish entrails. “Clothes?”
“Marvelous,” Semyon gushes, standing up while cradling the tank top like it’s
the Holy Grail and not some thrift-store buy. “Oh, this is absolutely
marvelous.”
“What’s so great about some clothes?”
“He must take them off before he changes,” Ardae hears, smirking to himself at
Edward’s obvious confusion when Semyon ignores him and starts talking to
himself. Then the words and their meaning sink in and he tenses up again, shock
and fear warring in his breast as his heart pounds. “Oh, what a marvelous
creature. I wonder what he looks like. The internet really isn’t at all in
agreement; there are so many different depictions out there. He must have been
here recently.” Turning to face Edward, still clutching Ardae’s shirt, he
bounces on the balls of his feet like an eager, hyperactive child. “Tell me,
have there been any unusual or suspicious deaths in the last, oh, let’s say
fifty years? I don’t know how old he is, though these clothes suggest he’s
somewhat young, but let’s err on the safe side.”
His breathless tumble of words has left Edward staring at him like he’s grown
two new heads, the fisherman’s uncertainty and fear-sweat getting stronger and
stronger with each passing moment. “Deaths?” he repeats, dumbfounded. “Why’re
you asking about deaths?”
“Nevermind, I’ll look it up myself. Come, Edward, come. I don’t know when he’ll
be back, and I need to look into old news articles. I must call my employer,
too. He’ll be so pleased to know that I’ve already found something. Oh! Do you
think he’ll smell that we’ve been here? I wonder how much better his senses are
than our own.” While he’s been rambling, Semyon has knelt back down to return
all of the clothes to their hiding place, his fingers lingering before he pulls
away and stands up, striding back the way they came from while Edward blinks
and stumbles after him, looking like someone’s smacked him in the face with a
two-by-four.
It isn’t until long after their voices and scents have faded that Ardae finally
crawls out of his hiding place, wracked with shivers and covered in goosebumps.
Suddenly he’s not as eager to run as he had been when he’d come out in the
first place, but he knows that if he doesn’t, he’ll be even more unmanageable
and on edge than usual, so he looks around one last time at everything the men
had touched and disturbed, feeling like they’ve violated his sanctuary. Then he
shakes his head and snorts, casting aside that foolish thought, and shifts.
 
 
 
“Angie says that British guy is still in town,” Jenny says by way of greeting
when he joins her the next night. Then she looks down at his bandaged hand and
her eyes go wide. “What happened?”
“Nailed my thumb,” he mutters, leaning against the wall beside her and looking
out at the people and cars passing by with hooded eyes. It’s already almost
healed, but his fingernail still looks pretty gruesome. The bones he’d smashed
are already reset, the split skin healed to all but a thin slice. “Tryin’ to
build some shelves so I can keep my clothes in my fucking room.” That, and he’d
had to repair the front door after his father had come charging through it like
an enraged bull around noon, reeking of whiskey and with murder in his eyes.
“Looks worse than it is,” he offers, not to ease her worries because he
honestly cares, but to ease them so she’ll stop pestering him about it. “How’s
business tonight?”
“Booming.” Her grin is small but pleased, her perfect white teeth looking even
whiter against her purple lipstick. Tonight’s outfit is almost the same shade,
and she’s dressed a bit more warmly than she had been last night, in leggings,
fur-lined boots with wicked-looking heels, and a tight long-sleeved top. Still
no jacket, though, and she’s already shivering a bit, so she’d been on the
prowl for a while before he got here. “We’ll get some good business tonight.
Did you hear what I said, though? Angie says that British guy is still here. He
was at City Hall all day. Something about looking through the archives.”
Ardae shrugs, acting unconcerned, and crosses his arms over his chest. He’d
sacrificed some of his precious funds to buy himself a long-sleeved shirt for
tonight, because he feels like he hasn’t been able to get warm since Semyon and
his lackey tromped all over his back yard. Like Jenny, his top is tight enough
to show off his lean, muscled arms and chest, and his flat stomach, but his
jeans are the same baggy ones he usually wears, although these hug his ass a
little bit more. “Thought he was just driving through.”
“I thought so too, but Angie says that Mr. Chambers was chatting with him while
he was waiting to be let into the archives, and apparently he’s some kind of
collector of rare and priceless artifacts, so he's here looking for something!
Do you think he’s looking for some Native American stuff? I mean, that stuff is
popular, isn’t it?”
“He probably is.” He’s not looking for an Indian burial ground. He’s looking
for me. He’s paying attention to the cars, so he sees when a sensible sedan
starts to slow down and approach them. “Looks like we’re up, Jenny. Smile
pretty.”
She does, while he stays leaning against the wall with a frown on his face,
playing up the surly, bad-boy teen persona most johns seem to go nuts over. He
watches as she leans down and rests her arms on the door, talking sweet and
flirting. The guy is talking to her, but keeps glancing at him, his dark eyes
heated. Ardae arches an eyebrow at him and pushes off the wall, putting some
sway in his hips and smelling the surge of lust as he joins them.
“Hey,” he rumbles, his smirk crooked and showing the tip of one sharp canine.
“What can we help you with, Daddy?”
God does that ever get the guy going, and his terse, “Get it, both of you,”
makes Jenny beam at him, pleased, as she opens the back door and they slide in
together. They make a show of it all the way to the hotel, his hands on her
hips while she straddles him and moans, the two of them rocking together to get
the guy even more hot and bothered. Jenny knows he’s gay, and he knows she’s
not interested in him, but since they tend to work corners together they
sometimes end up in situations like this. The pay is always great, and they
always split it evenly. Working a john with her can sometimes even be fun;
they’re both teases, and most of the guys seem to love it enough to tip them on
top of what they already charge.
Something feels off as soon as they step into the lobby, so he keeps Jenny
close as they follow the john—“Call me Dave, sweetheart”—into the elevator,
which takes them to the third floor.
“Where we goin’, Daddy?” he asks, playing his bratty tone well. Jenny must hear
something in his voice, though, and looks at him quickly before her attention
switches to the man. She sidles a bit closer, taking his uninjured hand with
her own smaller one and squeezing.
As soon as Dave swipes the card and opens the door, Ardae puts himself in front
of Jenny and stares hard at the three men inside the room who stare right back
at them. Dave is grinning, pleased with himself and thinking he’s the first
john to ever try this, or so skilled at getting away with it that he thinks
whatever intimidation tactics he uses will actually work.
Ardae doubts the guy has ever picked up a whore like him, though, and even
though he bares his teeth playfully, his shoulders are tense. “You didn’t say
nothin’ about bringin’ in friends. Thought you was a jealous Daddy, wanted us
all for yourself.” He pouts at the john and flutters his lashes, his lower lip
shiny and enticing.
“Thought we could all play and have a good time, baby boy,” Dave coos at him,
sweet with an undercurrent of steel. “Why don’t you two come on in and make
yourselves comfortable so we can get started.” It’s presented like a
suggestion, but is anything but. Jenny is tense behind him, nervousness edging
into fear, but she’s a good actor, because she just looks sultry and curious
when she loops her arms around his chest to hug him from behind and peer around
his shoulder at them.
“Tell your friends to leave, Daddy, and we can play all you want,” Ardae coos
back, watching as Dave’s friends start to get up one by one and make their way
closer, thinking their size and numbers will be enough to make him submit and
follow. “We told you, we don’t do group rates. Just you.”
“Didn’t know whores had such stupid rules,” one of the men in the room sneers.
He looks meaner than the others, his alpha posturing more forced than the
natural dominance of his friends. “Thought money was money to people like you.”
“Money ain’t worth shit when it comes from assholes like you.” That gets to
them, the air growing thick and tense and their faces stormy. Ardae lifts his
head and squares his shoulders, adjusting his stance. He looks at Dave with
cold eyes. “Either they leave, or we do.”
“Do as you’re told, boy, and get in the fucking room,” Dave growls, all of his
fake friendliness gone now.
“Well, well, we certainly seem to keep running into each other, don’t we? It’s
becoming something of a habit.” Semyon’s voice rings out strongly from a few
doors away, and Jenny’s soft gasp against his back is drowned out by the curse
Dave spits out as the British man saunters down the hallway toward them,
looking friendly and welcoming enough. His eyes are cold, though, and fixed
unblinkingly on Dave. He’s wearing what looks like a hand-knit sweater, the
lapels of his shirt peeking out over the collar. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he
says pleasantly. “Is there a problem here?”
“No fucking problem,” Dave grumbles, glaring at Semyon before turning his anger
to Ardae and Jenny. “Get the fuck out of here, you fuckin’ trash. Useless
whores.”
“That wasn’t nice, Daddy,” Ardae simpers at him, grinning victoriously at the
way the man’s face is changing colors before he turns to Semyon, who is
blinking at the use of the title, and pushes Jenny in front of him. “C’mon,
girl, let’s get out of here.”
They let Semyon lead the way, Jenny breathing out a quiet but heartfelt sigh of
relief. Down at the end of the hallway, the man pauses and looks at them, then
at a door that must lead to his room. Suddenly he seems uncertain. “Would you
like to come inside and recover?” he asks. “I have tea.”
“Iced tea?” Jenny asks hopefully. She’s rubbing at her arms like she’s cold
again and looking back at him hopefully. “I’m a bit thirsty…”
“Oh god, no. No, this is hot tea with lemon and honey. It’s very good.”
Semyon’s face does something complicated at the thought of cold tea, like it’s
some kind of barbaric American tradition that physically pains him. “It will
warm you up nicely, since you seem to be cold.”
“Sure,” Ardae agrees for them, not missing the grateful smile Jenny sends his
way. “’S cold as fuck out, so we might as well warm up a bit before heading
back out. Night’s still young and whatnot.”
The hotel room Semyon is renting is nice enough, with plain blue bedsheets and
a decent-sized television. It’s not on, though, and books cover every available
surface, some of them even stacked on the floor. On the table beside the bed is
a sleek-looking laptop, the screen dark.
“Oh wow, you really are researching,” Jenny murmurs, awestruck, as she looks
around. He can see her fingers twitching, like she’s desperate to pick up one
of the books, or all of them, and flip through the pages. She’d mentioned once
that she loves to read, but he didn’t realize she liked reading this much.
“Pardon?” Their host is fussing with an honest-to-God kettle on the room’s
little stove, cups on saucers already set out for when the tea is ready. He
sees the reverent way Jenny is eyeing his books and laughs, warm and fond. “Ah,
yes, those. Yes, I’m something of a collector, and I always find that knowledge
is the best tool someone in my profession can use, so I try to learn everything
I can about wherever I’m staying. Your town is a lovely little place. I love
the docks especially. You’re blessed to be so close to the water.”
