Scene 13: Rich's quarters.
Feeling well-inclined toward the world, Rafael sits on the bed and waits as Rich showers, thinking of all that clean white skin stretched over all that heavy muscle. He’s still so wonderfully warm, so pleasantly foggy, that it’s a surprise to find his own hand playing with the fabric of his shirt, tracing lines of soft heat over his stomach and chest, then teasing a thumb back and forth over the stud in his nipple, tugging sweet and electric at the nerves there.
He’s hard, has been hard, and he must surely have permission, Rich already brought him to glorious completion a handful of times… In a rush of daring Rafael pulls his shirt up over his chest and shoves his pants down around his thighs and just plays with himself, leaning into the giddy indulgence of it, feeling the world spin slowly under his back as the pleasure crests higher. Thinking of Rich’s arms, his hands, his mouth.
“Hey, you missed dinner, do you wanna get—oh. Uh.”
“Mmh,” Rafael sighs. “What?”
“Gonna, uh, I was… just asking if you needed anything, but,” Rich says, already in a clean shirt and wrap, and approaches far too hesitantly. Rafael strokes himself a little harder, a little hotter, and smiles invitingly.
“God, you’re too fucking hot,” Rich sighs, and sits down at the edge of the bed. “Keep going, babe, get it out of your system. One of us should get to.”
“Yes,” says Rafael. He almost stops, but… Rich says he shouldn’t, that he should keep going, and he does feel so very good. There was a choice, he recalls vaguely, a choice, his pleasure or Rich’s, and Rich never hesitated a moment, never even had to pause to ask. The decision was already made, and only now is Rafael awoken enough to feel guilty for it. “You gave, you sacrificed—your chance, your pleasure. I don’t mean to be unfair to you, should I, mm…”
Rich snorts softly. “C’mon, what kinda stingy asshole do I look like? You needed it more than me, hon. Just… make it good, huh? Go ahead and make it good for yourself.”
Rafael has to laugh at that, and once he starts he can’t stop, touching himself and laughing. “Nothing easier, with such sweet encouragement,” he says, and lets his head fall aside, letting his eyes roam the body he saw in such awe-inspiring motion less than an hour ago. “I won’t touch you, but, if you wanted to uncover, un—undress yourself, it would be, hha, be such wonderful inspiration.”
Rich blinks and flushes across his cheeks and ears. “Oh,” he says, ducking his head and smiling. “Um. Here, is this good enough? Might as well show off all that gym work to somebody.” He strips off his shirt and holds his arms out, displaying the breadth of his chest and shoulders.
Rafael nods jerkily, starts to reach out to touch and then remembers the promise he made mere moments ago and forces himself to take his hand back, occupies it with the piercing in his other nipple and takes a shuddering breath.
“I’ll never walk a museum again,” he confides, and finds himself caught in breathless and hitching laughter again. “For fear of defiling their marble statues, ha, hha, haha…”
“What,” Rich starts, and then sputters and puts a hand over his face, red spilling down his throat and shoulders. “Oh my god! Raf! Fuck. C’mon.”
“Not all the statues,” Rafael decides, distracted. “Those others, down there, the Hastings—they’re the forms of, mm, the old masters, I think, their paean to violence—your sweetness, your form, your, it’s much sweeter, more pleasing, to the discerning of aesthetic ahh…” he shivers up into his own touch at the way Rich is looking at him, the lovely, rapt disbelief in his smile.
“Whatever you say, man,” Rich tells him, but he's still blushing and he doesn't stop watching Rafael like a revelation. It’s so beautiful.
“Don’t stop,” Rafael says, breathless in entreaty.
“I’m not doing anything,” Rich says, and reaches out to put a hand on Rafael’s knee, just touching him, grounding. “I’m just watching, man—but I’m not, I’m not gonna stop. I dunno who could stop watching you. Fuck, Raf.”
God, Rafael is starting to understand why people take drugs such as these recreationally, everything is so simple.
