Page 209 of Dragon Slayer

He was on the bed, the edge of it, on his side, with Mehmet’s cock in his mouth. The fingers of one ringed hand were wound tight in his hair, holding him steady while Mehmet fucked into his mouth, fast and rough.

Val had become damn near professional at this over the past few years, but now, being forced, lying awkwardly like this, without a chance to ease into it – he gagged, and felt the sting of bile coming up his throat.

Mehmet pulled out with a sharp, angry sound. “You’re awake.”

Val gasped for breath, and only got to inhale once before he was being manhandled across the bed, flipped over onto his belly. Cold, hard weights bit into his neck and both wrists, tension pulling tight. He wore a new collar, and cuffs, thick chains connecting them, rendering him helpless. Pain bloomed in his head, and his ribs, and arms, places where he’d been struck with spear butts. And cool air touched his bare legs and backside; he’d been stripped from the waist down, and knew what for, as Mehmet hoisted him roughly up to his knees, his face pressed down into the pillow.

He gritted his teeth, and braced himself for it.

But the pain was still awful when Mehmet forced his way in dry, without opening him up first.

It took him several tries, short, sharp jabs of his hips, working in just a little more each time, grunting to himself; he smelled thrilled.

Val bit the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut, and didn’t scream. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.

Mehmet shoved in the last little way, and started moving straight off, drawing back, and slamming forward. The hot wetness Val felt, that began to slick the way, was his own blood.

“You…belong…to…me.” Mehmet punctuated each word with a thrust.

Tears burned Val’s eyes. The pain was terrible, but worse was the ache of having been found out. Of having failed. Dream-walking was his one secret, his only means of escaping this man. And now that had been stripped away from him.

For the first time since he was a boy, he cried into his pillow as the Ottoman sultan fucked him bloody.

~*~

Dawn brought clear skies, and a flurry of activity as Mehmet’s slaves rushed in to bathe, groom, and ready their sultan for the day’s assault.

Val didn’t stir. He heard the bustling about, and kept his eyes shut, sinking down deep into his battered, throbbing body. Wearing so much silver, he hadn’t healed overnight as he should have, and everything from his feet to his eyelids, and everything in between ached fiercely. Including his heart.

He’d been defeated last night, completely, in every way that a man could be conquered.

When he was dressed, Mehmet walked over to the side of the bed, and Val barely managed not to flinch away from his touch when he smoothed Val’s hair along the crown of his head. “Good morning, my beauty,” he sang softly.

Val bit down on the end of his tongue to keep from shuddering.

When he didn’t stir, Mehmet laid his hand on the side of his head, and said, “I know you’re awake, Radu.”

Val opened his eyes. He was weak, again, as he’d been as a boy. He could heal from almost any wound inflicted, but his body felt now like one big bruise, and he quailed from the thought of any more hurts. He couldn’t take it now. Maybe tomorrow, or the next day, maybe when he had the strength to sit upright. But not now.

Mehmet smiled down at him, a warm and friendly smile, pleased, loving, even. He did love Val, and that was the worst thing of all.

He was dressed in all his battle finery, functional armor plates and lengths of mail draped with gold-embroidered silk and linen. His turban was snow-white, its center set with a massive ruby to mark his wealth and authority, and the slaves had drawn crisp lines of black kohl around his eyes, so that he would look foreign, and fierce, and beautiful to his Greco-Roman enemies.

“Today will be my victory,” he said. “I can feel it. And my new mage, Timothée, has predicted it. I ride forth.”

Val didn’t respond.

“Sit up and give me a proper send-off.”

Val’s body didn’t want to cooperate; neither did his heart, but he dragged himself upright, supporting his weight on shaking arms. He saw blue, finger-shaped bruises all down the lengths of them, places where Mehmet had gripped him, and held him down. He’d lost count of how many times it had been; blessedly, he’d passed out at some point.

Mehmet hooked a finger beneath his chin and drew him forward the last inch. Kissed him hard, and forced his tongue between his lips. Looked triumphant when he pulled back.

After, Val subsided back to the pillows, and closed his eyes again, listening to the guards come to collect their sultan, the clink and jangle of armor and gear, the raucous shouts. Mehmet’s army was tired, but they could scent victory, and it compelled them to greater action.

After a while, Arslan crept up to the edge of the bed. “Your grace, you should take breakfast.”

Val cracked an eye open. “Did he hurt you last night?”

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