“Yeah, unless it’s hurricane season,” Ardae mutters, shoving his hands into his
pockets and staying close to the door in case Dave and his gang decide to try
and make trouble. Jenny wanders over to one of the stacks of books, brushing
her fingers over the top cover longingly.
Semyon pauses and looks at him, frowning. “Oh. Yes, I’d imagine that wouldn’t
be so good,” he agrees, sounding airy and distracted again until he looks at
Jenny. Then he smiles encouragingly. “You may look at them, if you’d like. I
don’t mind.”
The words are barely out of his mouth before she’s got a book in her hands,
feeling down the spine before she opens it carefully and starts reading. She’s
not shivering anymore, at least, and he’s feeling warmer himself. He’s not
relaxed by any means, because he’s in the room of a stranger who just rescued
them from a bad altercation, and the stranger was snooping around his yard
looking for something—him—the night before.
“Why’d you get involved?” he asks, unable to be anything but blunt. “It weren’t
your fight. You could'a kept walking. Anyone else would have.”
“Just because they would have doesn’t mean they should have,” Semyon sighs,
turning off the heat when the kettle starts to whistle and pouring the tea into
their cups. The bags are already waiting, and as soon as the water hits them he
can smell everything that went into the pouches, the lemon and honey scents
intermingling and warming him from the inside when he breathes them deep into
his lungs. He can’t remember the last time he drank hot tea. “You both seem
very nice, if a little wary.” This is said with a pointed look at Ardae, which
makes him raise his chin and scowl. “Neither one of you deserves to be left in
that situation, no matter what decisions you made to put yourself there.”
A cup is brought to him, and he takes it, cradling the saucer with both hands
to avoid spilling on anything and watching as Semyon gently brings Jenny back
from the world she’s immersed herself in, handing her the other cup and
chuckling at the dejected face she makes when she has to put the book down.
“If either of you would like your tea sweeter, the sugar is over there.” Their
host motions toward the kitchenette, where there is indeed a large glazed clay
jug with a lid labeled ‘Sugar’. It doesn’t look at all like it matches the rest
of the décor, considering that there’s another, half-full glass container that
is also labeled ‘Sugar’ on the other side of the counter.
“You bring your own sugar with you?” he asks, not even trying to mask the
disbelief in his tone. “God, could you be any more British?”
Somehow, Semyon finds his less-than-kind tone amusing rather than insulting,
and he smiles a bashful little smile as he cradles his own cup, ignoring the
saucer, and plays with the string of his tea bag. “Actually, my family is
Russian,” he admits. “My grandparents came to England when they were young, so
I picked up the accent growing up, but we visit Russia as much as we can. It’s
more of a home to me than where I grew up.”
“Can you speak Russian?” Jenny asks curiously, sipping her tea and making a
face before she takes him up on his offer and goes to spoon sugar into her cup
from his supply. Ardae ignores the sweetener, finding his own cup wonderfully
flavored without the additive.
“Oh yes.” Semyon nods happily, and then speaks a few sentences rapidly, the
deep, harsh-sounding words completely natural on his tongue. “Technically,
Russian is my first language and English is my second, but I learned them at
the same time, and more people understand English and find British accents
charming, so I tend to stick to English unless I meet someone who can speak it
as well.”
“Can you speak any other languages?” After another taste test, Jenny finds her
tea satisfactory and leans against the faux granite counter, completely at
ease.
“Four others. I find languages fascinating, because sometimes one word can mean
two or three different things, depending solely on how it is pronounced.
Besides Russian and English, I also speak French, German, several of the
African dialects, and Spanish. I guess, if you add up all the different
dialects they speak in Africa, that’s more than four, though.” Semyon frowns,
as if he’s honestly trying to tally up the number, and then shrugs and drinks
his tea the same way someone else might drink water. If he burns his mouth, he
doesn’t seem to notice.
They, or more accurately, Jenny and Semyon, make pleasant small talk while
Ardae downs the rest of his cooling tea like a shot and finds enough manners
somewhere in himself to place the dishes in the tiny, stainless steel sink.
Jenny doesn’t comment on it other than to raise her eyebrows over Semyon’s
shoulder, and he scowls back at her, visibly bristling. He doesn’t have
friends, but if he did, then he could probably consider Jenny one of them.
Hell, she’s the only one he’d consider, because everyone else just makes him
want to punch them in the face. That doesn’t mean she gets a free pass, though,
and she knows that, so she just rolls her eyes at his reaction and then turns
her focus back to the British man who is animatedly talking about ancient
Celtic relics or something of the sort. Neither of them has a hope of following
his sporadic chain of thoughts, because just as quickly he switches to talking
about Moscow, seeming to forget he’s speaking to two people who have never even
left their home state, and certainly don’t know any other languages, because
sometimes the words he says are clearly Russian.
“We should go,” Ardae finally grunts, itching for any excuse he can grab onto
to get the hell out of the room and away from the man who is now looking at him
with wide, sad eyes, like he’s just told the guy he killed his dog. The
expression makes him grit his teeth. “We have to work,” he says shortly,
putting emphasis on work. “Not all of us can afford to stay in a damn five-star
hotel drinking tea and mooning over books and stupid fucking relics that were
lost a long time ago.”
“Ardae!” Jenny gasps. He glares at her, because so far they’ve gotten away
without giving their names, and now she’s gone and fucked that up.
“Ardae?” There’s something in Semyon’s voice that makes him narrow his eyes,
and he turns his head just enough to glare at the man from the corner of one.
“Ardae Le’Rou?” The way he pronounces Ardae’s first name makes something
tighten in his chest, which makes his scowl deepen.
“The fuck you know my name for?” But of course, he’d already learned his last
name, hadn’t he, thanks to fucking Edward spouting off shit he had no business
talking about. The look Semyon levels him with, curiosity and bright, growing
excitement, makes his fingers twitch and his scalp itch.
“I’ve heard it around,” is the answer he’s given, vague and with a distracted
wave of a hand. “Most people in town have been very eager to warn me to steer
clear of you. You’ve made quite a name for yourself, pet. Not the best one, to
be honest, though I’m sure you have a good enough reason.”
Pet. Suddenly it’s harder to see, his vision going dim briefly before red
starts to creep in at the edges. Pet, like he’s someone’s fucking lap dog, the
yappy little terrier that trots at their master’s heels. Never mind the other
implications that word can hold, the way Semyon’s lips and tongue curl around
the word, the fondness with which he says it. Never mind that he likes being
held down and fucked hard, likes being called someone’s boy even if he knows it
won’t last, isn’t real. Pet, and it makes his scalp itch worse, the tingling
edging into pain, and he reaches up slowly, his movements jerky, to scratch at
the one spot, his nails scraping harshly over the tender bump where his antlers
are trying to push through.
“Oh shit,” he hears Jenny say, her words scared and distant. Then there’s a
hand on his arm, small and warm, and clean, pink nails digging lightly into his
skin. “Ardae, calm down. You need to breathe, darlin’. C’mon, breathe with me.”
She drops her hand to take the one still hanging at his side, bringing it up
and pressing his palm against her chest, not even minding that the heel of it
is pressing hard into the top of her breast. Like this, he can feel the
slightly elevated thump of her heart, and he can feel the way she’s keeping her
breathing steady and deep for his benefit, giving him something to latch onto
and concentrate on.
“Oh dear,” Semyon murmurs, picking up easily on the fact that something’s
wrong. “Is he all right? Did I say something I shouldn’t have?”
“That’s it,” Jenny croons at him, keeping her soft hand over his, grounding
him, as he tries to emulate her breathing patterns and feels it working, his
muscles starting to unwind from the knots he’s twisted them into, a stuttering
sigh punching out of his burning lungs. “That’s it, ‘Dae. C’mon, breathe for
me, darlin’. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
No he’s not. His skin is too tight, and the air is bitter with the burning
scent of guilt and concern, and his tongue feels too thick and heavy in his
mouth. He feels like his heart is about to beat straight out of his chest, his
blood roaring in his ears, and he’s shaking so hard he’s not even sure how he’s
still standing. He wants to run, wants to jump right out the fucking window and
get as far away as fast as he can, but Jenny’s got a hold of him, and he knows
her. She’s tenacious and fierce, she’ll hang onto him the whole way down, so he
forces himself to tune into her voice again, copying the way she’s breathing
until he can see again, her big, dark eyes wet with her fear for him, her
fingers trembling finely over his own. His next breath comes out easier, the
one after that even better, and she keeps talking to him, rambling in the way
people do when they’re talking just to fill silence, not even paying attention
to what’s coming out of their own mouths, until he’s able to breathe on his own
again; and still she doesn’t let go.
“Does that happen often?” Semyon asks, though who he’s asking isn’t quite
clear. He doesn’t sound at all like a curious scientist studying a fascinating
specimen, just a concerned bystander who’s heard about panic attacks before but
has never witnessed one first hand, and therefore is unsure of how to respond.
“Yes,” Jenny says simply, giving Ardae a tender, shaky smile that he can’t
replicate. She finally takes her hand away and steps back, freeing him, letting
him collect himself and the dignity he’s thoroughly lost while trying to figure
out why the fuck that just happened. Nothing about that conversation should
have triggered a panic attack. At first he’d just been pissed at being called
‘pet’, but then it had all spun out of control. Showing such a big weakness in
front of anyone, especially this man, is something he tries to avoid at all
cost, so now he’s more desperate than ever to get away.
“We should go.” Thankfully, his voice only wavers a little bit, and this time,
Jenny’s right at his side, nodding in agreement. Like hell he’s going back out
to prowl the streets after this, though. One wrong word or move from a john and
he’ll probably end up ripping their throat out before he realizes it. “I need
to go home.”
“I’ll walk you there.” Words of denial and rejection rise swiftly in his
throat, but they die just as fast when he sees the look on Jenny’s face. He
can’t argue with that look, so he just grunts and shoves his hands into his
pockets, hunching his shoulders more than he usually does. It feels like he’s
covered in cold sweat, which means he’s going to be freezing after five minutes
outside.
“Here,” Semyon says, and the sound of his footsteps shuffling away makes Ardae
glance over at him without really seeing. The man is standing beside one of the
bedside tables, moving books around like he’s looking for something before he
makes a small, pleased sound and comes back to them with something it takes
Ardae far too long to realize is his wallet.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” he rumbles, furious, but it seems like no one wants
to listen to him tonight, because Semyon pulls out far too many bills and
counts them out, then splits the amount and hands them each a small stack of
crisp, clean cash.
