Page 105 of Dragon Slayer

“Please don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt you?” His grip eased, but his tone was cruel and mocking. “Why would I want to do that? Do you think Ienjoyinflicting pain?”

Yes. Yes, Val thought he did.

He smoothed the fine embroidery of Val’s kaftan with trembling fingers, lingering at his chest, stroking him through the silk. “I seek only pleasure. That’s what you were made for. Beautiful things are meant to be enjoyed.”

Val closed his eyes against the prickling of tears. All those times Mehmet had stared at him, the things he’d hissed to Vlad during those awful sparring matches, laughing, wild-eyed.Thiswas what it had been leading to. A drunk noble pawing at him; a hostage unable to resist. Nakedness, and fucking; writhing like the horses he’d seen bred back home. He thought of a mare, a stallion’s teeth sunk in her withers; remembered the way she’d screamed.

And he was aboy. How could the prince…what would he…

The tears slid down his cheeks. He couldn’t stop them.

“You’ll like it,” Mehmet said. “You’ll see.” His touch pulled back, and he stepped away. Val heard the rustle of cloth and cracked his eyes open.

Through a blurring of tears, he saw that the sultan was undressing, his movements clumsy, fingers still slow from the wine. He tore a button free when he couldn’t work it, cursing, the golden circle landing on the tile with aping. He had his back to Val; he didn’t think he would flee. And why would he? Obedient.Sweet. The tame Wallachian prince who observed every courtesy wouldn’t dare deny the Ottoman sultan, would he?

The door to this suite was locked. Maybe Mehmet would drop the key, fumble it like the buttons he kept ripping free. But…

Val blinked to clear his eyes. There lay the garden, its jasmine-scented breeze lifting the bed curtains, cooling his overheated face. If he could get around the bed, he could get out there, and he knew the gardens well, now. Knew all its nooks and hiding spots.

He closed his eyes again, and tried to find some reserve of courage to draw upon. If he did this, if he refused the sultan…

He didn’t let himself think. He only knew that he had to run now, while Mehmet’s back was turned.

He wiped his tears with his sleeve, took a deep breath, and leapt.

He made it around the bed before Mehmet let out an enraged sound, half-growl, half-scream.

Val screamed in response, and tried to duck – but the sultan snatched him by the back of the kaftan, yanked him up off his feet.

The room spun. His back slammed into the wall, and Mehmet’s face shoved into his, teeth bared, veins standing out in his temples. He growled, low and constant, seething.

“Are you running from me?”

“N-no-no, Your Majesty.” Val flattened his hands against the plaster of the wall, trying to gain purchase, searching for–

His fingertips brushed cool steel. Mehmet’s fists were balled in the front of his kaftan, tearing seams and popping buttons, and he didn’t dare turn his head. But he rolled his eyes to the side and just glimpsed what he’d seen in his earlier glance around the room: the sword hanging on the wall. It was well within reach, and hung by flimsy decorative pegs.

“Look at me!” Mehmet shouted in his face, spraying spit.

Val complied. The sultan’s eyes were wild. He’d seen bloodlust, and battle fury, had lived his whole life with Vlad’s particular brand of low-simmering contempt for everyone and everything, but this…he’d never seen this before. This terrified him.

I can be sweet. Yes, he could, and he had. It was, no doubt, the thing that had spared him the crop thus far. Maybe even what had spared his life. He should be sweet now; should go limp as a doll and let Mehmet use him for whatever pleasure he sought.

But Val was only a boy, and fucking was fine so long as it was something glimpsed through a half-closed door. Here, now, with his captor, with wine-breath, and aggression, and terror, he –

No. He couldn’t do it.

What would Vlad do?he thought. And then he closed his hand around the sword’s hilt, ripped it from its hooks, and swung it.

The hit landed, and in his shock, Mehmet dropped him.

Val collapsed to the floor; the impact knocked the sword from his hand.

Mehmet stared down at his side, where the dark red of blood was already soaking through his kaftan, a rapidly-spreading stain. But he was still on his feet; he reached to touch the wound, fingering at the silk above it with quiet disbelief.

No!Not a mortal hit. Not even a crippling one. Just enough to stoke his already out of control anger.

---