“Then watch me come for you,” he says, half an order, half a plea. “And know I’ll repay, someday, I’ll make… all debts right, I swear, I will learn to make you undone, I, hnngod, I will learn you, I’ll bring you pleasure you, ah, he could never—ahh…” he’s talking himself in circles, now, touching himself more frantically, subsumed with a pleasure that feels like ferocity. He could be fierce, for this boy, he could throw wild revels under that bright green stare and never regret one step of the dance…
“Fuck,” Rich breathes again, and licks his lips, eyes dark and fixed on Rafael. “You're good, man, you've got it, I'm watching. You look so good, Raf, you're gorgeous like this. Just enjoy yourself, babe, lemme see you come.”
“For you, yes, anything,” Rafael promises, and brings himself to a sweet conclusion. It’s been so long since he’s touched himself, he’s unprepared for the arc of his own come, the way it stripes his chest and slicks through his fingers, and he finds himself laughing all over again at the absurdity of it. Sex is so gross, so animal and inelegant, and yet the desire and fulfillment thereof have ordered his every day for so many years… and yet. It’s so good. He feels so good.
“Beautiful,” Rich says, and Rafael laughs again, because he’s right. Then he realizes that Rich is talking about him, about his performance, not just the way it all felt, and a hot glorying shyness rises up inside him. He ducks his face away from the green fire of Rich’s gaze, casts about for something to clean up with, and once more Rich is there, holding out a wipe, taking one of Rafael’s slick hands in his own huge white paw, gentle as a cloud.
“Here, let’s get you fixed up,” Rich says. Rafael is starting to love his accent, as strange and slurred-together as it is. Vowels too short and consonants too soft, but everything he says in it is so intensely sweet.
Rich cleans him up, gentle and thorough, and then strokes Rafael’s cheek, smiling. “You look like you’re still in the stratosphere, man. You wanna stay here and rest, or are you still up for cards?”
“Cards,” Rafael says firmly. He has no interest in being parted from Rich again. “I can play cards while floating in bliss. All my atoms unmoored in pleasure…”
Rich laughs quietly and stands to dress again. “Well, as long as you don’t disintegrate, I guess we’re okay. You want something to eat before we do that?”
“You’ve satisfied my only hunger,” Rafael assures him, stretching. It might be the drug that’s stolen his appetite, but he’s only recently had any appetite to speak of, so it doesn’t seem like a noteworthy issue.
“Okay,” Rich says, and only looks a little worried. “You good to go, then?”
Rafael sits up, clumsily pulling his clothes back into place, and considers standing. “Might you carry me?” he asks, a little sheepish but hopeful.
Rich’s smile turns warm and soft. “Sure I can,” he says, and scoops Rafael off the bed in an effortless princess carry. Pleased, Rafael nestles close, laying his head down on Rich’s broad shoulder, and allows his handsome conveyance to stride forth to their card-playing engagement.
He hasn’t been back down to the harem dormitories since he was relocated to Rich’s room. Rafael returns in considerably higher spirits than he left, as strange as it is to think. None of his aches and pains can make a dent in the warm haze occupying much of his higher thought, and Rich was kind enough to bring him to completion a multitude of times today, and it’s already past the time Carraway would have called one of them if he planned to play games before bed. Tonight is good.
“I uh… carry some of the guys through here pretty often,” Rich says, as though he’s concerned that Rafael might be concerned. “After Sandgren finishes up with them, or if Carraway messes them up too bad. I can put you down though, if you don’t want people to look at you funny or anything…?”
“Let them see,” says Rafael grandly, and presses closer. Some small self-conscious piece of him murmurs the prudence of Rich’s advice, but that piece is lonely and miserable and he has no patience for it now. “Unless this is against… some rule I wasn’t made aware of?”
“I mean, no,” says Rich.
“Then onward,” says Rafael, and pats his chest. “We’ve further games to play.”
He does see one or two faces watching through cracked-open doors—none that he can put a name to. Rafael looks back at them, taking in what details he can. At present, it seems less of an unbearable slog and more of an interesting challenge to rebuild his knowledge of the men he’s sequestered with. He used to be an entity here as well, rather than a ghost starving away in the shadows. If he’s to help Rich here, he’ll need to re-acclimatize himself.