“You were going to be paid by that brute of a man anyway,” he’s told simply,
only the slight flaring of Semyon’s nostrils betraying the calm expression he’s
got plastered on his face. “I interrupted that, and so you did not get paid.
Allow me to do it for them.”
“You’re just amazing,” Jenny breathes out, taking the money and holding it like
it’s her first-born child. She usually has more tact, but even her pride will
not keep her from accepting what they’re being given, because she, like him,
has bills to pay, even if she lives with parents who care enough to help her
rather than ruin her.
Semyon actually blushes at the praise, looking pleased and bashful all at once.
“You’re a treasure, young lady,” he tells her happily, still holding out
Ardae’s share of the cash until he finally relents and takes it, cramming it
into his pocket without counting it. He knows how much is there—his sharp eyes
didn’t miss a single hundred being thumbed over. With this much, he might not
have to roam the streets for at least a week, even though he’ll do it anyway.
He doesn’t say thank you, and Semyon doesn’t look like he expects one, he just
smiles at them again and walks them to the door like a true gentleman, bidding
them good night and waiting until they’re at the elevator before he closes the
door with a quiet snick.
“He seems really nice.” Jenny tucks her own share into her pants, her fingers
lingering unconsciously over it, one finger stroking the material of the
leggings unconsciously. “How are you feeling?” she asks next, looking at him
worriedly, but not like she thinks he’s going to snap and start
hyperventilating again. She is truly a unique individual.
“Tired as fuck,” he rasps honestly, because he feels like he could sleep for a
day or two without any problem. He’s always exhausted after panic attacks.
Thankfully, this one was not one of the worst. He’s still furious that it
happened when it did, though. “Gonna hit the pillow as soon as I get home.”
“Good.” The elevator dings, then, the doors sliding open, and they step in
together, leaving the hallway silent but for the fading echoes of their
conversation and the lingering scent of lemon and old parchment.
 
 
 
It’s dangerous to be out in his natural form during the day—dangerous to be out
at all now, with Semyon snooping around. He hasn’t seen the man amidst the
trees since that first night, but he’s been by a few more times, both with
Edward and on his own. His scent lingered the strongest around the roots where
Ardae had been hiding his clothes, but there are stale trails all over the
copse now, like he’s trying to cover every inch of it to figure out a pattern
or find a set of tracks. It leaves Ardae on edge, the nape of his neck
constantly prickling like he’s being watched.
His father hasn’t been home in days, so he’s not worried about waking the man
up as he continues to build the shelves for his room, and then install them,
and then he parts with some of his cash in order to purchase more lumber,
desperate to rid himself of his restless energy in a way that doesn’t involve
shedding his human flesh for the beast’s dark, velvety skin.
Six days after the run-in at the hotel, and four since he’s seen the older
Le’Rou, his father still isn’t home and Ardae has built, sanded, and stained a
bookshelf. It’s made out of beautiful cherry wood, and the stain he’s chosen
brings out the natural red of the wood and darkens it to something approaching
blood. As he stands in the driveway staring at it, contemplating what to do
with it now, he hears a soft, breathless gasp but doesn’t bother to turn
around. He’d heard Semyon’s heartbeat and his footsteps coming a few minutes
ago, and other than his tensed shoulders, he shows no acknowledgement of the
man.
“It’s beautiful,” he hears, the words heartfelt and full of awe. “You are truly
talented, pet.”
There’s that word again. This time, though, he doesn’t react other than a
slight twitch of his stained hand when he turns to face his unexpected
trespasser. “What do you want?”
“To apologize,” Semyon says, and that is not at all what he’d expected to hear.
“And to ask something of you.”
Ardae blinks, then narrows his eyes, immediately suspicious. “The fuck you want
to ask me? Ain’t got nothin’ to tell you about this shit town you ain’t gonna
find at City Hall.”
“I am truly sorry for whatever I said to upset you the other night,” he’s told,
and he doesn’t have to have enhanced hearing to know that Semyon is speaking
truthfully. He really does feel bad for what happened. It’s so beyond anything
Ardae has ever been confronted with that he has no idea how to react, so he
scowls and crosses his arms over his chest, picking at a spot of wood stain
crusted into the material of his sleeveless shirt over his ribs.
“Ain’t like you did it on purpose,” he grumbles.
“Even so, I’m very sorry. I’ll try not to trigger you again. I did, didn’t I?”
His voice is so soft and gentle when Ardae feels himself flinch at the word,
though he keeps his glare fierce. “Something I said, or did. It triggered you,
and you had a panic attack. Do those happen often?”
“None of your goddamn fucking business,” he barks at the man, his words and his
tone a clear answer. Semyon nods and doesn’t push the subject, for which he
finds himself pathetically grateful. They stand in silence for several
agonizing minutes, staring at one another. Finally, Semyon blinks and looks
down at Ardae’s bare feet. He tilts his head.
“Aren’t you cold?” The man himself is dressed in the sweater he’d been wearing
the other night and jeans, trying to combat the chill in the air.
He is, now that he’s not distracted by his task. There are goosebumps down his
arms, and his fingers and toes are cold enough that they’re almost completely
numb. Rather than say that, though, he shrugs stiffly. “’M used to it.”
“Hmmm. I suppose that could be true, since you’ve lived here your whole life.”
Does this guy not realize how offensive his words can sound? Like Ardae
wouldn’t know whether the fuck he was cold or not. Jesus fucking Christ. “All
right, then. Tell me, have you seen anything odd or unusual in your back yard?”
“What the fuck, you a cop now?” Turning away, he checks to see how the
bookshelf is drying, resolutely ignoring the dark splotches of stain that have
sunk into the crumbling asphalt driveway. “The hell you mean, ‘odd or
unusual?’”
If Semyon shrugs or makes a face at his back, he cannot tell. The man sounds
amused and fond when he answers, though, like every insult Ardae hurls at him
is absolutely wonderful. “Odd or unusual as in not something one might see
every day. I’ve been talking to the people in town—lovely lot they are, by the
way, although a bit too judgmental of things for my tastes. When I was looking
through the archives, I found some articles about some people who died in very
odd ways. I enjoy learning about the towns I pass through, especially when I
have business there, and the nature of the deaths just seemed strange to me. I
was wondering if you’d heard of anything like that. Or maybe your father…?”
Jesus, he’s talking about the people his father killed years ago. Ardae refuses
to show any outward reaction, but his blood has gone cold. “My father can’t be
fucked to pull himself out of his bottle long enough to give a shit about
what’s going on in this town,” he spits. “Least of all some motherfuckers who
died. He don’t give a flying fuck about that.”
“Oh.” There’s a pause, and then Semyon continues. “It’s just, they were so
strange. Everyone who died oddly died the same way, but years apart. So far
apart that people probably didn’t think anything of it. It’s been happening for
decades, it seems, though the last one was probably thirteen years ago or so.
Or, well, three, I guess. Three people died then, all of them the same way.
They were all missing some vital organs, and they looked like their rib cages
had been broken. There were signs that something had been eating them, too, but
they could never match teeth indentations to any of the known predators in the
area. Isn’t that fascinating?”
Thirteen years. Those were the ones his father had killed after Ardae’s mother
died. A family of three, if he remembers correctly—happy mother, loving
husband, and bright-eyed little girl who had probably only been two years older
than him. “Ain’t nothin’ fascinating about people being murdered,” he growls,
touching the dry sides of the bookshelf lightly in order to turn it so the sun
hits the tacky, still-drying patches on the inside.
“No, of course not,” the man hastens to agree, tugging at his collar like he’s
nervous. “There has been talk, though, mostly speculation, that
whatever—whoever—killed those people wasn’t human. There was no way they could
be, with the way they were chewed on and clawed at, but, well… I called around
to a few of the other towns, I’m too curious like that, and they each said
almost the same thing. There have been one or two deaths in each place that
match up with the ones here and some silly reports about an antlered beast, but
nothing after about sixteen years ago. It’s all so strange.”
The way he says that, silly reports about an antlered beast, makes Ardae look
at him over one shoulder, thoughtlessly tonguing at the empty spot on his left
bottom jaw where he lost a molar. It’s an odd sensation, but it distracts him
from the way the beast is desperately snarling to be free so it can rid them of
this pesky human who asks too many questions. “Antlered beast?”
“I know!” Semyon beams at him. “Doesn’t that just sound so crazy and science-
fiction? It’s like all of those people who claim to see Bigfoot, or swear
they’ve got video proof of the Loch Ness monster. People will sometimes invent
such unusual, asinine things when they’re desperate to explain something.”
“Fuck you, Nessie is real,” Ardae bites out, surprising himself and the other
man with the vehemence in his voice. Semyon blinks at him, eyes wide, and licks
distractedly at his lower lip.
“They have proven there is no way for such a large creature to sustain itself
on the indigenous life in the loch,” he ventures, clearly bewildered. “There
isn’t a large enough food source for it to survive. They’ve done sonar sweeps
of the entire loch and found nothing even hinting at anything like what people
are claiming they’ve seen.”
“I don’t give a fuck what science people have to say with their sonar and their
fuckin’ PhDs. Nessie is real.” He’s real, after all, so who’s to say that the
Loch Ness monster isn’t? Agitated now, he runs his stain-covered fingers
through his hair, catching on snarls and tangles and ripping at them without
care. Having his hair pulled back into its customary ponytail is starting to
get annoying, so he twists it into a quick, messy bun and starts cleaning
everything up. He’ll have to rinse out the brushes with the old, rusty spigot
around the side of the house to keep the smell out of the kitchen.
“What’s that on your neck?”
Fucking shit. “Birthmark,” Ardae offers shortly, not in the mood anymore for
this man and his endless questions and curiosity and scientific bullshit.
“I’ve never seen one that looks like that before.” Semyon is drifting closer,
bringing with him the smell of mint tea and parchment as well as everything
else that makes up his unique scent. He knows better than to actually touch
Ardae, thankfully, but he’s still close enough for his breath to fan warmly
over the dark marks, sending a shiver down Ardae’s spine and making him twist
out of reach to glare at the man, who looks put-out at losing the object of his
interest and not at all sorry for being so close. “It looks like a tree. It’s
beautiful.”
“Get your eyes checked. ‘S fuckin’ hideous.” Not that he actually believes his
own acidic words. His birthmark is probably the only thing he actually likes
about himself, because yeah, it does kind of look like a tree. Or even,
depending on how he looks at it, like antlers branching out across the nape of
his neck and down between his shoulder blades.
