Page 38 of Honeythorn
Despite this, and his uncharitable feelings towards Dr. Fitch, he did take up the advice he had been given. He stopped going to town or riding Saturnus at all. He made feeble excuses to Katerina and Gianna’s invitations, claiming a passing illness, which he hoped would help him avoid their presence long enough to go through his heat, which was only a little more than a month away. He didn’t go as far as dedicating himself to embroidery, but he stayed inside the manor, ensconced in the library, not taking notes but simply reading or dozing in the cloudy sunlight that filtered through the windows. His only exercise was a slow walk around the estate.
All this was with a simple goal in mind: to have enough energy to survive his heat.
He knew now that what the doctor said was true—his only way out was breaking the bond. Not even the staff were on his side, for they must have noticed the lack of touch between Lord Ledford and himself, and only a fool would not connect this to his diminished state. Although Milan was perhaps being too harsh. What could the staff do, after all, against a lord?
Despite how little Milan saw of Lord Raphael, his presence was everywhere. It was inside Milan, a heavy cloud blocking all sunlight, leaving the earth barren below. At dinner, Raphael would look at him intensely, and would even mock him by suggesting they ask for Dr. Fitch to look at him again, forcing the doctor’s remedies on Milan, even supervising them. On days on which Milan could hardly eat, Lord Raphael would admonish him. If Milan had enough energy, he would have lashed back. As it was, Milan knew it was not worth the trouble.
It was haunting, to live with the man that was killing you slowly. At times, Milan thought that he must be bonded to two different people—the one ruthless enough to torture Milan, and the one everyone else saw. The ‘good man’.
Even Milan, sometimes, could see that man. One afternoon, on his walk around the grounds, he found himself pausing as he saw his husband crouching in front of a plant, which one of the gardeners had told Milan was having difficulty growing. Lord Raphael was gloveless, touching the plant gently, a careful stroke of his fingertips across a leaf.
It was an otherworldly horror, to see someone who was making him suffer so completely handle the bud of a plant with such care. Adding salt to the wound, Raphael flinched the moment he spotted Milan, hurriedly putting his gloves on as he stood up.
Milan simply walked away. He hadn’t known that hopelessness could make your heart race.
The best part of Milan’s day was his bath. He had given in and let Melissa help him wash, and he would lean back in the tub, telling her stories about his land. The colourful bunting that hung in the centres of towns all year round, as if they were always celebrating something. The way windows were left wide open to let in the breeze, fragments of song and conversation drifting out. How the bars and eateries spilt outside under the sun or the clear night sky. How there were markets not only for fresh food but prepared dishes too, held at night, lights strung between stands like stars.
He told her about his family. About how loving they were, how fierce. Every day he missed them more. It was at these times that his hope dwindled, for his greatest fear, more than dying, was never seeing them again.
CHAPTER TEN
It was during dinner that Lord Raphael finally broke the news.
“I will be leaving the day after tomorrow. The trip will take no less than two weeks. Your…I believe your heat…”
“Is next week,” Milan said dully.
“Yes. Well…”
“I understand what you’re saying.” Milan moved the food around with his fork. He had of course been expecting some excuse for Lord Raphael not to help him through his heat, but finally hearing it sent a chill through his spine.
Milan took the opportunity to simply watch Lord Raphael. He had some scruff on his square chin, his dark hair a little dishevelled. His eyes, as beautiful as they were, were glaring at his own plate, shoulders unnaturally stiff. He seemed uncomfortable even eating near Milan.
What a burden it must be to sit beside the person you are killing. Milan set down his fork abruptly, standing up from his chair, barely swaying.
“I think I shall retire,” he declared.
Raphael frowned up at him. “You’ve barely eaten.”
Milan snarled, finally letting the anger through. “And what doyoucare if I eat or not?”
He didn’t wait for a response, striding out with the little dignity he had intact.
**********
Milan was used to expecting his heat with a mixture of dread and excitement, but the fear that took over him when the first symptoms crawled up his spine was unnatural. They called it ‘heat’ for a reason—Milan could feel his body shake as if with some internal friction, even as his skin began to sweat. No matter how much he drank—and he managed little, with his roiling stomach—his mouth remained parched. The slick that dripped between his legs made a strange shame wash over him.
He had never felt that way about his physiology before.
It was terrifyingly clear from almost the start that Milan’s body was not prepared for the exertion of what was about to happen. Arousal was pain, and completion brought with it far more exhaustion than relief. Even as his body became chaos, his mind splintered into madness. He did not know what was around him, what he was saying, what his hands were doing.
There was delirium, and sorrow, and begging, and in between all that there was one single moment of clarity.
I’m not going to win.
*****
Milan woke, and woke, and woke. There were voices, people, smells. They were burning him alive. They were killing him. Every thought he had was to wish for it to end—he begged for it, moaned for it. Nothing could ever feel worse than this. It was not just his body that was on fire, but his soul. Milan could feel himself writhe in the fire, screaming for something—for death, for respite. He hoped for darkness that didn’t bring with it a blinding light.