It’s satisfying, besides, to meet those curious gazes and see them turn startled and then whisk away behind closed doors. Rafael settles back into Rich’s elbow, sways and is promptly steadied.
“Let’s see who’s here yet,” Rich says, and raps his knuckles gently on Sol’s door. It’s opened immediately with Sol standing on the other side, looking neat and expectant.
“Took you long enough,” he starts, and then takes in Rafael, lounging in the crook of Rich’s arm. Several reactions flash across his face in short order, each of them more rapid than the last, and before he can put voice to any of them Rafael bows as well as he can from the waist and waves over his head to the room at large.
“I come on ivory palanquin, with sculpted figurehead and all pieces fully appointed,” he says, with a deferential and slightly tipsy gesture towards Rich’s face. “What, if I may be so bold—” and he may, and he will, “—is up, my sluts and rump-fed runions?”
Sol gapes at him like Rafael just pissed in Sol’s shoes. By the abrupt and raucous explosion of laughter from the bed behind him, Connor is also there, and considerably more amused.
“Oh my god,” Rich says helplessly, half-laughing, half-apologetic. “Fuck—He’s high enough to give a weather report, sorry, guys.”
“Even so,” Rafael says, delight punctured by Sol’s expression of lovely shock and discomfort. That wasn’t the intended response at all, but perhaps that’s unsurprising from a patrician, a demanding and particular audience. Less of the clown and the farce, then, and an act more becoming for Sol’s class…
“Rather, I should say to our esteemed colleague…” Rafael muses, and slips free of Rich’s arms; the man is so wonderfully responsive, allowing Rafael his way before he even gathers the words to ask. Rafael takes to his feet, still emboldened but with greater dignity now, gathering up all his grace, and takes Sol’s hand to gently kiss his knuckles, relishing how easily the gesture comes, the way any hint of fearful hesitation is pressed down and distant from him.
“A pleasure and an honor to be granted a night by your side, patrizio mio,” he says, lingering at the man’s hand, then releasing it with a slow brush of fingertips across that sword-callused palm. The world swings in a wild circle as he straightens up, somewhat ruining his air of dignity, but Rafael fancies he manages an elegant recovery. Elegant enough, at least, to have drawn a spark of heated interest to Sol’s dark eyes.
“All these goddamn drugs,” Sol mutters, but with a gratifyingly breathless note to his commanding voice. “Rich said the old man got you this morning with one of those gold foil angel patches. They’re not a bad time, I guess, but they’re not this strong. How are you still high?”
Rafael has to laugh at that, giddy. “As pleasant a diversion as any of our Lupo’s pharmaceuticals might grant a man, indeed,” he says, and sweeps a bow to Connor, who has perched himself atop the headboard of one of the beds like a gargoyle of especially sunny disposition. Connor snorts, but tips the brim of an imaginary cap in response.
Rafael continues: “This is no foul puppetry of intoxication, signore. Consider it a divine resurrection, if you will, a golden miracle from a golden angel. The return of a man long-dead, here once more before you and ready, if we may, for any entertainment the night may be good enough to grant.”
“He’s been in a real good mood, alright,” Rich says warmly, and one monstrous hand settles on Rafael’s back as lightly as the kiss of a sunbeam, steadying him. “And he is still pretty high too. Carraway put two of those patches on him, and he’s so little…”
“Everyone’s little to you,” Connor points out.
“Well, you are,” Rich says, and pats Rafael’s back.
“I am the very height of good sense, good taste, and good times,” Rafael says. “As well as the tallest man here, save our dearest bulwark. With all the authority of altitude, I’d like to declare myself perfectly fine.” And certainly not inclined to admit to any lingering lightheadedness or dizziness, with the audience now warmed to his side. “Are we to play here, then?”