“I don’t think it is,” Semyon argues, touching the frame of his glasses self-
consciously. He follows Ardae into the shed where he stores his tools, looking
around in surprise, because while the outside looks run-down and like it’s
falling apart, everything inside is newer and built well. “This is incredible.”
Dropping the cans of wood stain onto the main work table, Ardae takes a deep
breath and then turns around to glare at the man invading his territory. “You
got somethin’ else you wanna ask, or are you just gonna pester me all day?”
“Would you build me something?”
That catches him off guard and he stares, jaw going slack. “The fuck?”
Semyon steps closer, the light coming in through the window catching on his
light brown hair and making it look red. “Would you build me something?” he
asks again, looking strangely intense and hopeful.
Ardae thumbs at his nose and crosses his arms. “What the fuck could you
possibly want me to build?”
“Anything. A coffee table? I have a lot of books.”
“So buy a bookshelf.”
“I’ll pay you,” the man persists, and somehow they went from being across the
shed from each other to within two feet. His scent is filling Ardae’s nose,
making his nostrils flare. He licks at his lower lip and Semyon’s eyes drop for
a fraction of a second to watch. “Will you?” he’s asked, the man’s voice soft
and almost shy. “Will you build me something?”
“The hell are you playing at?” His voice rasps horribly, like he hasn’t spoken
in days. “You’re fuckin’ weird.”
“Oh, pet,” Semyon murmurs, smiling like he’s been given the greatest gift
anyone could hope for rather than being insulted again. “There is no terrible
catch. You build beautiful things, and I would love something made by your
hands.”
The air between them is too hot, too intimate. His skin feels tight again,
buzzing, but he doesn’t feel like he’s about to have a panic attack. The beast
is strangely quiet, rumbling its interest but not currently demanding
bloodshed. Finally, Ardae can’t look at those damned eyes anymore and glances
away. “Fine, sure, whatever.”
“You marvelous boy.” Semyon’s face breaks into a smile that could rival the
warmth and brightness of the sun, and doesn’t even seem to mind when Ardae
shoves past him, their shoulders knocking together roughly. The praise makes
his stomach clench, makes his mouth dry, and he feels heat crawling up his
neck. Refusing to show any of that, he scowls and stalks back out into the
fresh air, listening to the tread of Semyon’s sneakers against the floorboards
as the man follows him. Neither of them says anything while he grabs the
brushes and goes around the side of the house to wash them at the spigot, the
water freezing cold against his already-chilled fingers. Semyon is a line of
heat against his side, his presence very much felt even if they’re not
touching. He’s watching Ardae clean the brushes like it’s the newest thing
since electricity, though eventually his eyes wander to the copse of trees
behind the house.
“Have you seen it?” he asks suddenly, breaking the silence and making Ardae
twitch and nearly crush the handle of the brush currently in his hands.
“Seen what?” he snaps, flexing his fingers. They’re so cold they’re starting to
hurt.
“The antlered beast I mentioned earlier; or something like it. I was wondering
if you’d seen it. Those trees are big enough and close enough together to hide
something, I bet.”
“Yeah, a fucking raccoon.” Focusing on his task, he finishes cleaning the
brushes and wrestles with the rusty spigot to turn the water off, the sudden
absence of it making everything seem louder. “Ain’t seen shit out there. ‘S not
like I’m home enough to notice anyway.”
“You’re not?”
“In case you ain’t noticed, genius, I’m out almost all night tryin’ to make
money so I can survive in this fucking useless town.” Ardae glares over his
shoulder at his new shadow as they go into the shed again. He grabs an old,
ratty towel and gives the brushes a quick pat-down before laying them out so
they can dry properly. “I spend most days huntin’ or fishin’, so I head out to
the marshes or the docks, ‘cause ain’t nothin’ bigger’n a raccoon hidin’ in
those trees.”
“Oh.” Semyon pouts, his lower lip pushing out and his eyes looking even bigger
and sadder behind his dorky glasses. “I guess I’ll have to look elsewhere,
then, and see what else I can come up with.”
“Why’re you so interested anyway?” Having this guy snooping around means
nothing good for him. He’s been stashing his clothes in his room to keep them
from being found again, but apparently his new stalker is very persistent. It
will take something extreme to make him back off, and right now, Ardae isn’t
sure what that is.
“I’m a collector. It’s my job to find rare and priceless artifacts for people
who have a taste for those things and bring them back. My employer told me that
there is a very rare treasure indeed hiding somewhere in this area, something
no one has ever seen before, and he’s willing to pay a very generous fee for me
to find it and bring it back to him. I don’t just do it for private buyers,
though. Sometimes a museum contacts me, or a historical society. Sometimes I
just donate the things I find, because history like that deserves to be shared
with everyone, not just hoarded away for only a few.”
“You saint, you,” Ardae mutters, unimpressed and decidedly wary. “Your
‘employer’ tell you anything else?”
The smile he’s given makes him want to bare his teeth. “Just that the treasure
I’m looking for is unlike anything I’ve ever seen, and that it might break me
as opposed to me breaking it.”
Something about that makes him look away, ignoring Semyon when the man
continues to peer at him like he’s the most fascinating puzzle on the planet.
Cold wind blows against his face, so Ardae closes his eyes and breathes in.
Then he snaps them open again and goes tense so fast that there’s no way it
wasn’t noticed.
“Ardae?”
“You need to leave,” he growls, whirling around and striding toward Semyon so
quickly that the man stumbles back, looking worried and nervous. “Now. Leave
now.” He can hear his father’s heartbeat getting stronger, can smell his scent.
The rumble of his beat-up old truck is getting louder, too, and he can’t
believe he didn’t hear that first. “Fuckin’ Christ, go,” he all but shouts, so
close to Semyon that their chests are almost touching, their noses bumbing.
Semyon licks his lips, eyes darting between Ardae’s face and the road, and
there’s something, a light in his eyes, but the sound of the engine is like a
low roar now, so they don’t have time for talking. Thankfully, the guy seems to
finally realize that, because he nods quickly and then he’s hurrying away,
heading toward the trees to stay out of sight after one last glance over his
shoulder before the lower branches swallow up his figure.
Ardae has just enough time to haul the heavy bookshelf out of the way before
his father’s truck pulls into place, accompanied by a cloud of dust and
screeching tires. He listens to the older man kill the engine and throw his
weight against the door to get it open, half because it sticks and half because
he’s too drunk to remember where the handle is.
Robert Le’Rou is a tall, heavy-set man with bulging muscles that can barely be
contained by the dirty long-sleeved shirt he’s wearing. He’s got the same ash-
blonde hair as his son, just shorter and thinning, and the same narrow blue
eyes, but that’s where their physical similarities end. In every other aspect
but temperament, Ardae favors his mother, and his father hates it. When he
stumbles out of the truck, reeking of alcohol and loose women, his bloodshot
eyes rolling to fixate on his son, both of them pull back their lips to show
their teeth; Robert in an instinctual show of dominance and Ardae in disgust.
“You fuckin’ reek,” he growls, his mouth turning down into a scowl. “Go take a
fuckin’ shower.”
“You watch yer tone, boy,” Robert snarls, pulling himself up to his full height
and slamming the door of his truck shut. “Learn some fuckin’ respect fer yer
elders.”
“Act like a decent person an’ maybe I’ll start thinkin’ you deserve it!” He’s
playing with fire, he knows he is, but he can’t help himself. As soon as he
sees his father, he becomes incapable of keeping his mouth shut, even though it
always ends the same way. That’s the way it’s going to end today, too, he knows
it, because his father is coming closer, too unstable to prowl but still
radiating danger. He’s an alpha, even despite the ruin he’s fallen into, and
everything about him sets Ardae’s teeth on edge. “Someone came by today,” he
adds, feeling satisfaction at the reaction the words are met with. Robert
stiffens, his nostrils flaring, and he snorts like an enraged bull before
tossing his head. It’s not as impressive as it would be if he were in his
natural form, with his antlers, but Ardae can’t remember the last time his
father actually shed his human skin in front of him. “He’s been looking into
the history of the town, checkin’ things out. He’s figured out a pattern, you
stupid fucking waste of air, ‘cause it ain’t like you were ever smart enough to
hide your fuckin’ tracks. It was just a matter of time before someone noticed.”
Their existence is in jeopardy because his father couldn’t control himself,
couldn’t control the beast, and now Semyon is on the trail like a bloodhound,
and something tells Ardae that he won’t be satisfied until he’s figured
everything out, which means sooner or later—probably sooner, considering what
he’s seen of the man so far—he’ll uncover the truth, and then they’re screwed.
Semyon has a buyer, his ‘employer’ who told him about something rare and
special in the area, and it sounds like he’s paying the British man quite a lot
of money to come and get it for him.
Robert bellows and lunges for him, too angry to actually speak, and Ardae jerks
back to avoid the uncoordinated blows. Every hit that misses just makes his
father even angrier, his eyes nearly black, his lips twisted into a snarl and
flecked with foam and spit like he’s become rabid. It’s an old dance between
them, and something eventually has to give. When it does, Ardae cannot stop the
bark of pain he lets out when one of his father’s meaty fists slams into his
ribs, and the sudden pain makes him see stars. He stumbles, trying to blink and
clear his vision, and his father smells the weakness like sharks smell blood in
the water. Even when he’s so drunk he can’t even stand properly, he’s still an
apex predator. Another blow catches Ardae in the shoulder, sending him
sprawling back into the dirt. His head slams hard into the packed earth,
snapping his teeth together, and blood fills his mouth. It takes him a while to
realize that he’s bitten off the tip of his tongue, but that pain is quickly
overshadowed when his father kicks him in the abdomen hard enough that he gags,
spitting blood and bitter bile out onto the dead grass. He registers one more
kick, this one to his spine, before he blacks out, his father’s bellows barely
audible over the roaring of blood and the beast in his ears.
 
 
 
Gentle fingers flutter over his face, rousing him. He smells salt and copper,
but he’s having a hard time forcing his way out of the murky blackness of
unconsciousness. Someone is saying his name, he thinks, the voice choked and
feminine, and the warm fingers wipe at his mouth before moving down his throat
to his chest. The first clear thing he hears is a gasp of pain, and he blinks
his eyes open, Jenny’s face swimming into view above him. She’s crying, her
cheeks wet from her tears, and when he glances down he realizes that the sound
she made was because he’s grabbed her wrist to stop her from touching him. He
feels her fragile bones grinding together under the strength of his grip and
lets go like he’s been burned, trying to scramble back only to whine when his
lower back throbs, the pain so intense that he almost blacks out again.
