Page 84 of Dragon Slayer

“Oh.” George shifted a little, but then settled, and waited. “Alright.”

When Vlad pulled back, the bleeding had stopped, and the messy raw wound looked only like two punctures and the purple-blue indentations of the rest of his teeth. Not a drop of blood had been spilled, save the last bit that he licked off his lips before flopping backward and lying along the pew, breathing heavily through his mouth. He was dizzy, but not sick-dizzy, like he had been before; this was the headrush of slowly fading euphoria.

Rustle of fabric: George buttoning up his kaftan, no doubt. Creak of the pew as he stood, footsteps, and then George appeared standing above him, bite now hidden by his collar, expression guarded.

Vlad draped an arm over his eyes and concentrated on the pulses of energy moving like lightning through his veins. “Thank you for the drink,” he said, still breathless. “It worked wonders.”

A beat passed before George said, “You’re welcome.” Then, hesitant: “Is it…are you always like…like this?” He coughed politely.

“Like what? Wildly aroused?” Vlad snorted. “No. Only when it’s living blood. Other times it’s just a nice pleasant warmth.”

“Oh. Well.” Even without looking, Vlad could imagine the discomfort on his face.

Vlad barked a rude laugh. “I wouldn’t have fucked you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I don’t like other boys that way.”

“Yes. Well. Um. Alright…”

Vlad lifted his arm a fraction and peeked up at him. For once, George didn’t look like the much-older pseudo-uncle of the group, instead red-faced, and uncertain, and awkward.

Vlad chuckled and covered his eyes again. For the first time since their capture, he wasn’t blisteringly angry about something. No, he was flying instead, sky-high and pleasantly tired, and sated. The arousal was a dull itch, something that might be fun to explore, but which wasn’t pressing the more his heartbeat slowed.

“Go back to your studies, Iskander Bey,” Vlad said, tone imperious. “Before I change my mind.”

He laughed out loud when he heard George’s hurried footsteps across the flagstones.

~*~

Four days later, Vlad walked up to Mehmet in the practice yard and fixed him with a dark look. They were both fresh from their studies, neither sweaty nor winded yet. The heir was in the process of wrapping his wrists, to brace them for the sparring to come.

Vlad said, “I want a rematch.”

All conversation stopped around them; there was only the trill of birds from beyond the walls.

Mehmet finishing tying off his bandages at his leisure, and then cast a glance to his left, toward George, and then right, toward the sword master – who was currently occupying the only patch of shade in the yard, head ducked down in disinterest.

Then he looked at Vlad. Crooked smirk, fangs flashing. “Are you speaking to me, Wallachian?”

Vlad very pointedly didn’t growl. “I don’t see anyone else here I might have a grudge against, do you?”

“Heh.” The heir breathed a laugh. But his eyes were hard, jewel-bright. “You’re confident, I’ll give you that.”

“I’m a better swordsman than you, too.”

“Then why’d I beat you half to death last time?”

“I got distracted. It won’t happen again.” The back of his neck itched; he could feel Val’s gaze on him from across the yard, but he would not turn. Would not react to the slow-blooming fear-scent coming from that direction.

“Boys,” George tried.

Mehmet stood from the bench in one quick motion, and sliced a hand through the air, silencing the older boy. “Stay out of this, hostage.”

George sighed. Vlad thought he might have thrown up his hands, but didn’t turn his head to look. “Fine. So be it.”

Vlad, chosen practice sword already in his hand, backed away toward the center of the yard. Kept his eyes trained on Mehmet as the heir went to the wall where the weapons were kept and selected one after several long moments of deliberation.

“Your weapon won’t make a difference,” Vlad taunted. “I’ll beat you regardless.”

Mehmet chuckled, and finally drew a length of bright, ringing steal from a scabbard left propped against the wall.

---