“Nah, we got a couple rooms upstairs where folks don’t come ‘round so much,” Connor says. At least he seems amused, and not concerned a whit for Rafael’s good spirits. “Dinky li’l shoebox sitaround rooms we got down here, Rich doesn’t hardly fit. I dunno if Andy’s comin’ though…?”
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Sol scowls. “He’s coming, alright? He likes cards. I just got him to take a damn shower for once, let me go get him.”
He disappears through a door. Rich and Connor fall at once into a familiar murmur of conspiracy, discussing the dull young men who retreated so cravenly from Rafael’s arrival—he tries to attend, but pleasantly illuminated as he is, he finds himself wandering from the discussion to look over the decor with interest.
The bed that must certainly be Sol’s has a nightstand with one or two of the few real books stacked atop it, and is made with a military neatness to match Rich’s, with an intricate little crucifix hanging from one bedpost; surely a possession from before his capture. The other bed is a disarray of stale sheets, and largely unadorned, but at the foot of it is a low table set with a shrine of some variety with a motley collection of objects laid out; among them a few half-burned candles, and a cup and small silver knife that must be stolen directly from the banquet dishes in the kitchen.
The sound of water running shuts off and Sol’s indistinct chiding gains a lighter counterpoint in a bickering rhythm, the two voices cutting over each other. A handful of moments later, the door opens and Sol ushers out another man Rafael doesn’t recognize, a towel over his head as Sol dries his hair, guiding his steps at the same time.
“Oh, hey, gang’s all here,” says—presumably—Andy, blinking at them from under the towel. He has a beauty that Rafael surmises may be genetically enhanced, an unusual combination of olive-tan skin and golden-white hair, with stormy blue-green eyes and a narrow, knife-sharp loveliness to his face.
His flimsy drawstring pants show off a body drawn to an even more delicate, raw-boned scarcity than Rafael’s own. Andy is beautiful enough to wear the gauntness like some of the dancers Rafael has met through his life, a gorgeous and deeply disordered fragility, but Rafael can’t imagine if the man wastes away much further that he’ll keep Carraway’s interest. He doesn’t like his toys too breakable.
“Lay off, Sol,” Andy snaps, as Rafael determinedly pushes away the creeping unease of that thought. The man he wants to be tonight has no thought of the helpless pain of losing a comrade. And Andy certainly doesn’t seem the sort to indulge any coddling, even Sol’s brusque and authoritative attempts. As slim as he is and as well-built his companion, he still slaps away Sol’s hands as the man chides and fusses and makes for his head with the towel again, the two bickering and gesturing over one another, a compellingly musical rhythm of frustration.
“I said leave it! Christ and crossroads, it’s fine—”
“—Won’t do it then I’ll do it for you! Madon—Stop squirming!”
“I’ll hex you bald and blind and inside-out, get outta my damn face!”
“Look, pal, I already have to hike trays back and forth like waitstaff just so you don’t damn well starve yourself to death, if I have to smell you too I’ll drown you in the goddamn bathtub—” Sol feints again, making his way past Andy’s deflections to scrub at the damp spikes of his white-blond hair, ignoring the man’s squawk of protest and swatting hands. “Hold still already! Did you even use the conditioner I set out for you?”
“I used the soap, you naggy little bitch, because I didn’t misplace both nuts in a Manhattan beauty boutique like some fussy andro prettyboys I could name. Leave off, it can air dry!”
“You’re both from New York?” Rafael asks. “Did you know each other too, before?” That accent’s unmistakeable, if lacking the declamatory authority of Sol’s aristocratic tenor. It seems, however, that asking has crossed some line he’s unaware of, because he's glared at so resoundingly by both men that Rafael is startled a step back. “I apologize, good sirs. I meant no offense—”
“Strega’s from Brooklyn,” Sol says acidly. “Which is a savage goddamn hinterland no one in polite society would ever think to mention.”
“Mention my fat fucking nuts, you jumped-up patrician snot,” Andy says, and laughs triumphantly when Sol punches him, not gently, on one thin arm. “Oh, so sorry, signore! They don’t teach us to play nice in Brooklyn.”