“Ardae, no, darlin’, don’t move.”
It’s dark, which means night, and the last thing he remembers is it being early
afternoon. He’s been here for hours, but at least his father’s truck is gone,
his scent growing stale. He must have left not long after he knocked Ardae out,
which is good for him, and Jenny, but she still shouldn’t be here.
“You need to go,” he hisses, his throat burning and his mouth still coated in
blood. At least his tongue has healed, the tip mostly regrown, but when he
tries to move again and can’t without some form of agony, he realizes that the
rest of him isn’t so lucky. “Fuck, Jenny, why th’hell are you here?”
“Semyon came and got me,” she whispers, her voice shaking. Her whole body is
shaking, and so is he, he realizes, probably because he’s been exposed to the
dropping temperatures without even a coat to protect him. The name makes his
vision clear fully, everything snapping back into focus, and he looks past her
to where the man is standing at the end of the driveway, watching him with
dark, solemn eyes. The scent of his distress burns Ardae’s nose and he has to
turn away, pressing his cheek against the cold ground. He tries to breathe in a
way that doesn’t make him want to scream, his abdominal muscles seizing
painfully. “Ardae,” she continues, her voice low and hurried, “we need to get
you inside and get you warm. You’re like ice, darlin’. God, the thought of you
out here for hours, with no one knowing…”
“Stop,” he rasps, trying to push himself up and gritting his teeth against the
pain. His shoulder is swollen, the skin dark and bruised, but the bone is
mostly set and healed, so he’s not too worried about it anymore. Accelerated
healing is good for a lot of things, but broken bones still take time, and from
the feel of it, whatever’s going on with his spine is going to take some time
yet. Showing this kind of weakness, especially in front of Semyon, does not sit
well with him. Even Jenny seeing him like this is too much, but he knows how
stubborn she can be, so he only rumbles wordlessly as she tries to help brace
him, giving him something solid to lean against as he makes his way toward the
house. Semyon follows, their silent shadow, apparently immune to Ardae’s glares
now when he levels one at the man as he steps over the threshold.
The couch has never felt so comfortable to him when he sinks onto it, laying on
his side to avoid aggravating his spine any further. Jenny touches his temple,
feeling out the bruise there, and nods before she starts to look around. She’s
never been here before, no one has, but she heads right for the kitchen, so he
knows she’ll find his room soon. He watches her with half-closed eyes, hyper-
aware of Semyon’s steady presence as he moves around the room with sure, light
steps. When he comes into view, his mouth turned down into a deep frown, he’s
holding a ratty blanket in his hands. God only knows where he found it, and
it’s not like it will help him, but seeing it makes it feel like someone has
just stabbed him in the heart, because his mom gave him that blanket when he
was five. He thought it had gotten thrown out years ago, but Semyon has
unearthed it from who-knows-where and is holding out to him, the expression on
his face saying clearly that he’ll have no qualms about tucking Ardae in
himself if he has to. And that is just not happening.
Jenny finds the shower; he can hear when she turns it on. When she appears
again, making a beeline for him, Semyon steps back with the blanket so she can
get between them and help Ardae up. “C’mon,” she whispers, her voice low and
her eyes wide and shining in the dark. “Let’s get you warmed up, darlin’.”
For once, he chooses not to argue, but he stubbornly refuses to lean on her for
support this time as he hobbles to the bathroom, which is already filling with
steam. Feeling is starting to return to his fingers and toes, and when he risks
a glance in the mirror over the sink he sees that his lips are tinged blue.
Jenny helps him ease his shirt off, her gasp and the new flood of salt-scent
telling him everything he needs to know about what his back looks like. His
stomach looks pretty bad on its own, the skin a mottled mess of bruises that
will only get worse. There’s a cut over his hip, shallow but long, the wound
already clotted and the blood crusty and dry. She doesn’t turn away when he
peels off his pants, and he doesn’t ask her to. They’ve seen each other naked
more than a few times, so he has no shame about baring himself in front of her.
She's never judged his scars. Once he’s naked, she helps him into the tub,
though he will not let her lift his legs for him to get over the rim. He’s
hurt, but he’s not completely fucking useless. She huffs at his stubbornness
but lets him do it himself, the hot spray burning his frozen skin as soon as it
makes contact. He’s unable to stop his flinch, biting back the sound that wants
to tumble past his cracked lips, and shuts his eyes to avoid seeing the
heartbroken expression he knows is aimed his way.
Maybe it’s his healing ability, but it doesn’t take too long to warm up, not as
long as it probably should. Jenny seems too relieved about that to comment on
it, hovering but not physically helping him like he knows she’s desperate to.
Once he’s stopped shivering and it feels like his insides are no longer making
a bid to be part of the Alaskan tundra, he turns off the water and eases
himself out onto the mat; accepts the towel Jenny’s already got open and
waiting. He doesn’t protest when she wraps it around him herself, or even when
she picks up a second one and begins to towel dry his hair a lot more gently
than he would have done himself.
“Clothes?” she asks, an edge to her voice that tells him she’s still
dangerously close to bawling again.
“Bedroom,” he grunts, taking the towel from her and roughly scrubbing it over
his aching scalp. He’s good at hiding how much pain he’s in, and now is no
different, his movements rough and uncaring as he towels the excess water from
his long hair. When he finally stops, he lets it hang free, feeling the clean,
damp ends brush against the middle of his back. By the time Jenny gets back,
holding a pair of sweatpants he’d forgotten he had and a long-sleeved shirt,
he’s mostly dry. Knowing him, she hovers but allows him to dress himself,
making a face the whole time. The shirt is harder than the sweatpants, and it’s
half over his head before he has to stop, his jaws aching sharply because of
how tightly he’s clenching his teeth. Soft, careful hands help him the rest of
the way into the shirt, pulling his hair out of the collar once it’s settled in
place and the worst of the damage is hidden.
“Come on, darlin’.”
They make their way back to the main room, which is flooded with light from the
overhead bulb. Nothing is disturbed, no traces of Semyon’s scent anywhere it
isn’t supposed to be, so aside from turning on the light, the man hasn’t done
anything else. He watches them, his eyes wide but still fierce, like he’s ready
to try and hunt down Robert Le’Rou by himself and seek vengeance for what the
man has done.
No one has ever looked at him like that before. Ardae doesn’t know how to
respond to someone who is willing to try and hurt his father for him, so he
sits on the couch and takes the brush Jenny must have grabbed from his room. If
he doesn’t brush his hair now, it will turn into a nest of tangles that will be
impossible to deal with. Running the bristles through his hair turns out to be
therapeutic, like someone is running their fingers through it instead, lightly
scratching at his scalp. By the time he’s done he’s nearly boneless, his
eyelids heavy. Jenny, who has apparently thought of everything, pulls his hair
back for him and binds it deftly with a pony tail holder; takes the brush back
to his room while he lays down and makes himself comfortable and returns with
his thickest comforter, which she tucks him in with before heading for the
kitchen again. Cabinet doors open and close, pots bang together, and he hears
the fridge open, then close a minute or so later.
Semyon is still staring at him, and Ardae can’t remember the last time he saw
the man blink. As the savory scent of meat cooking starts to filter into the
room, he watches the man come closer, watches him hesitate before he lays the
blanket over top of Ardae’s comforter, watches still as he steps back and those
dark green eyes flick to his face.
“You need to go to the hospital.”
Baring his teeth feels like too much effort right now, so he closes his eyes
and turns his face into the cushions beneath him, inhaling his father’s scent
and the stale stench of hops. “No, I really fuckin’ don’t,” he mutters. “Ain’t
jack shit they can do for me there, and besides, you really think I can afford
it?”
“I’ll pay,” Semyon insists. It’s not an offer. Ardae lifts his head and glares.
“The fuck you will. I’ll be fine. ‘M feelin’ loads better already. No fuckin’
hospital.”
Semyon exhales loudly through his nose, scowling now. “You could be bleeding
internally.”
Ardae rolls his eyes. “If I was, I’d already be dead.”
“What if a kidney was ruptured, or your spleen, or something else important?
What if something is lacerated?”
“I’d be screaming.” No need to say he knows that from experience. If not for
his healing ability, he’d have been dead a long, long time ago. “No hospital.”
“They can help you! They’re qualified to deal with situations like this!”
“Situations like what?” His voice is low and dangerous, his stare deliberately
challenging. He’s not trying to deny what happened—his father beat him into
unconsciousness and left him lying in a heap on the driveway. He just wants to
see how far the man is willing to go.
Semyon lifts his chin and crosses his arms. He looks honestly perturbed and
angry, like he can’t understand why no one else is taking this as seriously as
he thinks they should be. “Your father beat you,” he growls. “He beat you, and
left you unconscious outside in the middle of winter. Who knows how long you
were there. You could have broken bones! You could have some kind of head
trauma! There is nothing in this house that could possibly help with those
things. You could be suffering from hypothermia, Ardae, Jesus!”
When Semyon gets angry, his cultured British accent dips low and starts to
sound rougher, like his Russian heritage is coming through. Ardae wonders if
he’s going to start swearing at him in Russian and ignores the sudden spark of
warmth low in his belly that that thought evokes. Instead, he closes his eyes
and lays his head down again, listening to Jenny fussing over whatever she’s
making, the scent of herbs and spices joining the mouthwatering smell of the
meat. He wasn’t even aware they had herbs in the cabinets.
“I’ll be fine,” he mumbles, sighing afterwards and listening to the frustrated
noise Semyon makes in the back of his throat. “I’ve had worse, fuckin’ Christ.
Stop nagging at me.”
“That does not at all make me feel better, pet. That actually makes me feel
worse, if you can believe it.” Oooh, sarcasm. He didn’t think Semyon was
capable of it, and he hides his smile by pulling the corner of his comforter
until it covers the lower half of his face, the material soft and familiar as
it brushes against his nose.
They fall silent then, Ardae trying to make himself comfortable in a way that
doesn’t end in pain while Semyon starts to walk around the room, giving in to
his curiosity at last and exploring. Not that there’s much to explore, because
anything valuable they once had was broken or thrown away long ago. Now the
room is full of empty bottles and blood, splatters of it—mostly his—sunken into
the wooden walls, and he hears Semyon stop and drag his fingers over the faded
spray near the door, the man’s heart thumping loudly as his scent turns bitter.
He doesn’t say anything, just touches the stain again before he moves on.
Jenny brings the food into the room, glancing at Ardae and waiting for him to
motion to the coffee table. It’s covered in bottles, but he solves that issue
by leaning forward far enough to sweep his arm over the surface, sending
everything crashing to the filthy carpet and ignoring the pain he feels when he
moves. Nothing breaks, surprisingly, and he nods in satisfaction. He ignores
the expression shot at him, sitting up with the blankets wrapped around his
shoulders, though he pulls the old blanket into his lap after a moment and rubs
the material between his fingers. It feels surprisingly warm, or maybe that’s
just his mind and his memories playing tricks on him. When Jenny sits beside
him, he glances at her, then at Semyon when the man drags the armchair closer
and sits across from them.
No one lets him get his own food, much to his annoyance, but he still accepts
the plate he’s handed, which is piled high with seasoned meat and, amazingly,
mixed vegetables. Where Jenny found them, he has no idea, but she looks so
proud of what she’s made for them that he keeps his thoughts to himself and
eats everything, trying to hide the face he makes when he eats the vegetables.
Judging by the smile on Jenny’s face when she glances at him, he knows he’s
failed.
“Typical,” she chuckles. “Boys and their vegetables.”
“Some boys,” Semyon protests, though he’s playing too, because he’s smiling
when he shows off the plate where his portion had been. “I ate mine, and quite
enjoyed them. You’re a marvelous cook, darling.”
Jenny blushes and Ardae scowls, narrowing his eyes. Something like jealousy
burns in his belly, but he refuses to let himself think about why that is. When
Semyon smiles at him—a gentle, radiant smile, not a smirk—he looks down to
glare at his plate. “Don’t worry, pet,” the man says, no hint of teasing in his
tone. If he sees how Ardae shivers at the endearment, he keeps it to himself.
“You’re still my favorite.”
“Oh my god,” Jenny squeaks. Their elbows bump, like she meant to flail but had
to restrain herself because of the plate on her lap and their closeness. “Oh my
god, Ardae. You didn’t tell me!”
“Because there ain’t nothin’ to tell,” he snaps, feeling the unwanted blush
prickle up his neck and across his cheeks. The fierce glare he levels at Semyon
seems to have no effect. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re playin’ at, but
don’t go actin’ like there’s somethin’ when there ain’t.”
“Oh, pet,” the man sighs, looking genuinely upset as he sets his plate on the
table and leans forward. When his hand comes up, like he wants to cup Ardae’s
cheek, he flinches away reflexively and has to look away to avoid the
heartbroken expression that flits across Semyon’s face. “You truly do not
understand your own beauty and worth, do you?” A finger traces down the line of
his jaw, nothing violent or proprietary about it. Still, there’s a hint of
possessiveness, gentle though it is, and he shivers before jerking back and
glaring. Realizing that that’s as much as he’s allowed to do, Semyon relents
again and leans back, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair and propping
his chin in his palm. “I would very much like to hurt your father for all of
the ways he has wronged you,” he announces. “In fact, I think I will if I ever
meet him. I will hurt him quite a bit, and enjoy every second of it.”
“You won’t,” Ardae snorts dismissively before shoving a chunk of meat into his
mouth. It’s juicy and perfect, gamey the way venison is supposed to be. He
responds to Semyon’s exasperated stare with a scoff, barely waiting to chew and
swallow before he tosses his head and rolls his eyes. “You ain’t gonna do
shit,” he sneers. “You’re just sayin’ that ‘cause everyone expects you to.
There ain’t a damn thing you’re gonna do when you meet him face to face but bow
your head and slink away with your tail between your legs, same as everyone
else.”
“I understand that a lot of people have let you down, Ardae.” If anything, the
man sitting across from him looks unfailingly proud of the conversation
happening between them, even if it is full of suspicion and barely-repressed
snarling. “I can’t even begin to imagine how you’ve felt all these years.
That’s why I’m not going to hold the fact that you don’t believe me against
you. I’ll just have to show you the truth of my vow.”
Vow? What the fuck does this guy think he’s doing, throwing around words like
that? Rather than answering such a ridiculous pledge, he settles for cramming
the last of the meat on his plate into his mouth, focusing on chewing and
glaring out the closest window. It barely registers when Jenny takes his plate
from him, at least until she puts it down and it’s full of food again.
Swallowing his current mouthful, he stares at her and arches his eyebrows. She
arches one right back at him.
“You’re way too skinny, darlin’,” she admonishes, resting her hand lightly on
his arm but pulling away before it can get awkward. “C’mon now, eat up.”
“My father tried to kick my stomach into my spine earlier today,” he tells her
frankly, trying to ignore the way her face falls. “You’re lucky I ate the first
plate.” Not that his abdomen hurts anymore, but he can’t exactly tell them
that. Even his lower back pain has eased, turning from screaming agony to an
ache he knows will be gone before the sun rises again.
“A little bit more, at least?” This comes from Semyon, who is imploring him
with his wide, expressive eyes. Just a few more bites, he’s asking without
words, hopeful and sad in tandem. God, they’re teaming up against him, which
should make him feel like he’s being backed into a corner, but there’s no sense
of being trapped and needing to lunge for the throat.
Is this what being cared about feels like? He ponders over it while he takes
three more healthy bites, which satisfies his two watchers enough apparently,
because Jenny takes his plate and scrapes the remaining food back in with what
hasn’t been eaten yet. Semyon finishes his second plate, surprisingly, because
he looks like the kind of man who would pick at his food instead of shoveling
it into his mouth like an uncivilized urchin. As if to make up for his quick
but neat eating habits, he pats daintily at his mouth with the paper towels
Ardae hadn’t even seen Jenny bring out.
“That was delicious, darling, thank you.”
Jenny flushes prettily at the compliment; beams even brighter when she turns to
look at him and he manages to scrounge up a smile for her even if he can’t find
words to squeeze past the lump in his throat. Their obvious affection for him,
not just from the fact that they came to find him, but stayed to make sure he
was taken care of and fed, is so far from what he’s used to getting when he
deals with people. He feels overwhelmed to the point of panic, because what if
there’s something they want? What if they’re being nice to get something in
return, something he can’t give them?
He feels Jenny pull away when his breathing picks up. He hears her gathering
the dishes and thinks she’s leaving, I knew it, she can’t handle it anymore,
but then there are large, warm hands on his arms; one lifting to cup his cheek
and tilt his head forward until he bumps foreheads with Semyon, who has gone
from across the table to kneeling between his knees.
“Breathe, pet,” the man whispers, his breath warm and oddly sweet-smelling
against Ardae’s lips and chin. “With me now. In-” He inhales, and Ardae copies
him, hearing the order layered into the gentle words. “That’s good, Ardae. Now,
out.” They breathe out together, and then in again. Out, and in, and he can
hear Jenny faintly—she’s gone outside. He starts to pull away, wanting to warn
her even though he can’t hear anything to herald his father’s approach. Semyon
holds him in place, and when did he cup the back of his neck? All of his
thoughts screech to a halt then, because he feels the fingers cradling the base
of his skull press firmly, pulling him in again, and suddenly Semyon tilts his
head up just a little and they’re kissing.
Ardae freezes, but doesn’t try to break free or run. He contemplates the
feeling of the lips against his, a little chapped but gentle, and subtly scents
the air to try and pick out anything that would warn him of a trap. His exhaled
puff of air brushes against Semyon’s cheek, and he feels an answering brush
when the man exhales in return. Nothing big or terrifying happens, but this
kiss feels life-altering all the same, and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to
do about it. When the lips against his move gently, he finally kisses back, a
little aggressive and a lot dirtier, because that’s what he’s used to from the
johns who have bothered to try making out in the past. Every single time,
though, Semyon’s fingers flex, digging into the nape of his neck, and he leads
him back to a gentler rhythm. The amount of care he’s being showed is driving
him insane, while at the same time, making his chest feel lighter than it has
in longer than he cares to think about.
Someone quietly clears their throat, and he remembers suddenly that Jenny is
still with them. He jerks back, nearly knocking his head against the back of
the couch, but Semyon is right there, half-standing now to keep their faces
close together; his fingers still pressed to the nape of his neck, the man’s
pointer finger rubbing against his hairline. It’s making him shiver, his cock
twitching, and he glares at both of them. Jenny looks triumphant, but also so
warm and happy that he has to look away, look at Semyon, who is staring at him
like he’s the sun, the man’s face radiant.
“I have to get home.” Now Jenny sounds concerned instead of gloating, and she
looks concerned too, fiddling with the hem of her top and looking between them.
“Ardae, will you be okay here? What if your father comes back?”
“I’ll be fine,” he tells her, shrugging carefully even though nothing hurts
anymore. The visible bruises are still there, but they don’t ache. At least
there’s that—it would be really, really hard to explain why he was half-dead
and frozen when they found him, and the marks were gone before they left.
“Ain’t I always?”
“This is different, ‘Dae,” she protests, only to shrink into herself when he
levels her with a baleful stare.
“Different than him beatin’ me with a bat when I was a kid?” he asks, not
meanly, but still blunt. “Different than him throwin’ me through doors and
windows when I was still healin’ from previous beatings? Trust me, Jenny, it
ain’t that different. I’ll heal now, same as I healed then. It’s gonna take a
lot more’n that to kill me off.”
Semyon interjects before things can get more heated. “Be that as it may,” the
man says, still close enough to caress Ardae’s cheeks with every breath. “It
does not mean we feel at all comfortable leaving you here by yourself, pet.
Until you heal, he can do far worse damage. And that is something we would like
to avoid.” This last part is a little rushed, courtesy of Ardae opening his
mouth to argue, but no less forceful. He finds there’s nothing he can say to
argue, because he can tell by looking at them and by their scents that they’re
not going to leave him alone. Which means either Semyon stays, because Jenny
can’t, or Ardae leaves the house.
“The fuck you expect me to do?” he asks, but even he can tell he’s already
giving in, because he doesn’t have the usual spit and venom in his tone.
Tonight, he’s just too tired to keep fighting; those kisses are screwing with
his head, and he doesn’t know what’s supposed to happen now. “You gonna stay
here, greet my old man when he comes spillin’ through the doorway?”
“If I must,” Semyon replies, infuriatingly calm. “I’m sure I can manage the
situation.”
“You ain’t managing shit!” Grasping onto the flowing river of simmering rage he
always feels running through his veins, Ardae forces himself to his feet,
ignoring their protests and barely missing cracking skulls with Semyon, who
nearly trips over the coffee table trying to avoid that very thing. “You think
you know this?” he spits, still clutching at the comforter wrapped around
himself like it’s his only lifeline to protect him from their insanity. “You
think you can manage this fuckin’ situation? Ain’t shit about this you can
fuckin’ manage, you stupid fuckin’ man!” His throat hurts, and he belatedly
realizes he’s screaming, but he can’t stop. It’s all too much.