“Two houses, both alike in dignity,” Rafael observes, and Andy snorts without recognition but Sol evidently catches the reference and implication and glares at him again, less fearsomely this time, the bronze cast of his face staining with a passing rosy shade. It doesn’t make him any less beautiful, unfortunately. Rafael smiles at him provokingly, too giddy to bother with a chastened mask, and Sol rolls his eyes and looks away.
Andy has taken advantage of his roommate’s distraction to seize the towel, and balls it up to toss it across the room. When he reaches up to finger-comb his pale hair to some kind of order, it reveals a stretch of beautiful tattooed stars along the side of his throat and down his back, bisected by the dark, brutal line of the collar and the stark, pink marks of Carraway’s teeth.
“How’s it going, kitten?” he says to Rich, and wanders over to slap his hip amiably, looking from him to Rafael with vague interest. “You got some shiny new arm candy to show off tonight, huh.”
“This is Rafael,” Rich says. “Carraway assigned me to play pontoon for a while. It’s going pretty well so far, I think.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Rafael says, and politely repeats his previous maneuver, kissing the man’s pale, red-knuckled hand. Andy doesn’t seem as charmed by courtly manners as Sol, but he does smile.
“I just bet you are, prettyboy,” he says, with the broad and opaque sarcasm that seems to come so easily to New York’s native sons. “Blessed be and merry meet, for all the good it does either of us. You gotta be the other sad sack I’ve heard so much about, huh?”
“No longer,” Rafael says. “And not tonight.”
“Yeah, well, fair enough,” Andy says with a wry quirk of his lips. “I know how that goes. I’m an ‘early to bed, late to rise’ kinda guy around here, though, so let’s get to the cards already, while I’m up.”
“Noble patricians,” Rafael says, and bows to Sol, then to Andy and Connor. “—Patrons of my right,” then, to Rich, “Defend the justice of my cause with thine arms.”
“Oh, huh?” says Rich, and then holds out his arms as Rafael beckons to him meaningfully, and goes “Oh!” when Rafael takes a skipping run-up and vaults up into his grasp, a dizzying swirl of the world around him as the man’s arms close immediately around him and bear him up again. “Whoa, Raf, hey there—We got some acrobatics goin’ on, huh? He’s still pretty high, Andy, sorry.”
“We’ve already well established my current altitude and attitude,” Rafael chides him, and reaches out to tug at the man’s earlobe, head spinning but not unpleasantly. Aware of the strain of his muscles from the leap, but careless of it under the pleasant, golden warmth. “It’s a poor dialogue that over-embroiders such a self-evident situation, sweetness. Now, away with us already. I was promised cards and I do so yearn to see such exotic entertainments for my very ownsome.”
–
Scene 14: The green parlor.
They end up in a parlor decorated in shades of green. The rug underfoot has a pattern of thick vines and the wallpaper is a jungle of leaves and branches, with a wall screen displaying some drone-capture footage of a prowling jaguar, and it would be pleasant if it weren’t for the dark, ornately carved wood of cabinets, table and trim, the same as in the rest of the mansion. It’s certainly luxurious, but Rafael finds it oppressive.
Rich settles Rafael carefully in the corner of a sofa before claiming a large armchair for himself, sitting cautiously at first, then relaxing when it doesn’t give way under him. Rafael isn’t pleased to be separated from his warm, comfortable conveyance, but contents himself with nestling into the sofa for the moment. At least it’s soft and solid.
He watches with distant fascination as Connor produces a tin can, a tiny and battered audiopod, and a handful of spare mechanical detritus, and capably rigs up the components into a functional camp speaker.
“Il Canto Dell'Inferno,” Sol demands, snapping his fingers. “You promised.”
“Snap your fingers at me one more time, smart guy, and I’ll play Momma’s Boiled Peanuts on loop,” Connor warns him, but fiddles around with the speaker until it’s playing a classy, complex opera melody. Sol settles into the opposite corner of Rafael’s sofa with an expression of deep satisfaction, one ear fixed towards the speaker.
“If I win we’re listening to crunchcore next time,” Andy says.