So much for not thinking he had it in him to fight, but he has to make them
understand. They have to realize there’s nothing they can do, that they can’t
stay here, stay with him, and he can’t go with them, because what the fuck does
he say when they check him in a few hours and there’s not so much as a scrape
on him?
“Ardae,” Semyon says, trying to placate, and he cuts the man off with a snarl
that’s edging too far into the beast and too far out of human.
“No!” he shouts, shaking with the force of his potent emotions. Both of them
are staring at him, wide-eyed and silent. Jenny is crying again, fresh tears on
her pretty face, her makeup running. He did that. He put that look there,
because he couldn’t just keep his mouth shut for once and stay out of his
father’s way. “No,” he rasps again, shaking his head and ignoring the various
hurts he irritates by doing so. “No, you can’t manage this. You can’t fix this.
Neither one of you has a snowball’s chance in hell. So just go home and leave
me be.”
“Ardae,” Jenny whispers, so fragile it hurts him to hear.
“Stop it!” he screams, dropping the comforter in favor of gripping at his own
hair, digging his nails in and clapping his palms over his ears. “Just, just
fuckin’ stop! Stop caring. Ain’t shit for you to care about anyway. I’m not
worth your fuckin’ care, and I don’t want it, so just stop!” Strong hands grip
his wrists, squeezing; pry his nails from his scalp and force his hands down to
his sides, force him to hear what’s he’s done, Jenny sobbing and trying to say
his name, trying to calm him, and he hates her for it, hates himself for
causing it, hates the whole goddamn world and his mom and his father and his
stupid fucking nature.
“Are you done?” Semyon asks quietly, calmly, and Ardae can’t do anything but
nod, all of his rage fleeing him along with his words. He stands there in the
ruins of his family room, old blood on the walls and new blood on the cushions,
a lifetime of broken memories and the bitter, burned-out husks of dreams, most
of them his mother’s, a few his, none belonging to his father. It’s all
scattered around him; pressed into the woodwork, ground into the filthy floor,
scented into the very air forever, thick and oppressive. All he can do is stand
there, burned out and tired, hurting, with Semyon’s hands now cupping his
cheeks, lifting his face, and Jenny creeping forward like she’s afraid of
retaliation he can’t find within himself. She touches his arm first, a barely-
there brush of fingertips, and then she’s hugging him, burying her face into
the side of his shoulder and sobbing, babbling incomprehensively at him.
Ardae looks at her and feels something break in him, and then he’s sobbing too,
great big ugly ones, his throat and lungs burning and his vision blurring,
tears pouring down his cheeks and trickling over Semyon’s hands, which don’t
shift so much as an inch.
Amidst the ruin and wreckage, Ardae sobs because he doesn’t know what else to
do, doesn’t know how else to react, because for the first time since his mom
died someone cares about him, cares what happens to him, and it’s been so long
that he doesn’t know what to do about it but cry, because he’s just Ardae, just
that horrible Le’Rou boy from down the way, and what the fuck has he ever done
to deserve anyone caring about a no-good fuck-up like him?
 
 
 
Semyon’s hotel room looks the exact same as it did the last time he was here.
Ardae stumbles, almost tripping over a stack or three of books, but the man is
there to help him, leading him with gentle fingers curled around his wrist, his
thumb rubbing calming circles against the sensitive skin of his palm.
“Come on, pet, have a lie-down.”
That sounds absolutely fantastic, so Ardae lets himself be helped into bed,
feeling like a child but too drained and weak to care. Everything hurts,
especially his head, and the beast is unusually quiet for once. Lifting his
arms is too much effort, so he nuzzles his way across the cool sheets until he
finds a pillow and lets himself curl into a ball while Semyon drags the
blankets up over his trembling body.
“Can I get you anything?” the man asks, the bed dipping under his weight when
he sits on the edge of it and untangles the pony tail holder from his hair,
running his fingers through the long strands and chuckling softly when Ardae
groans at the feeling of it. He all but melts under the ministrations, lips
parted slightly and his belly filling with warmth at each gentle scrape of
well-maintained nails over his scalp.
“Nnn,” he mumbles, trying to remember how to speak. “Water.”
“Alright, pet. Let me get that for you.” The hands leave, making him whine, and
Semyon shushes him gently. He’s gone for hardly a minute, and then he’s helping
Ardae sit up, the rim of a bottle touching his lower lip. Too tired to open his
eyes, he licks at it plaintively, smelling a quick spike of interest, and then
there’s a hand cradling the base of his neck and the bottle is being tilted
slowly so he can drink without choking.
Ardae can’t remember the last time he let himself be this weak, can’t remember
the last time he let someone actually see him at his worst, but Semyon says
nothing about it, just takes the bottle away when he’s done and helps him lay
down again. His warmth leaves, cool air marking his departure, and then the
other side of the bed sinks beneath the weight of the man’s body as he lays
down, and there are hands in his hair again, petting him, and soft, dry lips
are brushing over his forehead.
“Come here, pet,” Semyon whispers, gathering him close and letting him bury his
face in a sweater that smells like parchment and leather, dust and dirt, and he
breathes in deeply, unable to help himself, and lodges the combination in his
mind firmly. He exhales a soft whine, tucking his nose into the collar of
Semyon’s shirt and feeling the heat and pulse of the body against his. “What is
it, darling boy?”
“Feels like it ain’t real,” he breathes, curling into the sturdy security
that’s being given to him, craving it more intensely that he ever has, feeling
it more than he could ever hope to with those johns he used to try and fill
something inside him they never could.
“You think this is a dream?”
“Yeah.”
Fingers are still stroking through his hair. Semyon stays silent for a moment,
contemplating, and then he presses a kiss to Ardae’s temple. “You’ll know it’s
not in the morning. Sleep now, pet. You need to.”
“Okay.” Unable to think of a reason to argue, he settles in and lets the
encroaching darkness sweep him away, buoyed by the dark currents but strangely
unafraid.
 
 
 
Consciousness returns in increments, parts of him waking up at different times
as he drifts along in a semi-awake state. Distantly, he can feel a finger
brushing over his cheek, but he senses no danger for once, thinks maybe it’s
still part of his dream, so he sighs and curls against the strong, hard body
that’s stretched out in front of him. They’re pressed together everywhere, the
comforting smell of parchment tickling his nose, and he hums groggily, trying
to remember what’s happening. It never takes him this long to wake up.
“I must say, you look much better without the bruises, pet.”
Bruises.
All traces of sleepy contentment gone, Ardae's eyes snap open and he sits
up—too fast, way too fast, he should be sore and hurting everywhere, would be,
if he was human. He twists his head to the side to look at Semyon. The man
looks amused and rumpled, his clothes all wrinkled from sleeping in them, red
creases on his cheek from his pillow when he sits up and reaches out calmly,
assuredly, to cup the base of Ardae’s neck and bring him forward, keep him from
bolting, as his sharp green eyes flick over every inch of his face and neck.
“Remarkable,” he murmurs, the scent of his interest powerful enough to muddy
Ardae’s thoughts and keep him complacent for the time being, because while he’s
interested, it’s good-interest, fascination, and nothing at all that makes him
want to flee. Something in him, probably something coded into his very genetic
make-up, tells him that he is in the presence of an alpha who will not harm
him, an alpha who is strong and good. He can’t deny it, no matter how much he
wants to, so he glares at the wall above the headboard.
“You knew.”
“When you heard your father coming before I did,” Semyon agrees. “Even then I
wasn’t completely sure, not until I woke up in time to watch the last of the
bruises fade. Curious, though, that you still have scars on you. Why is that?”
“Hell if I know,” Ardae mutters, shifting uneasily until he inhales another
dose of Semyon’s unique scent and the tension bleeds out of him, leaving him
loose-limbed but sharp-minded. “So what now? You gonna take me to your buyer,
sell me off for your next meal like the no-good whore I am?”
He doesn’t even have the chance to blink before he’s on his back, Semyon
looming over him in a way that’s not at all terrifying. The man’s got his
wrists held in one hand, the hard, cheap wood of the headboard scraping against
his knuckles, the kind of affection he’s most familiar with. The other hand
presses against his chest once, firmly, and then trails up the side of his neck
to cup his jaw. Trying to free himself just makes the man hold him tighter.
Against his will and his better judgement, Ardae whimpers and feels his hips
buck.
“You have no idea, do you?” And God, Semyon sounds angry, voice splintering and
eyes burning like fire as he leans down further, thigh shifting up against the
outside of his, slacks scraping roughly against the well-worn cotton of his
pants. Another shift and that thigh is between his, and Ardae clenches his
around it like it’s a lifeline, like it’s safe, but safety is a foreign policy
for him, something he’s always known was a thing but never saw in his own life,
never dared to hope he’d find.
“About what?” he spits, throbbing everywhere but most noticeably between his
legs, his hips hitching up in aborted little twitches, his muscles liquid and
coiled simultaneously. All exhaustion has burned away, leaving heat and too
many other things in its place. “About what, Daddy?” he growls, dropping his
head back and arching, putting his throat and chest and belly on display,
because everyone likes it when he offers himself, greedy hands stained by sin
and lies too eager to paw all over him, to grip and take and hurt, and Semyon
had seemed nice enough, intense and caring and good, but doesn’t darkness
always hide behind a mask of virtue? Why should now be any different? “You
gonna say I’m lying?”
“Yes,” Semyon hisses, anger slipping away like water through fingers, replaced
by something else, that fascination and intent morphing to something new as he
releases Ardae’s wrists but doesn’t move back; moves his hands down to settle
on his hips instead, fingers pressing into his skin but nowhere near hard
enough to bruise. It’s still a claim, still a domination in its own right, an
alpha asserting his rank. And unlike every other time, Ardae submits, going
boneless and rolling his head to better expose his throat, the frantic flutter
of his pulse and the corded muscles; the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows
thickly and whines through his clenched teeth.
“Fuck you.”
He feels hot breath against sensitive skin, a nose tucking up under his jaw,
and a deep inhale that makes him feel even filthier than everything else, makes
his hips buck more forcefully, all-but riding the thigh resting snugly against
his groin and making his vision go blurry from the exquisite friction. “Fuck,”
he chokes out, feeling hollowed out and empty, so empty and desperate in a way
he never has before. Every nerve is firing, synapses running in overdrive,
fingers curling into claws and twin pulses on his head, hidden beneath his
hair.