“Sure, only you won’t,” Connor says.
“Crunchcore isn’t even a genre,” Sol says. “It’s a symptom of massive cranial trauma.”
“Connor, play the bald penis song at him,” Andy directs, and Connor laughs and feints towards the speaker, subsiding only when Sol jumps up and bodily wrestles him back into his seat.
“Are we having fun, kids?” Rich asks, producing the deck of cards. “Because I’m having so much fun. Also if I win we get to listen to something nice next time. Like with guitars. If I have to hear about Connor’s momma’s penis one more time I’m gonna mutiny.”
The game is a very basic form of poker, with collateral in the form of a packet of chocolate drops that Rich has managed to liberate from the kitchens, and which he deals out with fascinating delicacy across the gleaming jade tabletop. When Rich proves himself supremely and enduringly terrible at the game, Rafael is relocated again to the armchair atop Rich’s tree-trunk thighs, Rich’s huge hands holding the cards out in front of them for coaching. They look like dainty miniatures in his fingers, the matte color of the cards setting off the pearly raincloud-grey of his nails.
It proves that Rafael is more than capable of managing a straightforward, low-stakes game of poker in pleasant company, even as intoxicated as he still undoubtedly is. He reorders cards for Rich, twisting in his lap to murmur in his ear, doing his best to resist the urge to snuggle back against that warm, sturdy chest and damn the chocolate chips.
Still, he mustn’t let the side down. He soldiers gamely on, doing his best with Rich’s indifferent luck and utterly abysmal poker face. He can serve as some amount of distraction at least, even if he can do nothing to affect the hand dealt or Rich’s transparent delight and dismay. An echo of his former self, unselfconscious and delighted to take the stage. The paralysis of dread blessedly gone from him, just tonight, just for a night. Just for a hand, a story, a game, an outrageous flirtation.
“You okay, hon?” Rich checks in after half a dozen hands, as Connor cheerfully collects his winnings and begins to deal again, playing a glib counterpoint to Sol and Andy’s combined front, a relaxed drawl to their gesturing, snapping staccato. “I mean, it’s good if you’re having fun. Just, don’t push too hard, huh?”
Rafael only laughs, carelessly happy, and kisses the man’s brow. “I’m well,” he says, “I’m more than well! I’m alive, awake, illuminated. Allow me to enjoy it, however briefly, before the dawn brings me back to my senses. Now, please, we must put up a good showing before we’re trounced again.”
“It’s just such a dumb game when you gotta do everything analogue,” Rich grumbles, and picks up his cards again—and pulls a sour face at what he finds, making no attempt at all to hide his dismay. “Man… if I still had my implants running we could play Spellcraft. And I’d kick all your asses at Spellcraft.”
“Sure you would, kitten,” says Andy, and picks up a handful of his chocolate chips, considering his own hand with masterful indifference. “Let’s see. I’ll say—”
“Hsst,” Sol snaps abruptly, and pounces on the tin can speaker, ripping the audiopod out of the center and stuffing it under a couch cushion.
“What?” says Connor, fumbling to catch the empty can that Sol tosses to him, and then looks to the doorway, following the fixed set of Sol’s ears. “Oh. Company?”
Sol gives a sharp nod, but Connor is already moving before he sees it, sweeping the chocolate chips into the can and setting it on the center of the table. Rafael grips Rich’s arm uneasily, struggling to follow the sudden shift of the mood; the ease and camaraderie is gone, frozen under a thick, smothering air of grim alarm.
The door opens quietly, underwhelmingly—as though the man opening it had hoped to enter unseen. Rich flinches in on himself the moment it does, turning himself away from the door and pressing Rafael close as though to protect him. Rafael scrambles free with an effort as Connor and Sol both stand, finding his feet, staring through the spinning green gloom toward the door.
“Well hey there, Sergeant Sandgren, sir,” says Connor, accent gone deep and dangerous as a Tennessee pit trap. “Somethin’ we can do for you? Come on in, make yourself at home.”
The man standing in the doorway is only an inch or two taller than Rafael, with a pale, hateful, deeply-lined face and cold eyes. It’s a face well-suited to a man of William Sandgren’s caliber: one who would not only work for a predator like Carraway but delight in the opportunity to kick the man’s victims while they were already on their knees.
Rafael freezes at the sight of that face, something deep and ugly he forgot for a time roaring back up inside him, dispersing the warm fog like mist under midday summer sun.
“What are y’all doing out of your rooms?” says Sandgren, and sneers around at all of them like they’re something trampled he found in the dirt. His own Kentucky drawl is just as thick as Connor’s Tennessee lilt, but sharpened by ever-present anger and disgust, cold as a grave. “Arthur doesn’t keep you around to make a mess and clutter up his sitting rooms.”
It’s rage, Rafael realizes as if in a dream, and feels himself step forward with distant anticipation. That’s what’s filling him. Not the deep, endless throb of numb hate that he feels toward Carraway, but a hotter, more poisonous emotion, one with teeth. It brings very few words with it, this feeling, unlike passion or affection or joy—it’s animal and frightened and furious.
Not again, it says. Not him, not them, not this time, not again—
“Naw, but we’re just so damn cute he lets us run on around the place,” says Connor cheerfully. “We're even allowed up on couches like people, y’know.”
Rafael blinks, taken aback as Connor steps smoothly in front of him with his hands in his pockets. There’s an easy, challenging insolence about his posture, the tilt of his head, the careless sway of his hips, and Sandgren visibly refocuses on him like a shark scenting blood.
“Always gotta shoot your damn mouth off, boy,” he says, and Connor’s angelic, wide-eyed smile hardens at the edges; not afraid but… ready. “How many times have I gotta hurt you to begging before you learn sit and stay?”
“Least one more, Sarge,” Connor says, unflinching, even as Rich gives a low, stifled rumble and shifts his massive weight uneasily. Connor’s tone is still light, even playful, but the part he’s playing, the accent bleeding through, is all militia-man, all deadly backwoods taunt. It’s a gorgeous piece of provocation to an old Kentucky wardog like Sandgren, and Connor wields it like a weapon. “We’re up to good, clean fun, is all, and the boss likes us decorative. Not beat bleedin’ on your floor.” He cocks his head, eyes glittering in sweet malice. “Sorry we been so good the last couple weeks. I know y’all redblooded Kentucky cocksuckers get thirsty if you go too—”
Sandgren takes two long strides forward and wrenches Connor up by his collar, twisting the band viciously so it digs into Connor’s pale throat with strangling force. “You never learn a fucking lesson,” he snarls, and Connor struggles for a rasping breath, staggering. Rafael starts forward in a spasm of thoughtless urgency, fury and alarm coursing through him, only for Sol’s hand to close bruisingly tight on his forearm.
“Never have, never—hh—will. Sir,” Connor says thickly. “Li’l late to—teach me one tonight though, huh?”
The glaring silence is all the answer that question needs. The master of the house is abed, and not to be disturbed, either by the furious sergeant or any desperate prisoner he might drive past their wit’s end with drugs or toys. Carraway enjoys the surprise visits from his boys during the day, and supplies Sandgren generously to facilitate them, but he’s far less amused by rude awakenings. And how unfortunate it would be if Sandgren was found at fault for Connor’s blood on the good carpets…
Sandgren keeps his grip as though he’s fighting with himself, then curls his lip and releases Connor, letting him stagger back.
“Not tonight,” Sandgren says, low and poisonous, and shows a vicious slice of bared teeth. “Somethin’ tells me you might slip up tomorrow though. Mouthy Tennessee whores like you, you just can’t help yourselves.”
“Yessir,” says Connor smartly, and snaps off a very particular military’s salute. “See you then!”
Sandgren moves like a snake striking, a vicious backhand slap that knocks Connor sharply to one side and sends him staggering back into Rich, who grabs him up into a uselessly protective embrace. Satisfied that he's won, Sandgren gives a nasty smile and stalks out of the room, on the prowl for his next victim.
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