He's never been this out of control, never felt the beast so close to the
surface like this when the beast itself was so tame, purring and rumbling and
undulating with him, the both of them riding out the waves of this, whatever
this is, while Semyon looks down at him with dark eyes and blown pupils, but
makes no move to do anything other than rub at his hips, the man’s fingers
slipping up beneath his shirt to touch his burning skin in a way that shatters
him, leaves him shaking and coming back together, weaving scattered fragments
back into some semblance of normality for something that has always been
anything but.
“What have you done to me?”
“Nothing,” the man rumbles, accented voice low and thick, some odd mixture of
British formality and Russian growl—savagery and culture brought together into
something Ardae has never seen before and can’t look away from, his eyes wide
and his lips parted; tongue resting heavily between them and his cheeks hot
from the flush he can feel all the way down his chest and into his armpits,
prickling like sweat but so much better.
“What do you want from me?” he whispers, because everything about this man is
so contradictory. When he breathes in, his nostrils flaring with it, he can
smell desire and the burning, smoke-dark instinct to claim. It smells like
heat-scent, like rut, and his body responds even as his mind remains wary,
because he’s never been in a situation like this and he doesn’t know what’s
going to happen.
“Anything you are willing to give me.” Semyon strokes his cheek, then runs his
palm down his neck, fingers curling surely but never applying pressure, never
trying to take that from him even though a dark part of him cries out
desperately for him to. Intimacy is not something he is used to; kindness
something he’s never understood. He’s used to being forced down by men who
revel in his fight, who see it as a victory to gain his submission, like it’s a
battle they’ve won and they’re eager to reap the rewards and leave him sore and
sometimes bleeding afterwards, another piece of him dying while they smile and
live.
“And then?” He feels like a feral dog, wary of the hurt but still craving the
love, and he eyes Semyon when the man moves back, knees still firmly planted on
the mattress, Ardae’s thighs still caging the one, still rocking up against it
unconsciously. His hands move to brace himself, to hold him up, but it doesn’t
feel like a cage or a trap. Instead, he shudders out a whine and arches to
follow the retreating heat, almost frantic to have it back.
“And then?” There's confusion and curiosity in the words.
“And then you hand me over to your buyer, for him to do whatever he wants.”
Because Ardae’s not stupid, no matter what people mutter about him, and he’s
not foolish enough to think the fascination Semyon seems to have for him will
outweigh the paycheck waiting for the man.
“Oh, pet,” he hears, the words sighed out on a pained exhale. It makes him
flinch like he’s just been struck. “How could I do such a thing, knowing you?”
“Why does knowing make a difference?” Ardae tries to snarl the words, tries to
be angry and knows he’s failing at sounding properly livid. “Why the fuck does
knowing change it? What, you gonna call up your buyer, tell him some bullshit
lie? Gonna let me go now that you actually know me, and I ain’t just some
fuckin’ artifact to you? How noble.” Strong, angry words, but full of fear,
shivering out of him like a tangible thing and trembling in the air between
them.
“I’m not allowed to have a change of heart?” Semyon sounds so fond, no anger
creeping in, no danger of retribution for his cheek. “Even one such as me
should be allowed to have an ephiphany.”
“Yeah, but people like me ain’t lucky enough for that shit.” He feels so hot,
like he’s in a sauna, or out in the desert, rather than in an air-conditioned
hotel room. Semyon is a strong, firm presence above him, looking at him with so
much kindness, like he means something, like he’s not just a whore whose father
beats him, whose town turned its back on him, who never finished school and has
no life goals aside from getting the fuck out of a place he’ll never have the
confidence to leave, because he doesn’t know the world like he knows Moss
Point; like he knows every strong, wild inch of his territory. When it comes
down to it, he’s nothing more than a coward, all his bluster just useless
bullshit, because he doesn’t have the spine to leave even though he knows
there’s nothing here for him.
“Epiphanies?” Warm fingers, a kind—dare he say loving—gaze, and it’s too quiet
between them, too intimate. Ardae squirms, whining when he puts more pressure
on his aching groin, but it feels so good that he refuses to unclamp his legs
from around Semyon’s, refuses to release his thigh because he’s afraid of what
will happen if he does. Sex is the language he knows best, the only currency
he’s mastered since the first time he bent over for a nameless drunken stranger
when he was fourteen and had no idea what the hell he was doing other than
offering himself for the promise of pay.
“There ain’t no happy ending for my kind. I don’t get the happy bullshit
fairytale finale.” Gritting his teeth, he fists his hands in the comforter
before reaching up and latching onto Semyon’s shirt, dragging him down until
their noses are bumping, their breaths mingling; until he can see a fire he
cannot name raging in the green eyes fixed unerringly on him, waiting, coaxing,
drawing the feral, beaten dog forward to eat from a hand that wants to offer
nothing but kindness. “So what the fuck do you want?”
“You,” Semyon breathes, fingers like brands as they inch up his ribs, mapping
out every scar beneath his shirt like they know the story behind each one. “You
as you are, not as you pretend to be.”
“Newsflash,” Ardae hisses, arching until his spine twinges, pressed together
from cheeks to ankles, their lips scraping with every word between them but
never meeting properly, and oh, how he wants. “Who you see is who I am. ‘M just
an asshole Southern boy with Daddy issues and no future. Ain’t no pretendin’
here, baby. Just bein’ who I am. You don’t like that, you can fuck right the
hell off.”
“You are what you’ve been made to be.” God, why is this man so insistent on
stripping away every layer of him like a physical obstacle? “You have lived a
horrible life, full of pain and suffering, and you have adapted to survive. I
want to see you evolve into what you are meant to be when you are taken from
that life and given the life you deserve.”
Ardae snorts. “Deserve? An’ what kind’a life d’you think I deserve?”
“One where you are treated like the treasure you are.” Semyon kisses his cheek,
his lips warm and leaving behind a tingling feeling as they travel up to the
corner of his eye; to his temple, then down his jaw to his chin. “One where you
are loved the way you are meant to be loved, with no one who will treat you
with anything but kindness.”
“You gonna give me that life?” he challenges—tries to, but his words are
shaking so hard he can practically taste the scorn falling away and scattering,
leaving behind uncertainty that trembles like a new bud in spring, fragile
enough that the first too-exuberant wind will rip it apart. “You gonna take
care of me, protect me from all the bad shit?”
Semyon’s lips come to a stop at the corner of his mouth. “I will give you the
sun, so that it may burn away the shadows that plague your mind,” he whispers.
The first kiss is soft, nothing more than a brush of their lips, and Ardae
whines as he strains to be closer. “I will gift you the moon,” the man
continues, “so that it may brighten each night and light your way home. You
will never again be lost.”
“Fuck, stop,” Ardae begs. He can feel it low in his belly, the frantic need to
come. His thighs grip the one between them tighter, his hips rolling in
desperate, hitching bucks. The world he knows is suddenly so cold, and he can
feel himself rushing toward the heat Semyon is offering him, a ratty stray
being coaxed across the threshold into a life unlike anything it’s ever
experienced.
“I will give you everything, Ardae,” Semyon rumbles, pressing the words into
his mouth; licking them past his teeth and searing them across his tastebuds
with each stroke of his tongue. The noise he lets loose is unlike any sound
he’s ever made before. It feels like there’s a fire burning under his skin, the
flames roaring through him and obliterating everything that doesn’t belong,
leaving him feeling cleansed and new. He digs his nails into the back of
Semyon’s shirt, clawing at the fabric desperately as half-formed pleas spill
into the mouth so thoroughly claiming his. It’s hard and wet and sweet, so
goddamn fucking sweet, and he’s never experienced something like this before.
It’s a form of domination he’s never come across. He’s never been claimed like
this without some kind of blood being spilled, without penetration that ripped
him apart from the inside and left him bleeding and limping until the torn
flesh healed.
“I will give you the world, pet,” he’s promised, the oath sealed with kisses
that make his spine melt and his fingers clench, the coil winding tighter and
tighter. Semyon’s fingers slip from under his shirt, one hot palm cupping his
cheek while the other strokes his hip before gripping it, lifting him. The man
rolls his hips down, grinding the hard line of his confined cock against
Ardae’s belly.
He keens and comes, the world turning white around him, every synapse exploding
as he spills in his pants, pleasure unlike anything he’s ever experienced
making him slam his head back against the pillow behind him, mouth open as he
whines, his whole body wracked with twitches and spasms as he works through his
orgasm and trembles through the aftershocks. Semyon is whispering things to
him, sweet praises as his fingers stroke through his hair, pausing to rub at
the pulsing bumps where his horns want to grow before moving on.
“You’re so beautiful, pet,” he croons, peppering kisses across his cheeks. “Let
it go for me, my darling pet, be a good boy and give me all of it. There you
go, darling, there you go. So perfect for me, so extraordinary.”
“You’ll get tired of my shit one day,” Ardae mumbles, sinking into the mattress
and unwinding his legs from the man’s thigh, every inch of him buzzing with the
steady echoes of his euphoria. He’s expecting Semyon to pull away now that
they’re done, but the man settles more firmly against him, not seeking anything
else even though he’s still hard and trapped in his pants. He just pets Ardae,
his green eyes full of wonder and delight when certain touches evoke purrs or
soft hums.
“Never, pet,” he whispers, pressing a final kiss to his forehead before he
slides to the side. So that’s it, then. Only it’s not, because Semyon gathers
him close and continues to pet him, letting him hide his flushed face in the
man’s slightly damp neck. He can’t help but lick up some of the sweat,
shuddering at the taste of it. He shudders again, becoming acutely aware of the
mess he’s left in his boxers, but at the moment he has no real desire to do
anything about it.
“You will.” Everyone does.
“I could never tire of such a treasure,” Semyon vows. He grips the nape of
Ardae’s neck, not forcing him into anything; simply holding him, tilting his
head to allow him more access to his throat. “You are my greatest find, and I
will never let you go for as long as you allow me the pleasure of knowing you.”
Ardae hums noncommittally, nuzzling closer and breathing out a soft, sweet sigh
as a new kind of tiredness creeps across his mind. He doesn’t feel the need to
say anything more, and instead allows himself to be coaxed into warm, welcoming
dreams, the fingers petting against his skin relaxing him rather than raising
his hackles; the feral mutt accepting the kind caress for the moment, wary hope
growing in his brittle heart and beginning to warm the icy edges of it.
The beast rumbles, pleased, and curls up to sleep.
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